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拍品專文
In the world of ceramics, few object types inspire as much reverence – or invite as much philosophical reflection – as the Korean moon jar. At first glance, a moon jar appears simple: a rounded body rising from a low foot, its surface glazed in soft, milky white. Yet this apparent simplicity belies a subtle complexity. Its form is rarely truly spherical; a faintly irregular central seam disturbs its symmetry. It is this interplay of perfection and irregularity that gives the moon jar its singular magic. It also lends the vessel a deeper resonance: an acceptance of limitation; the value of character over flawlessness.
These white porcelain vessels were produced from the late 17th to the early 19th century in Korea during the Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910). Originally utilitarian, they were known as daeho, meaning ‘big jar’, and used to store oil, pickles and other household staples. Over time, however, they accrued new meaning, their aesthetic qualities seen to embody Confucian ideals of restraint, purity and sincerity. They fell out of use in the 19th century and were rediscovered in the 20th, when they acquired their poetic modern name, dal-hang’ari – ‘moon jars’. Only around 20 historic examples survive today, a rarity that heightens their preciousness. Three are designated National Treasures in South Korea.
Many moon jars were made in government-run potteries in present-day Gwangju; the names of the potters were not recorded. Because of their imposing scale – typically at least 40cm tall – they were not thrown in a single piece. Instead, two large hemispherical bowls were thrown on the wheel then left to stiffen to a leather-hard state before being carefully trimmed. One bowl was then inverted atop the other and joined. The seam from that joining, subtly visible beneath the glaze, produces the asymmetry that give the moon jar its distinctive silhouette. After assembly, the jar was coated in glaze and fired at high temperature in a wood-fuelled kiln, where it matured into a soft, milky white. Variations in the kiln’s atmosphere could lend the surface a faint bluish cast or delicate blush tones, so that each jar emerged from the fire with its own character. This union of technical discipline and chance is at the heart of the form’s appeal.
Despite the tiny number of surviving historic examples, the moon jar has exerted a lasting cultural influence. A great number of contemporary potters continue to explore the form, both in South Korea and abroad. Among the finest working in South Korea today are Kim Yik-yung (b. 1935), Young Sook Park (b. 1947), Kwon Dae-sup (b. 1952), and Lee Dong-sik (b. 1969). Outside of South Korea, its influence is particularly strong in the UK. Adam Buick (b. 1978), a potter living in rural Wales, has made the exploration of the moon jar form the sole focus of his practice, using the familiar silhouette as a basis for experimentation in material, surface, scale and concept. Others, like the London-based ceramicist Akiko Hirai (b. 1970), use the moon jar form like a canvas, transforming its chaste purity into something entirely other.
Perhaps no single moon jar better illustrates the form’s journey into the international canon of modern art than the example now in the British Museum in London. That 18th century jar was bought in 1935 from a Seoul antique shop by Bernard Leach (1887–1979), often described as the father of British studio pottery. Leach saw such pieces as exemplifying the values of the Japanese mingei (‘folk crafts’) movement. Proponents of mingei valued an unselfconscious naturalness in handmade objects – the sense that something had been grown, not made. As Leach’s friend, the art critic and philosopher Soetsu Yanagi, wrote: ‘the hand of the craftsman is no longer his or her hand, but the hand of nature. The craftsman does not aim to create beauty, but nature assures that it is done.’[1]
In 1943, Leach left his moon jar in the care of fellow potter, close friend and sometimes lover, Lucie Rie (1902–95). The jar remained in Rie’s small London home for over 50 years. Some of the most iconic images of Rie show her beside that pot – most famously in Lord Snowden’s 1998 portrait of the octogenarian potter, dressed in white in a white room. Though Rie had (of course) not made the jar, the image suggests Leach’s famous dictum: ‘The pot is the man: his virtues and his vices are shown therein – no disguise is possible.’[2] It’s not too fanciful to see a parallel between that pot and that person.
The moon jar was usually placed in a corner of Rie’s living room, the dark wood of the Viennese modernist furniture offsetting its luminous whiteness, punctuated here and there with crazing and other small blemishes. Alongside it she displayed her own – no less poised – ceramics. On her death in 1995, the jar returned to the Leach family, passing to another distinguished potter, Janet Leach, Bernard’s widow. Following her death, it was acquired by the British Museum, where it is now a highlight of the Korea Foundation Gallery.
The moon jar’s journey from a functional storage vessel – used for preserving foodstuffs or storing liquids – to an object of profound artistic and cultural value mirrors broader shifts in the appreciation of ceramics. Where once such forms were once overlooked in favor of more ornate or technically ‘perfect’ wares, today the historic moon jar is celebrated precisely for the quiet beauty of its imperfection.
Isabella Smith, independent writer and editor
[1] Soetsu Yanagi, The Beauty of Everyday Things, translated by Michael Brase (Penguin, 2018)
[2] Bernard Leach, The Potter’s Challenge (Souvenir Press, 1975)
These white porcelain vessels were produced from the late 17th to the early 19th century in Korea during the Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910). Originally utilitarian, they were known as daeho, meaning ‘big jar’, and used to store oil, pickles and other household staples. Over time, however, they accrued new meaning, their aesthetic qualities seen to embody Confucian ideals of restraint, purity and sincerity. They fell out of use in the 19th century and were rediscovered in the 20th, when they acquired their poetic modern name, dal-hang’ari – ‘moon jars’. Only around 20 historic examples survive today, a rarity that heightens their preciousness. Three are designated National Treasures in South Korea.
Many moon jars were made in government-run potteries in present-day Gwangju; the names of the potters were not recorded. Because of their imposing scale – typically at least 40cm tall – they were not thrown in a single piece. Instead, two large hemispherical bowls were thrown on the wheel then left to stiffen to a leather-hard state before being carefully trimmed. One bowl was then inverted atop the other and joined. The seam from that joining, subtly visible beneath the glaze, produces the asymmetry that give the moon jar its distinctive silhouette. After assembly, the jar was coated in glaze and fired at high temperature in a wood-fuelled kiln, where it matured into a soft, milky white. Variations in the kiln’s atmosphere could lend the surface a faint bluish cast or delicate blush tones, so that each jar emerged from the fire with its own character. This union of technical discipline and chance is at the heart of the form’s appeal.
Despite the tiny number of surviving historic examples, the moon jar has exerted a lasting cultural influence. A great number of contemporary potters continue to explore the form, both in South Korea and abroad. Among the finest working in South Korea today are Kim Yik-yung (b. 1935), Young Sook Park (b. 1947), Kwon Dae-sup (b. 1952), and Lee Dong-sik (b. 1969). Outside of South Korea, its influence is particularly strong in the UK. Adam Buick (b. 1978), a potter living in rural Wales, has made the exploration of the moon jar form the sole focus of his practice, using the familiar silhouette as a basis for experimentation in material, surface, scale and concept. Others, like the London-based ceramicist Akiko Hirai (b. 1970), use the moon jar form like a canvas, transforming its chaste purity into something entirely other.
Perhaps no single moon jar better illustrates the form’s journey into the international canon of modern art than the example now in the British Museum in London. That 18th century jar was bought in 1935 from a Seoul antique shop by Bernard Leach (1887–1979), often described as the father of British studio pottery. Leach saw such pieces as exemplifying the values of the Japanese mingei (‘folk crafts’) movement. Proponents of mingei valued an unselfconscious naturalness in handmade objects – the sense that something had been grown, not made. As Leach’s friend, the art critic and philosopher Soetsu Yanagi, wrote: ‘the hand of the craftsman is no longer his or her hand, but the hand of nature. The craftsman does not aim to create beauty, but nature assures that it is done.’[1]
In 1943, Leach left his moon jar in the care of fellow potter, close friend and sometimes lover, Lucie Rie (1902–95). The jar remained in Rie’s small London home for over 50 years. Some of the most iconic images of Rie show her beside that pot – most famously in Lord Snowden’s 1998 portrait of the octogenarian potter, dressed in white in a white room. Though Rie had (of course) not made the jar, the image suggests Leach’s famous dictum: ‘The pot is the man: his virtues and his vices are shown therein – no disguise is possible.’[2] It’s not too fanciful to see a parallel between that pot and that person.
The moon jar was usually placed in a corner of Rie’s living room, the dark wood of the Viennese modernist furniture offsetting its luminous whiteness, punctuated here and there with crazing and other small blemishes. Alongside it she displayed her own – no less poised – ceramics. On her death in 1995, the jar returned to the Leach family, passing to another distinguished potter, Janet Leach, Bernard’s widow. Following her death, it was acquired by the British Museum, where it is now a highlight of the Korea Foundation Gallery.
The moon jar’s journey from a functional storage vessel – used for preserving foodstuffs or storing liquids – to an object of profound artistic and cultural value mirrors broader shifts in the appreciation of ceramics. Where once such forms were once overlooked in favor of more ornate or technically ‘perfect’ wares, today the historic moon jar is celebrated precisely for the quiet beauty of its imperfection.
Isabella Smith, independent writer and editor
[1] Soetsu Yanagi, The Beauty of Everyday Things, translated by Michael Brase (Penguin, 2018)
[2] Bernard Leach, The Potter’s Challenge (Souvenir Press, 1975)