The autumn sunlight filters through the glass panes, casting a faint glow upon the tatami mats, colored much like the flesh of an overripe fig. Such afternoons have a way of rendering a person utterly self-indulgent. Though I sit before my desk, not a shred of willpower to move my pen stirs within even the tips of my nails. I find my soul being swallowed whole by a single persimmon fruit resting before my eyes.
No, this is not a real persimmon. It is a piece of porcelain by Sakaida Kakiemon, born over three hundred years ago in the remote mountains of Arita, Saga. It is white—but not merely white. Upon a ground of that unique “nigoshide” milky white, which looks as if snow had been boiled down and mixed with a drop of milk, rests a vivid, glowing painted persimmon.
In this world, there are many vessels so arrogant they flaunt their beauty to intimidate the beholder, but in a Kakiemon plate, there is a certain charming emptiness, a “loneliness” so delicate it makes one tremble. Look, for instance, at this shade of red. It is like the final sigh escaped from the evening sky, or perhaps like the blood seeping from the fingertip of a maiden who has bitten it in the wake of a broken heart; it is such a poignant hue.
The first Kakiemon was, by all accounts, quite a peculiar gentleman. He was obsessed with reproducing the “true color of a persimmon” on porcelain, kneading clay and mixing pigments as if possessed. From morning until night, forgetting even to look upon his wife’s face, he did nothing but stare at persimmons. It was, quite frankly, a magnificent illness. Yet, in every era, it is only these lovable “sick” souls who truly illuminate the world.
The red he finally reached was different from the flamboyant reds of China. It was a reserved, graceful red that shines best within the damp autumn winds of Japan. This was the true nature of the “iro-e” (overglaze enamel) that astonished the world. It is said that the royalty and aristocracy of Europe at the time nearly fell out of their chairs when they saw these white plates arriving from a tiny island nation in the East. When I imagine one of these humble plates, with its vast margins, placed amidst the gaudy gold and silver decorations of a palace, I cannot help but find it hilarious. It is as if a refined country boy with clear, honest eyes were standing perfectly still in the dead center of a boisterous high-society ball.
The essence of Kakiemon lies not in the painted image, but in the “places left unpainted.” Those vast, almost decadent white margins. They are not the result of laziness. It is precisely because of that void that a single flower or a lone bird begins to breathe as if granted life. We Japanese once possessed the talent to hear eloquent truths within silence, but lately, we seem obsessed only with filling every gap. We cram in words, cram in schedules, and suffocate our hearts.
Looking at this plate, the shallow clamor of the modern world seems to vanish. The margin is freedom itself. In a place where there is nothing, the wind blows and the light plays. Kakiemon has been teaching us this for three hundred years.
I wonder what the potters of Arita thought as they watched the smoke rising from their kilns. Surely, they were strangers to the petty conflicts of self-consciousness that plague us today. To seek good clay, to light a good fire, and to produce a red that satisfies—that simple, yet cruelly intense passion is what clings to the underside of this thin porcelain.
We often try to create some vague “form” out of impure motives—wanting to succeed, wanting to be famous. But a Kakiemon plate laughs such ego away. Just as a persimmon simply exists, just as autumn simply is. By gently aligning oneself with the providence of nature, beauty completes itself of its own accord.
Ah, but why does this milky whiteness make my heart feel so uneasy? It is so pure it feels frightening to touch. No matter how many words a human might exhaust, in the face of this flawless “white,” everything starts to feel like a lie. I quietly set down my pen and touch my finger to the persimmon on the plate. The cold sensation of the porcelain reminds me of the weight of reality.
The Kakiemon red. It is the color of passion just before it burns out, and at the same time, the color of a mercy that forgives all. If you should ever lose your way in life and find yourself on the verge of despairing over the muddiness of your own heart’s color, please, just once, look upon the margins of this old porcelain. Within it, you will surely find the richness of saying nothing and the purity of being steadfast, breathing quietly yet with great strength.
The afternoon sun has dipped, and shadows are beginning to claim the room. As the darkness deepens, the red fruit on the plate appears even more vivid, as if it were emitting light of its own. I wonder what I should serve on this plate tonight. No, perhaps there is no need to put anything on it at all. These margins are the finest feast I could ever be served.