Happy as an Otter with a Fancy Pebble

A few years ago I wrote about how I identified more as a “user” of craft, ceramics above all, rather than a collector. My reticence to use the c-word was possibly rooted in a feeling that collectors are just hoarders or people with abundant disposable income.

The truth is that I am a collector and I have more things than I need. I am committed to using all of them, some in everyday life, others for special occasions. But I do forget about things I have stored away or abandoned after the love affair with an object is over, replaced by a new sweetheart.

Earlier this year I worked with WAJOY, a new Japanese craft platform, on their debut at Collect, one of the most prestigious international art fairs for contemporary craft and collectible design. The experience put me deep inside collector dynamics: what draws them in, and why younger people often assume collecting isn't for them because they have no money, no space, or the wrong idea of what a collector is.

It made me look at how I collect and how some objects dissolve the separation between user and collector. For me, one such object is the water dropper, or suiteki in Japanese.

水滴 (suiteki)
水 (sui / mizu) — water
滴 (teki / shizuku) — drops

In East Asian calligraphy, the water dropper is not one of a scholar's four treasures. That honour is reserved for the brush, ink, paper and ink stone. Maybe it’s because the function of the water dropper can be easily replaced with any small water container whereas that of the four treasures can’t. However, I’m smitten with suiteki because they bring a silent joy to a calligrapher’s desk.

If I look at my collection of water droppers, they’re all functional thanks to a reservoir and two holes, one to allow air in, the other to dispense the water, which you can control up to a single drop by tapping and untapping the first one.

Suiteki can be playful and I pick them to match my mood before a writing session. Some of them are anonymous and no-nonsense. Others stimulate the senses in tangible ways akin to a teabowl, which I enjoy as much for its shape and colour, texture and weight, the occasional sound of water dropping, as for its function.

One of my favourites is practical, delightful and with a certain pedigree. I named it ‘Tino’ after elefantino, baby elephant in Italian. It’s by Tomoo Hamada, grandson of the 20th-century Living National Treasure Shōji Hamada.

Collector is a label. At an art fair it’s one used to indicate a potential client. In my private life I see it closer to the original meaning of amateur, a lover of something. If I collect suiteki it’s not just because they are convenient for getting the right amount of water on the inkstone when I’m grinding the ink, but because they make me feel as happy as an otter with a fancy pebble.

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つづく