About myself
I was born and raised in China. Like many people, my first experience with pottery came from messing around with clay as a small kid. I was fascinated by the malleability of clay and the act of creating something from imagination just by pinching, squeezing, and kneading using my hands. That fascination stayed with me throughout my childhood and teenage years. I would go to a local ceramic studio owned by one of my parents’ friends and play around, but I never fully committed myself to pottery.
Before my senior year, I spent the summer studying in Jingdezhen, the ceramic capital of China. I trained with Xiaolin at Yisen Clay Studio where I conducted glaze-making experiments, learned wood firing, and practiced throwing and trimming in traditional Chinese fashions. Also, I built a minigama :)
After graduation, I attended Northwestern University for my master’s degree in family and couples therapy while continuing my ceramic work at various local studios.
After moving to the states for college, I decided to study ceramics more seriously and systematically. I trained under well-known ceramicists such as Brian Kluge, Gerit Grimm, and Dara Hartman on my way to a certificate in studio art at UW- Madison. Building up and honing my skills during this time provided me with the foundation necessary to be more expressive and creative with my work.
About my philosophies and perspectives
When I was growing up, I was more of a dilettante of the arts rather than a connoisseur of one specific field. I played the piano and the ancient Chinese string instrument Guqin; I practiced traditional Chinese calligraphy; and I read a lot of books that I did not understand. As a kid, I didn’t become particularly skilled in pottery, nor in musical instruments or calligraphy —- my profile of interests was too diversified. However, in retrospect, I believe having the privilege to explore different arts and be promiscuous with them was instrumental in shaping my views about arts. It instilled in me that
art is an inextricable part of life.
I grew up in Taiyuan, an ancient city where the past frequently collides with the present. A giant stone fort from many dynasties ago would be overlooking a street jam-packed with cars and motorcycles struggling to move haphazardly in different directions. An old temple with wooden pillars and clay roof tiles would be quietly sitting amongst highrises covered with glass panels. I was always more attracted to the old things. They have more characters to discern and more stories to tell. This feeling has also trickled into my ceramic works in that I often find myself gravitating towards
shapes and textures that beckon the distant past.
Furthermore, the act of making ceramics by hands is in and of itself a journey back to the ancient times. The history of ceramic craft is almost as long as human history. Before Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn, before machines and factories, every piece of tableware was handmade. Nowadays, we live in a world where everybody has the same phone, wears the same clothes, and eats on the same plates. It’s modern. It’s convenient. It’s cost-effective. But it’s also boring and soulless.
I think of making and using ceramics not as nostalgia for the old fashioned, but
a small act of rebellion against the absurdity of the modern world.
Technology has advanced our society so far beyond the imagination of the previous generation, but it has also made us more isolated and unhappy than ever before. I am not qualified to explain why that is, but I know that I am always at my most peaceful when I am kneading a clump of clay, sculpting with my hands, and throwing on my wheel. Every piece of ceramic is infused with the emotions of the author, having been immersed in one particular moment of their story. I try to only use appliances that I made in my day-to-day life, from dinner plates to salad bowls, from tea kettles to sake jars. Because they remind me of pieces of myself, and those moments of calmness. I cozy up in my little fortress of clay, keeping the noisy and the stressful outside.
I firmly believe that art should be part of everyday life, art is everyday life, and everyday life is art. To me, that’s the beauty of functional pottery. Because a fall-foliage-colored tenmoku-glazed bowl can be beautiful to look at on a display shelf, but it will only come alive when it’s holding and delivering a balmy bowlful of chicken soup.
Finally, I recognize that putting a price on a piece of art is rude and stupid. Unfortunately, like everybody else, I have to participate in the absurdity of late-stage capitalism to survive. I hope that these pieces can bring you a brief moment of
respite from the endless grinding and churning of modern life.
