Selection

It was on a clear day in late March—when the cherry blossoms had reached full bloom about ten days earlier than usual—that I visited the Hosokawa Family’s Tatsuda Villa, known today as the site of the former Taisho-ji Temple. Since its founding in 1636 (Kanei 14) by Hosokawa Tadatoshi, the first lord of the Higo Kumamoto Domain, Taisho-ji had served as the Hosokawa family’s bodai-ji, or ancestral temple, until the early Meiji period, when the government issued the decree separating Shinto and Buddhism. Within the temple grounds are the mausoleums of Hosokawa Fujitaka (Yusai), the family’s forebear, and his wife Kojuin, as well as those of Hosokawa Tadaoki (Sansai) and his wife Gracia. Collectively, these four mausoleums are known as the “Yotsu Gobyo,” or “Four Ancestral Tombs.”

Adjacent to the Taisho-ji site stands Gyoshoken, a teahouse located within the Tatsuda Nature Park. It was reconstructed in 1923 (Taisho 12) based on architectural plans left by Lord Hosokawa Tadaoki. The chozubachi (water basin) set in the front garden is said to have been used by Tadaoki in Kyoto, and tradition holds that his tea master, Sen no Rikyu, also once placed his hands upon it.

Living and working at the former Taisho-ji site—where the weight of history still lingers—Morimitsu Hosokawa devotes himself to the craft of pottery. In time, he is expected to succeed his father, Morihiro Hosokawa, and become the nineteenth head of the Hosokawa family. One might imagine that someone born into one of Japan’s most distinguished lineages would feel the heavy burden of carrying on its traditions. Yet when I met him at the Hosokawa Family’s Tatsuda Villa, he appeared without the slightest trace of affectation, enveloped instead in a quiet, composed presence.

In recent years, Morimitsu Hosokawa has been creating hand‑formed Raku tea bowls, a process he approaches with genuine enjoyment. The kuro‑raku, with its subdued, metallic sheen, and the aka‑raku, whose soft pink tones reveal a quiet depth of expression—each, when held in the hand, gently conveys the warmth and pliancy of the clay from which it was born.

When I asked him, “What is it that you find so compelling about hand‑forming clay?” Morimitsu Hosokawa replied gently, “Unlike the potter’s wheel, it allows me to spend time with each piece. That’s what I enjoy.” Kuro-raku tea bowls, in particular, require even more effort, as each one must be fired individually in the kiln. Yet he seems to take pleasure even in that extra labor. “Raku ware is soft and, compared to other ceramics, quite fragile. But that softness means heat moves through it slowly, which actually helps bring out the flavor of the matcha. If you make it too hard, you lose what makes a tea bowl good. Finding the right balance is the difficult part,” he explained. When I asked about his approach to form, he told me, “I don’t begin with a fixed idea of what I want to make. I think the things I’ve seen or held over the years remain somewhere in my consciousness, and those memories become the source of the shape. As I work with my hands, the form simply emerges before I realize it.” He does not chase an image in his mind; rather, his hands seem to search, unconsciously, for the “forms” that lie dormant in memory, bringing them quietly back into the world. It occurred to me, just for a moment, that it might be the long‑cultivated “memory” of the Hosokawa family itself that gently guides his hands.

Wishing to work in an environment surrounded by nature, Morimitsu Hosokawa received a piece of land from his father, Morihiro Hosokawa, and in 2007 (Heisei 19) established his kiln in Kugino, Minami‑Aso Village. Although the kiln collapsed during the 2016 Kumamoto Earthquake, he invited craftsmen from Arita and, over time, restored it with great care.

The kiln, standing quietly with a grove of mixed trees at its back, is filled with an atmosphere distinctly different from that of the former Taisho-ji site. The sense of openness and calm that permeates his works surely arises from creating in an environment where he can take in the grandeur of nature with all five senses.

Come to think of it, Morimitsu Hosokawa’s teacher was Masatake Fukumori, who runs the Doraku kiln in the satoyama woodlands of Iga, Mie Prefecture. The way Hosokawa’s work reflects the blessings of nature could well be described as an inheritance from his master. “He believed that vessels are not meant to be admired but used, and that idea had a tremendous influence on me,” Hosokawa told me. He uses his own pieces in daily meals, sometimes receiving advice from his wife, Ai, who is a culinary researcher. A dish is not complete simply because the vessel is beautiful; as an everyday tool, it must also be easy to handle. “Appearance is part of usability, too,” he added quietly. When you think about it, the true mission of tableware is to enhance the food it holds. To separate form from function would be to stray from that essential purpose. In that unassuming remark of his, the philosophy of his teacher, Masatake Fukumori, was unmistakably alive.

He had long wished to do work that involved making things—work that engaged the body rather than deskbound tasks. Sixteen years have now passed since he began his journey in pottery. “Even now, my heart races before I open the kiln. But once I do, I’m disappointed ninety‑nine percent of the time,” Hosokawa said with a laugh. His insistence on using raw, unblended clay often means the results do not turn out as he hopes. Blending clays would provide greater consistency, he acknowledges, but “that would make it closer to an industrial product.” Instead, it is precisely the individuality that emerges from raw clay that he finds compelling and full of interest.

He shapes the clay and then waits through the long passage of time until it is fired—finding pleasure in that span itself. He enjoys the care poured into each individual piece, and even the unpredictability that comes from working with raw clay. Without haste, without force, without strain, he approaches his craft with a mind as untroubled as branches swaying in the wind. It is for this reason that his works possess not only a dignified poise, but also a certain natural lightness, as if they carry within them the ease of his own way of being.

“When a piece is finished, I don’t feel the need to keep it with me. Once I understand the outcome of what I tried during the making process, it’s already complete in my mind,” Hosokawa said quietly when I asked about his attachment to his work. “If anything, I’m thinking about what comes next—what I should try next. There’s no point of arrival in this kind of work. The more you do it, the farther the path stretches ahead.” There is no end to the pursuit; the more one continues walking, the wider the horizon becomes. In his words, the very essence of the craft of pottery seemed to be distilled.

What lies before Hosokawa’s gaze is always the future. For that reason, even as he embraces the aesthetic sensibilities and cultural DNA passed down through the Hosokawa family, he is never bound by them. His pottery is free, supple, and expansively alive.

Photography：Akira Eto / Takashi Imabayashi
Text：Kazuyoshi Hasegawa