Kao Chen-Hsiang, Ceramic Artist · Performance Artist
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How did you end up working with ceramics?
It was a bit of an accident. I went to an arts high school, and we had to paint obsessively to prepare for entrance exams. Painting stopped feeling like something I loved and became something I did for grades. When I was choosing where to study, I picked a school that was very hands-on — you got to work with a lot of different materials, which suited me. I'd always loved making things with my hands.
Every material has its own character. Woodworking is essentially subtractive. Metalwork lets you repeat the same process over and over. But ceramics is different — you can add and you can take away, but only up to a point. Once it's too dry, or once it's been fired, it can't go back. I like things that have a function, things that can be used. There's something about that I find deeply satisfying.
Why have you kept coming back to tea vessels specifically?
It goes back to a memory from childhood. My father's family is from Changhua, and my grandfather's generation drank tea constantly. My grandmother had a habit of sending the kids off to bed early — wash up, go to sleep. But I didn't want to sleep. Every time, my grandfather would use tea as a way to keep me there. He'd say: do you want some tea? And I'd stay. That meant something to me. I think that's why I've been making tea vessels since university — it's a way of staying connected to him.
My grandfather's generation all used Yixing teapots. I became fascinated with old objects and started collecting antique tea ware. Yixing pots were exported to Japan and absorbed something of Japanese aesthetics along the way — the jùlún zhū form is a good example. Those old pots were too expensive to buy, so I thought: I'll just make my own, in my own way. Hand-pinching is a much slower process — you're controlling the thickness entirely by feel — but it carries a warmth that other methods don't. What I want to make are things that can be kept. Things that form a new kind of connection with the person who uses them. That connection is what I care about most.
Are ceramics and performance art two different languages for you?
Yes. Vessels are about serving the person who uses them. Performance art is about saying what I want to say. The two modes of thinking are so different that I can't do both at the same time — so now I spend one year making ceramics, and the following year I do a residency focused on performance. Every time I switch, it takes weeks to fully transition.
But I don't experience it as a burden. Ceramics keeps me close to everyday life. Performance art gives me a place to speak. I need both. At the core, it's the same impulse — I have something to say, right or wrong — just expressed through different channels.
Is this work or is this life for you?
Everyone talks about retirement, about financial freedom. I think I'll just be doing this for the rest of my life. It's already part of how I live — it doesn't feel like overtime. When I'm tired I stop, when I've rested I start again. Even if I'm working twelve hours a day, I don't feel like I'm pushing through something. This is just how I exist.
So much of what you make seems to be about connection — what do you hope someone feels when they hold one of your teapots?
I want to make things that get kept. Not kept on a shelf to be looked at — kept because they're used, and because something forms between the object and the person using it. Like the way my grandfather used tea to keep me in the room. That teapot wasn't just a vessel. It was the medium for a relationship. I hope that someday, whoever holds one of my pots will feel that same kind of reluctance to let it go — that if it breaks, they'll want to repair it and keep using it. That, to me, is what a good piece of work does.
Did moving to Japan change your work?
Significantly. Taiwan has a tea culture, but a lot of the teapots in circulation were commissioned by Taiwanese businesspeople in the nineties — sold as Ming or Qing dynasty pieces, but actually made in the nineties. When I was in graduate school, my classmates and I searched through more than thirty pots trying to find authentic ones. Almost none of them were. The information available in Taiwan was simply wrong.
In Japan, there's still a lot of the real thing. It's not cheap, but I've had far more opportunities to find genuine old pots, or to follow auctions and study different spout shapes, different body forms. Things that have been passed down exist for a reason. I can make a teapot however I feel like it — and I've learned that when I do that without reference, the result is often unbalanced. Looking at old forms teaches you something that instinct alone can't.
You and your wife are both artists — does your work influence each other?
Not really. She works in sculpture, I work in ceramics — the directions are quite different. If anything, I'd say we attract each other rather than influence each other.
How do you see the relationship between Japanese people and the objects they use?
Ceramics in Japan is deeply woven into daily life. In Taiwan, kids go to kindergarten with stainless steel bowls because parents are afraid of breakage. In Japan, children bring their own tableware to school — and the parents take them to choose it themselves. When you choose something yourself, you form a relationship with it. It becomes a companion, not just a container. You chose it, so it carries something of you.
That's why Japanese people take such care of their objects. When something breaks, they don't throw it away — they repair it with kintsugi, the practice of mending with gold, and keep using it. Kintsugi originated in China, but it flourished in Japan because people there felt a deep attachment to their objects. When something breaks, they can't imagine simply replacing it. So they mend it, and the repair becomes part of the object's story.
你是怎麼走上陶藝這條路的？
算是誤打誤撞。高中唸美術班，為了考術科拼命畫畫，畫畫變得不再純粹，對它的喜愛也少了。升學時選了一間偏重實做的學校，可以接觸很多不同材料，剛好跟我從小喜歡動手做東西的個性很符合。
每種材料都有自己的特性——木工偏減法，金工可以反覆操作，但陶瓷很特別：可以加也可以減，但到了某個狀態之後就沒辦法再被操作了，太乾了或燒完了就回不去。我喜歡有功能性的東西，做出來能被使用，這件事本身讓我很享受。
為什麼一直圍繞著茶器具做創作？
跟小時候的記憶有關。爸爸那邊是彰化人，爺爺那一輩很常喝茶。阿嬤的個性是到了晚上就把小孩趕去洗澡睡覺，但小孩子那麼早不想睡。每次爺爺都會用「茶」把我留下來——說「要不要喝茶」。那對我來說是一種很特別的連結，所以從大學開始就一直圍繞著茶器具做創作，大概也是想跟爺爺多一些連接吧。
爺爺那一輩全部用宜興壺，我對老東西很著迷，收集了很多老的茶器具。宜興壺因為外銷日本，跟日本的美感產生了關係，像「巨輪珠」就是一個代表。那些老壺太貴買不下手，我就想那我自己做吧，用自己的手法。手捏的製程慢很多，要靠手去控制厚薄，但它帶有一種很直接的溫度感。我想做的東西是能夠被留下來的，讓使用者跟這個器物產生某種新的連結——那種連結是難能可貴的。
器皿和藝術創作，對你來說是兩種不同的語言嗎？
是的。器皿是服務使用者的，藝術創作是我想說自己的話的。這兩種思考模式太不一樣了，沒辦法同時做，所以現在基本上一年做器皿，隔一年去駐村做藝術創作。每次轉換都要花好幾週才能切換過來。
但我也不覺得這是負擔。器皿讓我貼近生活，藝術創作讓我說自己的話，兩個我都需要。對我來說創作就是有話想講，不管對不對，那個衝動是一樣的，只是出口不同。
做這件事對你來說是工作還是生活？
大家都在說退休啊、財富自由，但我大概就是會這樣做一輩子。做這件事已經是生活的一部分，不會覺得在加班——做到累了就休息，休息好了再繼續。即便一天做十幾個小時，也不覺得在撐，那就是我的生活方式。
你做的東西好像都跟「連結」有關——你希望拿到你茶壺的人，感覺到什麼？
我想要做的是能夠被留下來的東西。不是放在架子上看的那種留下來，是真的被使用、然後跟使用者產生某種新的連結。就像爺爺用茶把我留下來那樣，那把壺不只是一個容器，它是一個關係的媒介。我希望拿到我茶壺的人，有一天也會對它有某種捨不得——捨不得換掉它，或者它壞了會想修好它，繼續用。那種狀態，對我來說就是好的作品。
搬到日本之後，你的創作有什麼改變？
差很多。台灣有茶壺文化，但台灣的壺很多是台商九零年代去定制的，說是清代、明代，其實都是九零年代做的。我在研究所時跟同學找了三十幾把壺，幾乎沒有一把是對的，因為大家的資訊都是錯的。
在日本，我有更大的機會買到真正的老壺，或是在拍賣上看到不同的壺嘴、不同的壺形。被傳承下來的東西是有它道理的。我當然可以照自己的心情做茶壺，但經驗告訴我，那樣常常會不平衡，參考老壺型是有它的道理的。
你和太太都從事創作，彼此的工作會互相影響嗎？
不太會。她做雕塑，我做器皿同時做創作，雖同是陶瓷材料但手法形式兩個人的方向很不一樣。但真要說的話，應該算是美感上的互相吸引吧。
你怎麼看日本人和器物之間的關係？
日本的陶瓷已經很生活化。在台灣，小孩上幼稚園用不鏽鋼碗，理由是怕破。但在日本，小孩上幼稚園要自己帶餐具，爸媽會帶著孩子去挑。你自己挑的東西，就會對它有某種連結，它不只是容器，是你的夥伴。
所以在日本的某些文化脈絡中，人們會更傾向長時間使用同一件器物。當器物破損時，也不一定選擇丟棄，而是透過金繕修補，讓它繼續被使用。金繕所使用的技術可以追溯到中國，但將裂痕轉化為美的一部分，這樣的觀念是在日本發展出來的。人們對於器物的感情連結是體現在各個生活和精神層面的。