Gloria Han Makes Good Pots for Good Ancestors

I used to think that the purpose of my work was to prove a point or to achieve a little corner of justice for myself and other people who look like me. As I have stepped into positions of responsibility in the past five years, my practice has evolved to hold the strength, love, and tenderness required to be an artist, teacher, traditional knowledge keeper, and friend.

In my practice, I use traditional Korean ceramics to explore how traditions are formed, and to interrogate the many connotations of the words traditional and contemporary. My perspective as a Korean diasporic artist further complicates the narrative of what is traditional, what is contemporary, and who gets to participate in either category. I became interested in the notion of tradition as it has mostly been used at me to other me, and used by me to explain away important cultural nuances that were dear to me. 

Making pottery is an act of clearing space inside oneself while expanding the space inside of a pot. I make pots to hold the collective breaths and sighs of relief/exasperation by the Korean diaspora. When I am making this work, my breath synchronizes with the flow of the wheel and my mind feels still. I share my breath with my work through this expansion. Moments of tension and release are frozen after the last firing.

I make rounded bottles because they hold tension while remaining open. I notice the tension and emphasis placed on the fullness of the shoulders of my favourite Korean pots. I wonder if their makers found moments of peace during the violence, colonization, and war in the nation’s history.

Now, I know that my version of Korean ceramics is not its rebirth or reinvention in a Western context, but part of a continued lineage. The endurance of celadon within my diaspora represents how craft is an extreme mode of devotion, intimacy, love, and care. A tradition needs both its roots and its future mutations, and while women did not traditionally practice Korean pottery, traditions would not have lived on but for the collective and continued actions of women. With each pot I throw, carve, and glaze I intend to take a staunch place among these women. 

Since earning my MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2019, it has been a time of slow, intentional making, and rigorous training under my mentors Master Jung Hong Kim and Sylvia Kim. My studies with them started in 2016 and in 2021, I received the BC Arts Council Early Career Development Grant which funded a year of focused study under them. The grant afforded me the slowness I needed to develop my skills and confidence as a knowledge keeper.

The colonial history of North American studio ceramics made me believe that there was no place for me in the field unless I were to commit to upholding many mis-told histories. There are many potters who have gone to Korea to do a one- or two-year apprenticeship and come back as though they are an expert and teach Korean techniques incorrectly, while their teachers struggle to make a living. After years of being challenged or corrected on topics of Korean ceramics by non-Korean ceramicists, or Korean ceramicists who did not feel that I was Korean enough, I noticed myself becoming the representation that I never had in ceramics.

The training that I undertook with my teachers was pivotal to giving me the confidence that I needed to begin to challenge these historical inaccuracies. By accepting these teachings, I am also accepting the responsibility of establishing myself as a voice of authority in my cultural craft. Master Kim has established his own pottery workshops in Korea and Canada, and has patented his own kiln innovation. He is a founding member of the Icheon Ceramics Association, and has exhibited his work internationally. His 57 year-long career in Korean ceramics started with his own apprenticeship with nationally treasured Master Potter, Haegang. He became increasingly frustrated with the way that Korean ceramics had to respond to the market demands of Japanese pottery collectors. Korea did not hold enough wealth to redistribute into their own economy and therefore could not collect pottery.  

After immigrating to Canada, he faced challenges in establishing himself and disseminating his work. There was a lack of understanding of Korean ceramics, despite the abundant appropriation of Korean ceramic aesthetics. Examples of this include many interpretations and misinterpretations of the moon jar, differing criteria for the much sought after celadon hue that is so iconic in Koryo era ceramics, and the mislabelling of inlay or sanggam as mishima. Mishima is buncheong, not inlay. Upon listening to his stories, we knew that we shared a common calling which is to ensure the survival and revival of Korean traditional craft through its lineage and future innovation.

On Celadon

I think about the ways in which traditional non-Eurocentric knowledges are dismissed. Celadon is a ceramic technology as much as it is a colour or movement in Korean craft history. Its origins are Chinese, but Korean celadon is distinct due to its translucency and inlaid, or sanggam, surface treatment. The blue-green glaze has a tumultuous history, including many accounts of violence, theft, and imperialism. Celadon was so difficult to create that during the Hideyoshi Invasion of the 16th century, the Japanese military captured tens of thousands of Korean craftspeople in the pursuit of celadon.

Achieving traditional celadon requires rigorous technical training in formulation and kiln firing techniques. Through this mentorship, I build on my ceramics knowledge to fully investigate the complexities of this misunderstood and misrepresented glaze.

I started carving flowers on my pots because that’s what I was told to do by Sylvia Kim, who has taught me everything that I know about carving, including tool and stamp making. Within Korean celadon ceramics, there are several representations of the same flowers, especially peonies and lotuses. I prefer densely packed surfaces that feel as energetic as I feel while carving them. I am interested in things that we aren’t supposed to notice, except in its absence. My work “I love you forever and for always. (Camellias)” is a site specific installation of press-moulded ceramic baseboards. I relief-carved a scrolling camellia pattern on the surface. They represent love, integrity, and fidelity, but when I texted my mom about it she said that they mean 'I love you more than anything anyone.' I am still deciding how I feel about my experiences of being in the margins, but for now, I wanted to put a non-traditional pattern using traditional carving methods in an unexpected but familiar place.

On Intentions

Each time that I repeat a form or method, it is like revisiting a close friend. The skills and processes that I practice were gifted to me with the trust that I will nurture them and pass them on to the next generation. The amount that I repeat something to practice is not about perfection, but about doing my work justice. I study a craft with a complex history, technologies, and methods that have endured through centuries. I think about how traditions survive through the collective actions of many people. Repetition is how I honour their persistence. 

Complexity is important for resilience. The more complex something is, the harder it is to essentialize something for easy consumption. I see intricacy and detail as my way of keeping my traditions, processes, and message as complicated as they need to be without diluting it. 

Details draw people in and ask them to stay for a while. I know that people don't spend nearly as long as they should with a single work of art. I want them to spend time with my work and I offer dense traditional floral patterns to reciprocate. For me, details show care - I think of how I feel when someone remembers the little things that I say in passing, or when I receive a thoughtful gift. I care deeply for my audience, and I want them to care about the importance of Korean pottery. 

I make pots for good ancestors. This means that I understand that I, a future ancestor, exist within a lineage of those who came before me and after me. I think about what it means to receive and what it means to leave something behind. I am grateful to myself for continuing to care for what I am drawn to and the subjects that feel most intimate. They will nourish me and my art practice. With clay and a commitment to being a good ancestor, I continue the slow daily work that is finding strength in softness, and justice in love.