Very early on with Ming-Kahuna I learned to pay attention to exactly how I was doing something even if I was carving a free-form freehand.  Often I’d carve a fun piece and look at a shape after it was carved and decide that it was a shape that I’d want to repeat.  The problem was that I’d often scratch my head and say “how the heck did I do that.”

The solution has been to be more conscious of how I’m doing something.  Each repeated shape that I do has a set of moves or techniques necessary to accomplish that particular shape.  Some of them are very precise set moves that must be done in a certain order and in a certain way to accomplish that recognizable shape.  Remaining more aware of what it takes to get from point “alpha” to point “omega” has taken a bit more awareness on my part,  but nothing too drastic.

As it turns out the Katsu shape is one such shape that requires a very set process to arrive at a tamper each time that has the “Katsu essence”.  Individual pieces will vary greatly, but the essence of the shape will be there.  That’s because I make each one the same exact way.  I know that they will differ from one to another, but by following a very precise set course the shape will be most definitely Katsu.  Each one will have the same basic windswept top and kimono bustle at the waist.  With each one the spiral will sweep dramatically downward.  As the man who carves the shape I know that a very definite order/technique must be followed to make it so each and every time.  So it goes with the Katsu and so many other shapes that I do.

As the Katsu is one of my newer shapes, and one of the most difficult to carve for optimal results, remembering exactly how it is carved is of paramount importance.  To get the shape that you see above, and recognizably so, each time that I carve one, the process is rather complex.  So, it was no surprise when one night I awoke out of my sleep alarmed realizing that I had forgotten how to carve a Katsu.  Why at that moment the realization came to me I don’t know, but I hadn’t carved a Katsu for a good while, and hadn’t carved all that many,  and for the life of me I couldn’t recall how to do one.  I fitfully fell back asleep knowing that in the morning I would have to work to find the shape again.

As I turned out the shape came back to me rather quickly.  I looked at photos of the pieces that I considered to be “prototypically Katsu” and that got me going in the exact right direction.  Of course, the piece that you see above is the one that I carved that morning, and my recollection was strong enough to create a Dynasty grade piece.  This Katsu is about as Katsu as a Katsu can be!

So, the moral of the story is to not only pay attention to what you are doing but also as to how you are doing it.  I’ve created dozens of recognizable shapes over the past ten years so it becomes very important to keep it all straight.  I may have to start writing all of this down………not.  

An Observation

Years ago as a psychology major  I took a series of classes dealing with perception. They were interesting but tended to be more mechanical and physiologically based than one might expect.  The issue of how our society can affect our perceptions of our world was never discussed.  That’s a pity because over my lifetime it has become increasingly apparent to me that how we view our world comes to be how we define our world, and those views are very much affected by the society that we live in.

A couple of weeks back I traveled to Cleveland to attend the mediation of a legal case that had been in litigation for almost five years.  As luck would have it, we were able to settle the case early on leaving me several hours to kill, so, I decided to visit a man who has taught me much.  Among other things he is a great collector of Japanese art and a patron of the arts. Japanese art is his passion and over the years he has taught me much about the subject.  As we sat in his office on a cool November afternoon discussing Japanese art, and to a large degree Japanese thought, he handed me what I suspect are the keys to the kingdom.  For one very clear and powerful moment I understood and felt exactly what he was saying, and it made great sense to me.  It explained so much and defined so much of what I have come to believe and set the stage for further contemplation and the growth of a very different way of looking at my world.

Here is how it was explained to me as we drifted onto the topic from a discussion of the double meanings of certain Japanese words.  Westerners view their world as one would view a video.  One moment is followed by the next with no differentiation, one moment morphing into the next.  The passage of time is marked in large units with tiny individual seconds lost to the vastly larger picture.  The focus is much more on the future, and to much the same degree on the past, but all at expense of the loss of the fullest experience of the here and now.  Understand that I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with that, but that is pretty much how it is when one compares how a Westerner views his world as compared to the Japanese.

The Japanese have an entirely different focus.  While the Westerner views the world as a video with no discernible moments, the Japanese view the world as a series of snapshot photographs.  Each moment is more precisely defined, each standing on its own.  Each moment is experienced and can be savored and sensed independant of the moments before and those after.  There is less of a hurry or rush to the next moment as each moment here and now is an opportunity, an experience, in and of itself.  While Westerners might focus on events in terms in minutes, hours, days, months or years, Japanese attitude allows them to focus on events (and the totality of those events) that may only last a single second.  They have a sensitivity to time that we lack with their basic increments for experiencing the world infinitely more fine than our own.

I know this may be difficult to fathom, and I admit that my understanding is more of  a feeling than anything that I can put into words, so maybe an example will help.  Suppose for a moment that a Japanese man falls from the roof of a tall building (so sorry!).  Suppose again on his way down to the ground below, which will most certainly result in his death, he looks up at the far horizon and off in the far distance he sees the peak of Mt. Fuji poking up through layers of clouds and mist.  It  may be the most beautiful thing that he has ever seen.  As he nears terminal velocity on his way to the ground below he only has time to see the view for a single second or two.  Much more likely than a Westerner, who will probably be spending his final moments either trying to figure out how he fell off of the roof  or anticipating hitting the pavement, the Japanese man is far more likely to experience the beauty of the moment,  allowing that one moment to stand on its own, despite the moments before, and the horrific moments to follow.

Okay, I admit that both the Westerner and Japanese man may both scream blindly all the way to the ground, but the example demonstrates the concept nonetheless. When you look at traditional Japanese art you see this over and over again, the celebration of the moment capturing something special in it’s momentary uniqueness.  It might be birds in flight, a wind blowing the hats off of workers in a field, or a procession of samurai, but each view is a snapshot.  Moments aren’t viewed in terms of their necessary passage to get to the next moment, but in terms of their own identity and the experience of sensing them to the fullest.  I also think that with that calibration towards the single moment comes a great understanding of time, and its preciousness, and an attitude of patience that follows.  Of course that may appear to conflict with the Japanese tendency to plan in the longest term, in years and decades rather than weeks and quarters, but with the understanding of the smallest moments comes an understanding of the passage of time.  I would argue that a snapshot view of the passage of time is almost a prerequisite for such long term planning with an intrinsic understanding and appreciation of the smallest increments of time necessary for understanding the largest.

This all may or may not make any sense, and may or may not be correct or accurate as to the notions that may be at the core of Japanese culture, but I see a truth in it.  As I’ve said, I can see it in much Japanese art, and, have sensed it in the work of Japanese pipe makers like Tokutomi.  So often their work must be viewed in motion to be understood, turning in the hand affording different views.  Each moment is a snaphot offering a view that stands on its own, followed by another, and another and another.  And when the totality of the viewing experience is viewed, a general sense of the piece’s shape, or being, is felt. The progression of the individual views offer the cohesion and flow.  Sometimes the next view is an unexpected one, but that is so much like life where subsequent moments can only be anticipated.  This is one reason why I so much enjoy my new Flux shape.  It’s as if it’s a single freeze frame of a shape in motion and not some lifeless object locked into a particular form for eternity.  The sense of there being previous and further moments in addition to this one single moment releases the piece while allowing it to celebrate that one moment.

Well, all of that might sound a bit crazy, but when you feel it and get an understanding of it the result is very powerful.  It allows one to focus their view in order to acquire a much larger understanding.  I like the word “calibrate” as that is what we do when we change our focus, in this case down to the single precious seconds that make up our lives.    

A double-edged sword.

I suppose that the whole business thing associated with being an artisan (or artist, I will use the terms interchangeably as I do both)) should be a simple matter. In its simplest form it all boils down to making something, and folks can buy it, or not.  But, as is usually the case, the devil is in the details.

I’ve been doing this for about a month shy of nine years.  Actually, it’s longer than that, but that’s neither here nor there.  What is important is that the nature of what I do, and how I sell it, has changed drastically over the years, always in a state of flux.  Early on all tampers sold were general sales.  I made it, showed it, and sold it.  Then, as my work became known, special orders became more common.  So did custom orders, the ones where the customer suggests some shape, one such as my favorite example “I want a tamper in the shape of my Aunt Edna’s nose.”  Custom orders have never been particularly well received as my work is about what’s in my mind’s eye, not someone else’s.  The goal is that we share that vision.  I’ve never been fond of the notion of being a human frazing machine where someone else’s vision could be brought to life through my hands.  What I do is about my own vision, and people either buy into it, or they don’t.

That said, special orders have always been different and far more desirable.  With these orders people request that I do work that is my own, maybe tweaking size, or material, or requesting a certain shape that is part of my repertoire. I’m 100% fine with that as what I am providing is mine to provide.  The end result is a Ming, Kaze or Moxie that could have come from my hands uninitiated.  And while there was a time where my focus was away from even these special orders, today they make up the vast majority of what I do.  Many of my customers and collectors give me free reign to make them whatever I want, while others have more specific requests.  Either way they end up with pieces that represent the artistry and craftsmanship that has brought me to the point where I’m at today.  If you think about it, to be able to work on a piece that you know to be already sold is an incredible position to be in, from a strictly business standpoint.  And while any piece that I have created has eventually sold, some sooner than others, such security as a pre-sold piece is a great comfort.  And knowing that any piece that you do for general release will probably sell without going up on the web site is equally comforting.

The problem with the foregoing is that like most things in life that offer a modicum of comfort there is a very distinct downside.  Like the title of this piece implies, the sword is double edged and cuts both ways.  The very distinct downside is that when you take the comfortable route it generally precludes taking a gamble.  Of course the businessman would ask why gambling would be desirable, but the artist knows the answer well.  Art is about taking risks.  It’s about pushing the envelope, to go where you haven’t been before.  It’s not about resting on your laurels as much as it is about building upon them.  There can be no growth without risk, and, truth be told, a risk well taken can provide the rush, the high, that keeps an artist going, ever striving towards some goal that I suspect (and hope) is unobtainable.

So where does all of that leave me with what I do with you, someone who might consider buying my work?  This question is very much on my mind, and especially so after a conversation yesterday with a friend/customer of mine.  He called to talk and to place a special order for a bamboo tamper, a request that he left me to do as I wish.  In passing he said to me that he loved the work that I have been doing lately but that everything that he saw was already sold. He was right on that, and I had no good response other than to say that I try as hard as I can to keep offering pieces for sale that folks can actually buy.  With so little of what I do even getting to the web site unsold the task of providing general release pieces becomes exceedingly difficult.  On the other hand, I’m just a little confused here.  If I go to my web site I find twenty-three tampers available for sale in a fairly wide variety of shapes and materials.  No, they aren’t brand new pieces, but I can assure you that they are as good as anything new that has or may come out.  So, I suppose that part of me notes that there is a good group of tampers sitting right there for sale, so I’m really not going to sweat it too much.  On the other hand, I understand human nature and understand two important aspects of the human condition: 1.) new is always better, and 2.) folks want most that which they cannot have. Those two aspects of human behavior go a long way towards defining my predicament.  Then, when you consider the fact that if people continue to perceive that you have nothing to offer then they will lose interest and go elsewhere, you can begin to see my position, one smack dab between a rock and a hard place.

So, what’s the net/net of all of this?  I’m not quite sure and I’m hoping that some of you might offer me some guidance on all of this.  I do know that I’ll continue to provide customers with unlimited access to place special orders.  The stability that they offer me allows me to continue all of this without great monetary concerns.  I also know that folks who have not placed special orders in the past are most welcome to do so now and in the future, or to contact me about what I might have in the works.  I also know that I’ll continue to work hard to develop my craft with new shapes and materials, taking risks and pushing the envelope, both with special order pieces and pieces that will be offered for general release.  Further, I’ll work harder towards offering more pieces for general sales, but at the same time I will continue to point out that there are already great pieces constantly being offered on my web site that also represent the best of my work.  Newer isn’t always better, sometimes it’s just the same as the older stuff, just newer.  And while folks may often want what they can’t have, there is a perfectly good Plan B available in existing pieces being offered, work guaranteed to please just the same.

Bottom line?  There are several ways to acquire my work if you are so inclined.  My goal is to make each of those ways a completely enjoyable experience. Your suggestions as to how I might approach this issue are most welcome and appreciated.    

As a rule, no rulers.

I do not have an aversion to precision.  No matter how much I look at what I do as art, I think that there needs to be an underlying precision upon which the art can be based.  For me using a lathe is too much precision that I strongly feel would absolutely end up destroying my style.  Like my avoidance of the lathe, I tend to shun any tool or technique that could constrain what I have come to do.

That said, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have a precision measuring device such as a ruler.  In fact, I even have a dandy set of calipers.  You’ll not find those calipers in my shop.  They are right by the computer, where they belong, used for measuring the length of tampers for web page listings.  I may have a ruler in the shop right by one of my drill presses under a stack of sand paper, at least I’m pretty sure that’s where it is.  It seems to avoid me.

Okay, it was not always this way.  There was a time late last century, during the first handful of years of Ming-Kahuna, that I measured absolutely everything.  Everything that I did was dutifully measured, re-measured, and recorded in meticulous notes.  Those notes often were scribed directly onto the wood of my workbench or printed on cards, laminated for posterity, and hung on the workshop wall.  Much trial and error went into coming up with those measurements.  I feared nothing more than losing them.

Then, slowly over the past nine years, I found myself reaching for the ruler less and less.  Finally, one day not so long ago, I noticed that there hadn’t been a ruler in my shop for months.  As it turns out, after you’ve made thousands of tampers, the ruler becomes internal, part of the gray matter programing that runs in my head every time I look at a piece of raw material.  And while I think in terms of inches, on the rare occasion that I do measure, I use metric.  But, either way, if I want to make a tamper that is 3.75 inches long, I can pick up a piece of material and know exactly where to cut it, ending up no more than maybe 1/20th of an inch off.  For example, I know that my original design for the Pug called for the lower barrel material to be two and one eighth inches long and can make that exact length cut by eyeballing it, probably seven times out of ten.  At other times I’m not concerned about the exact length of a tamp and cut the length based solely on my vision of the final shape.  No matter how I do it one thing is clear: a ruler is useful in my shop more as a back-scratcher than anything else. 

Of course, as any artisan knows, calipers make the best back-scratchers.  

 

Easy Does It

Someone at the CORPS show in Richmond paid me a compliment that really got me thinking.  I was told that I “make it look easy.”  That is actually a wonderful compliment, one that I have paid to others on occasion,  but as I looked down at my work before me on the show table I realized that while it may appear easy it often isn’t.  I also thought back to a time eight years ago (Ming turns eight tomorrow) when just about everything I did in the shop was a challenge.

Yes, in those early days I knew from nothing about being a craftsman or making tampers.  Even worse, I had no one to teach me.  I sort of made it up as I was going along.  As there was really no one else doing what I was doing there was no one to go to with questions.  Truth is I probably wouldn’t have even if there had been as that really isn’t my style.  So I slogged through it, often with cut and bloodied hands, with many failures and just enough successes to keep me going .  So much of the early part of my craft was accomplished through a problem-solving approach, and so much of my resulting style is defined by my limitations in those early days.  But it was the failures that defined me as much as my successes, and to a degree that is true today.  I don’t mean to make this sound like the proverbial five mile walk to school through two foot deep snow, but those early days were truly a most trying time.

Of course that’s not to say that where I stand today is without challenge, or failure, for that is not the case.  I have a tall bucket full of failures with more current times well represented in the top layers.  Just last week I had a major failure with a twelve chamber tamper stand.  As it turned out, two chambers were cracked.  Of course the cracks didn’t become visible until many hours had been invested in the piece, but I can live with that.  You see, I learned from the experience and the mistake that lead to the cracks will not be made again.  It’s all a part of the learning process that carries me on to bigger and better things, but not without a cost.

So, if it looks easy that is all fine and good, and that is a compliment that I’m most happy to receive, but there are still times when it is most definitely not easy.  Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What Dreams May Come

When I go to sleep at night I am merely stepping into another world.  It’s a world of marvels and awe.  It can also be one of terrible horrors.  But above all else, it is a world of shapes.

 

The other night at 2:36 AM I sat up out of bed, wide awake, with a new shape etched into my mind.  While the shape was somewhat similar to one that I had carved before, what was before me now was a wild variant, one that screamed out demanding to be carved.  And until I do so there will be the very slightest feel of unease, a sense that something remains undone, until I make it so.  So goes yume.

“Yume” is the Japanese word for dreams, a word that for me best describes this dream-based designing that is so much a part of my art.  Being a vivid dreamer I have learned to take full advantage of my nightly dreamscape, one where the laws of physics and reason are suspended in favor of a netherworld that defies description in earthly terms.  My world of Yume is a tapestry woven in rich and often inexplicable images that in waking hours are only expressed in terms that are defined by lingering wisps.  And as the sun slips over the horizon and blazes its fiery path through the sky, those remnants of Yume wither away, most of them forever lost, replaced by the reality of our shared world.

So, from my inner world of dreams, in that place that I call Yume, comes images that are translated to the waking world to become part of my art.  There are also other images, most in fact, that can never make the journey, those that are too ethereal or without an adequate point of reference. Still others, often epically horrible, are best forgotten and left to evaporate like dew on grass in the warm light of the rising sun.

That is how much of my work begins, in the night, in a place called Yume.