Note: The text below is the transcript of the YouTube video above.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve hated this sound.
It made me feel like I was always running out of time.
Technology gave us time. AI made everything faster.
So why are we still in such a hurry?
When I came back to Japan from London, I was exhausted from rushing.
And then I met a potter in a remote village.
He spends three months making clay.
And if he’s not satisfied after firing? He breaks it.
In a world obsessed with speed, he does the complete opposite.
I had to understand why.
Why could he dedicate his entire life to perfecting one thing?
What he taught me changed how I see time itself.
This is deeper than you think.
Hi, I’m Satomi Takayama, a Japanese artist based in London. On this channel, I share how I’m gathering inspiration for my creative work.
When I came back to Japan, I decided to visit traditional craft workshops. The first place I headed to was a historic kiln tucked away in Fukuoka, in western Japan. A place where they make pottery called Takatori-yaki.
The autumn leaves along the way were beautiful. And it was so quiet. When I arrived at Takatori-san’s workshop, time seemed to stop.
This is Shunkei san of Takatori-yaki.
Takatori-yaki has over 400 years of history, dating back to the 17th century. The 17th century in Japan was the era of the samurai state, during the period of national isolation, while Europe was expanding overseas. The Takatori family has been making pottery ever since, passing down their craft for generations.
Watching him work, I was wondering:
The same shape, over and over. Today, tomorrow. For years, decades.
And I remember asking him about this at his exhibition in Tokyo.
(Shunkei-san talking)
Have you heard the word “Iemoto”?
To truly understand this, we need to grasp a unique system within Japanese traditional culture.
In Japan, there’s a system called the “Iemoto system” — basically a hereditary grandmaster system.
Japanese traditional arts — tea ceremony, flower arrangement, Noh, and a lot of traditional performing arts — many of these are rooted in the Iemoto system.
Typically, each traditional art has several schools.
The Iemoto embodies generations of refined aesthetics and mastery. Their judgment reflects centuries of tradition. So when the Iemoto recognises something as beautiful, it’s not just one person’s opinion — within that school, it becomes the standard everyone trains towards.
And this system has supported Japanese traditional culture for hundreds of years.
Japanese pottery—especially tea wares—developed alongside the tea ceremony. In late Warring States Japan, tea utensils had the same value as land. They were sometimes given as battle rewards instead of land. Later, Takatori-yaki was known for its advanced techniques in making them.
That’s why they were highly valued by feudal lords.
And Takatori-yaki has been favoured for generations by the Enshū-ryū school of tea ceremony.
For Takatori-san, being recognised by the current Iemoto of Enshū-ryū—that, as he told me, is his most important goal.
(Shunkei-san talking)
He said the Iemoto is typically very strict. But that’s how the standards are maintained.
(Shunkei-san talking)
Not being easily recognised becomes motivation.
In a world where we want immediate praise and instant results, he said: “It’s fun because it’s difficult.”
That’s when I realised: he enjoys the process itself.
But what does this dedication actually look like?
When I arrived at his workshop, Takatori-san showed me around.
As he guided me through, I was surprised again and again.
Do you know what this is?
(Shunkei-san showing around his workshop)
It’s a precious machine—only a few dozen remain across the country.
This is the clay filtering area. It’s where they remove impurities from the collected clay and create the clay body.
(Shunkei-san talking)
They soak it in water, let it settle, and filter it again.
Then they pass the filtered material through this machine to remove the water, and finally, it becomes workable clay.
For this entire process…
Three months.
Just to make the clay—three months.
I was amazed. To think they create their work with this level of dedication.
And then, the glaze.
The beauty of Takatori-yaki lies in this secret glaze.
(Shunkei-san talking)
Even Shunkei-san himself has never seen it in full.
The glaze of Takatori-yaki, called “seven-colour glaze,” was so exquisite that lords from other domains desperately wanted to obtain the secret.
Locating the workshop deep in the mountains of Koishiwara was also, in part, a geographical consideration for maintaining secrecy.
And even the raw materials for this glaze—after obtaining them, he grinds them into powder himself.
(Shunkei-san talking)
Everything, by hand.
And this is the noborigama—the climbing kiln. Have you ever seen one in real life?
(Shunkei-san talking)
Only twice a year. But after it collapsed in an earthquake, repairs haven’t progressed as they’d hoped, so now he uses a different kiln in the back.
And then, Takatori-san said something that struck me.
(Shunkei-san talking)
Three months to make the clay. Grinding the secret glaze by hand. And even after firing, if he’s not satisfied, he breaks it. To preserve tradition, without compromise.
(Shunkei-san talking)
This was a world completely detached from efficiency or profit.
It was overwhelming.
We live in an era where AI gives us answers instantly. The process is skipped. Only the result remains.
And such technological innovation is truly wonderful in many situations.
But at Takatori-san’s workshop, I realised something.
The Iemoto’s judgment isn’t based on algorithms or data. It’s human sensibility. And that supports Japanese tradition.
To be recognised by that sensibility, Takatori-san spends years, decades, in this remote place, working with clay, working with fire, honing his craft.
That uncertainty. Not knowing when he’ll be recognised.
That struggle. If a piece isn’t satisfactory, he breaks it.
That time. Repeating the same movements every day.
Humans take detours. We do wasteful things. We fail. But in that process, something human is born.
In an era where various skills are becoming commoditised, what values remain?
Unexpected discoveries in the process. Patience cultivated through struggle. Work that carries human warmth.
That is the value only humans have—something AI cannot replicate.
And Japanese craftspeople have long held a special dedication to “mastering one thing.” Whether it’s a tea ceremony, flower arrangement, or sushi making.
For me, returning to Japan and meeting these craftspeople right now, the biggest lesson is enjoying the process.
If we can enjoy the process without rushing for results, we can focus on the present without rushing about time, without competing with others.
When I thought about this, I felt lighter.
At Takatori-san’s workshop, there was no need to rush.
The sound of the wheel turning. The sound of water flowing. The sound of wind rustling through the trees.
There was silence.
Takatori-san wasn’t rushing. He simply, quietly, repeated the same thing every day. That is his life.
And I found that so beautiful.
When you hear the ticking of a clock, how do you feel?
Getting results quickly isn’t the only value.
In an era where superficial success is so visible on social media, in an era where technology creates everything in an instant, I believe doing things steadily and diligently like Takatori-san will become even more important.
I’ve linked Takatori-san’s Instagram and website in the description.
The workshop was damaged in an earthquake, and repairs haven’t progressed. They’re also preserving a historic tea room and shrine—all maintained by the family for generations. If you’d like to support them, you can purchase his work through the link below. Your support would really mean a lot.
Right now, I’m travelling around Japan gathering inspiration. My plan is to compile these personal reflections and field notes into a visual journal or a book in the future. I’ll be sharing updates on this project through my newsletter, so please sign up from the link below.
In the next video, I’ll share my visit to a wagasa workshop—traditional umbrellas made in Kyoto. There were wonderful lessons there, too, so don’t miss it and subscribe to the channel.
See you in the next one.
