Legends of Ahimsa

by Daniel Rhodes

This article first appeared in Studio Potter, Volume 3, Number 2 (Winter 1974/75).
Copyright © 1975 by Studio Potter. All rights reserved.
May be reproduced with permission of Studio Potter.

In the foothills above Lake Pancil, and a few minutes walk from the village of Karuna, was the pottery known as Ahimsa.

The pottery had been there as long as anyone could remember. Its workshop, kiln shed, dwelling and storage buildings were nestled under the trees and almost invisible until one approached closely. When the kiln was firing, the steady rise of white smoke could be seen from the village.

The master potter, a quiet man with broad shoulders and a kindly face, was seen from time to time in the village trading his pots for goods at the market. He was a respected member of the community, but his retiring manner and the rather distant relationship between Ahimsa and the rest of the village gave rise to much gossip. The two apprentices, Joco and Boso, were looked upon with some suspicion.

"Those two are so dirty! Their trousers are always caked with clay."

"They say that the apprentices do all the work and that the master never goes near the wheel himself."

"They say he imitates the potters at Lamasa, and never originated any forms or colors himself."

"Why do they fire the kiln at night?"

"Someone who was over there recently said the clay smells like rotting cabbages."

"They say his pots are famous and fetch very high prices in the city."

"Impossible! We are using two of his pieces for pickling jars."

The Master worked nearly every day at his wheel, and the apprentices became used to the steady flow of strong, full shapes which at the end of the day stood in impressive rows on the rack. But one day, the pots seemed stronger and more beautiful than usual. The apprentices stopped their work and watched him in awe.

"Master, is that some special new clay you are using? It is a different color than our regular clay."

"Yes. I got this clay from my friend at Lamasa. It is a discarded batch - pots made from it crack in the fire."

The Master returned from the city where he had gone to sell his pots. The sale had been a great success. In fact, all but one of the pots were sold. The Master tossed the unsold pot carelessly under the table without comment.

But the next morning the apprentices were surprised to see the left-over pot placed on the shelf above the wheels where special pieces were kept for study and emulation.

"Look," said the Master. "Look well at this pot. Study the subtlety of its surface and the energy of its form. Penetrate its mystery. It is our new standard."

The pottery received a large order from an important client. Everyone knew that the reputation of Ahimsa was dependent on the successful completion of this group of pots. The Master and his two apprentices went to work with great energy and determination. They wedged up the oldest clay, greased the wheels. All day long and for several days they threw and trimmed. The Master worked on the more important forms and he directed, criticized, and cajoled the others as they worked. At last all was finished and ready for the fire.

But the next day when the apprentices entered the shop they were astonished to see that there were no pots on the racks. At first they thought the Master had set the kiln during the night, but it was empty. Then in the slaking pit they saw their efforts melting into the slime; every pot had been discarded. Some lids and handles could still be seen above the wet surface.

The Master entered the shop rubbing his hands. He put on his apron. "The warm-up is finished," he said. "Now we begin."

Of the two apprentices, Boso was the most skilled, the most expert thrower. His pots were always straight, symmetrical, and perfectly formed. He had received much praise and encouragement from the Master. But gradually the favorable comments became more infrequent.

One day, the Master stopped at Boso's wheel.

"Your pots are too straight and perfect," he said.

"How can I change them?" asked Boso.

"Stop trying so hard! Relax! Let the clay do what it wants to do."

Boso then began to work at loosening his style. He encouraged irregularities and saw to it that each piece had something a little out-of-round or off center. He was sure that he was making progress, but for a long time there was no comment from the Master. But finally the Master stopped again at Boso's wheel.

"Your pots are too crooked, too eccentric," he said.

"But how shall I change them now?" asked Boso.

"Stop trying so hard! Relax! Let the clay do what it wants to do."

The apprentice Joco was of a philosophical turn of mind. He had pondered on a problem for a long time, and finally mentioned it to the Master.

"Master, how can the two characteristics of clay be reconciled in a pot? Clay when plastic is soft, slippery, and easily manipulated. But when fired it is hard, brittle, and rock-like."

The Master answered, "A state of unity must be obtained by doing away with the two polar and contradictory states. Remember that saja is always realized by transcending the dualities. One must realize a synthesis between notions of formal existence and the unformed. Yoni and lingam must become as one."

"I don't understand," said Joco.

"Get back to your wheel! Stop mulling!"

Joco was making saggers. Such tiresome work; the shape was just a cylinder, and the clay was so coarse it hurt his fingers.

The Master usually reserved criticism until the end of the day, but today he kept interrupting.

"Make them a little higher. Thicken up the edge. Clean up that sloppy bottom! Don't let the form belly out! Too thin! How can we set pots on that rough bottom? Watch the texture!"

Joco became really exasperated. These were only saggers!

He burst out, "Why are you so particular about the shape of these saggers? We don't sell them, and no one ever sees them!"

"That's just it," said the Master. "The pots are sold and gotten rid of. But these saggers - we have to handle them, look at them, and live with them for months or even years."

The Master seldom reminisced, but one day Boso asked him how he had acquired the ability to make pots so filled with energy and life. He replied by telling a story.

"When I was a young apprentice, I struggled at the wheel, like everyone else. I made good progress, but I was always dissatisfied, and sometimes discouraged. My pots seemed good to me while they were still on the wheel, moist, soft, and glistening. But later, when they began todry- awful! And after the fire, worse still !

"My master, knowing that I was discouraged, offered suggestions, advice, and encouragement, but nothing seemed to help.

"Finally, to my surprise, he ordered me to stand on the wheel head. He then began coiling thick ropes of clay around my feet. Then he coiled around my ankles, my legs, and then my body and my neck. I was covered with coils of clay! I stood on the wheel transformed. I was the space within the pot! Then he took a paddle, and as the wheel slowly turned he beat the coils against my legs and my body, shouting, 'foot, foot (smack), belly! belly! (smack) (smack) shoulder! shoulder! (smack) neck! neck !'

"After that day, my pots changed."

The Master had apparently gone mad. He was glazing pots for the kiln, but instead of the usually orderly process of stirring, dipping, decorating, chaos took over. The Master mixed different glazes together, coated pots over twice or three times, scraped off parts of the glazed surface, dribbled and splashed glazes, swiped at pots with the studio broom instead of the brush, dusted on clay and sweepings over the glazes, hurled ashes from the kiln into the buckets of glaze, sprinkled salt on the shoulders of jars.

The more he worked, the more bizarre were his methods. But at last, all the pots were glazed and the kiln was set.

"This will be a disaster," said Boso as they sat that night slowly feeding the fire. "We are wasting our time, because the Master has ruined all of these pots with his mad glazing."

But the next day, the Master insisted on a meticulously correct firing, and the kiln advanced to white heat just as usual. After the stoking ceased, the glowing rows of pots could be seen through the spy holes.

When the kiln was opened, the worst fears of the apprentices were confirmed. Pots were stuck to the shelves. Glazes were crawled and cracked. Colors were muddy. Sufaces were crusty and dry, or runny and glassy. It seemed that each pot which was brought out was worse than the last one. The Master threw them one by one onto the dump, where each made that special crashing noise which signifies the death of a pot.

But as they delved deeper into the setting, they reached one large jar, standing at the back of the kiln. A masterpiece! Its color, a mysterious grey green, was luminous and deep. Around the shoulder a band of deeper color encircled the pot, and near the lip the glaze was flecked with minute pinpoints of gold!

The Master studied the pot a long time as it lay on the ground at the kiln door. He took the paper from the prayer stick and put it in his pocket, then carried the pot towards the shop.

"Good firing!" he said.

Joco asked, "Why do we never sign our pots with Ahimsa, the name of the pottery?"

The Master replied, "Those who value our pots recognize them instantly without the aid of a mark. Those who do not value them would not be impressed with a mere signature. Furthermore, those who would imitate us cannot do it by forging a mark. They would have to breathe the same fire into their work as we do, which is impossible."

The Master's former apprentice Soba was visiting. He said, "Master, would it be too much to ask if you would give me the recipe for that green glaze?"

"Of course not," said the Master, and wrote it out for him.

Later, Soba came back. "You remember that green glaze? It looks entirely different when I use it."

"When I gave you the glaze, it became yours. Why do you now complain because it looks like your green glaze instead of mine?"

One day while Boso was out of the shop, the Master slipped one of his own pitchers onto the board holding Boso's morning production of pitchers. Boso returned and began to put handles on the pitchers. But when he came to the pitcher the Master had made, something went wrong. He made several handles, but none of them worked, and each time he cut them off.

"Master," said Boso, "I can't make a handle which looks right on this piece. What is the matter?"

"Throw it into the scrap," said the Master. "There is at least one bad pot in every batch."

Joco was restless, and thought that his skills had reached the point where the Master would grant approval for him to leave and to establish himself as a master potter. But the Master was silent.

Finally Joco broached the subject.

"Do you not think that my training should be coming to an end?" he asked. "I can do each job in the shop perfectly. And my pots fit perfectly into the production here. Some of them have even been mistaken for yours."

"Be patient," said the Master. "Your training is not complete. It may be nearing completion when you are no longer able to make pots which fit perfectly into our production here."

Joco's day did arrive. The Master, with a twinkle in his eye, drew Joco aside and said, "Time for you to leave! I caught myself imitating one of your pots!"

Drawings by Daniel Rhodes.