Coil-built, wood-fired — one of a kind by definition.
No mould, no wheel. Chen Xuewen raises 渔 coil by coil between his palms, then gives it to the wood kiln for days of falling fire. What comes out, no one can repeat — the amber blush along its shoulder is the kiln's signature, not the maker's. The walls keep the faint memory of the thumb that made them; an incised line and a seal close the piece. We loop the film of its making because half of what you are buying is the time.
The coil rising in a slow spiral. The wall thinned and pinched true. The long dark of the kiln, and the wait. The Chinese call the way of incense and tea the 慢艺 — the slow arts. A pot like this cannot be hurried, and that is the point.
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