Makoto Saito is a beloved ceramic artist in Japan, known for crafting everyday tableware that brings quiet beauty into daily life. His thoughtful use of color and expressive brushstrokes give each piece a light, delicate texture that feels effortlessly good in the hand.
We’ve admired his work for a long time, and we’re thrilled to introduce it to the United States for the very first time. Earlier this year, we had the pleasure of visiting his studio in Seto, Aichi - one of Japan’s historic centers for pottery - and caught a glimpse of the calm, focused world in which these beautiful pieces are made.
Makoto kindly and patiently answered our many questions, as we were eager to learn more about him and his creative journey. Creating something that brings daily joy to the table is no simple task, and his work carries that quiet dedication.
We’re excited to share his story with you - please enjoy the interview below.
Could you briefly introduce yourself?
I was born in Hokkaido, Japan in 1989. In 2010, I entered Kanazawa College of Art, where I encountered and formally studied crafts and ceramics. After graduating in 2014, I worked for four years in public relations at a tableware manufacturer. Around 2018, after leaving that job, I began working full-time as an independent ceramic artist.
When did your passion for ceramics begin, and what inspired you to pursue a path as a ceramic artist?
I discovered the appeal of ceramics after entering art university. I believe it all started when I came across the works of Lucie Rie, Hans Coper, Berndt Friberg, and Taizo Kuroda. What struck me was how these pieces, while existing within the obvious context of functional vessels, could transcend utility and still stand as works of art. That sense of resonance and allure felt unlike anything in other fields. I was also drawn to the diversity of forming techniques and the vast range of textures and colors that ceramics could express - incorporating materials like glass, metal, and pigments.
After graduating from university, I worked as a company employee and continued making ceramics only as a hobby. I couldn’t quite relate to the idea of building a career as an artist within the academic context, so becoming a full-time artist or continuing my studies at university didn’t seem like realistic paths at the time.
Even so, I had a strong desire to keep creating, so I pushed myself to make time for a solo exhibition, and afterward, I was able to take part in several group shows through the connections I had built with the gallery. However, the company I worked for had long hours, and I eventually felt that it would be impossible to continue making ceramics due to time and energy constraints. I had no guarantee that I could support myself through my work alone, but I decided to leave my job anyway. After resigning, I vaguely hoped to find a more flexible job and continue creating on a smaller scale.
What I consider my greatest stroke of luck was that, right around the time I decided to quit, galleries and shops that specialize in ceramics started reaching out after seeing the photos of my work on Instagram. Fortunately, I began receiving just enough work to barely make a living solely from ceramics, and I gradually started walking the path of a full-time ceramic artist - still learning as I go.
How did your unique artistic style come to be? We’d love to hear more about the inspirations and influences behind your work.
My approach to making vessels has remained consistent since my university days, though my style has evolved gradually over time.
From university through the years I worked while creating on the side, I was often shaping a vague idea of what a vessel is - something “made to hold something.” I would make pieces without a clear function, and exhibit them alongside functional forms like cups and bowls, exploring both simultaneously.
When I began working full-time as a ceramic artist, most of the requests I received from galleries and shops were for practical items - cups, bowls, and so on. That naturally shifted my focus to more utilitarian pieces. That said, even when I make functional tableware, I don’t think much about specific foods or drinks or usage scenes. I begin with a form inspired by the idea of “something that holds something,” and adjust it to a practical scale suitable for daily use.
My use of colored slip for surface treatment has also remained consistent since my university days. Initially, I wanted to move away from the conventional textures and colors associated with traditional pottery - what we often call “yakimono-ness.” So I layered multiple colors of slip using a sponge, then scraped the surface smooth to eliminate any texture, creating surfaces where the material itself was ambiguous - intentionally hiding what it’s made of.
Even after becoming a professional artist, I continued using the sponge method but revised my process to allow for more sustainable and repeatable production. A few years ago, I transitioned from sponge application to using a brush. This shift was partly due to feeling creatively stuck, but more importantly, the process of covering up every trace of the making - removing all evidence of the hand - felt psychologically suffocating at the time. It no longer matched where I was mentally and emotionally.
With the brush, the strokes layer in a way that reveals the underlying material and movements, allowing transparency and texture to coexist. That shift opened things up for me - both creatively and personally - and gave my work new energy.
Around the same time, my approach to shaping forms also began to change. Previously, I would sketch forms on paper before throwing, aiming to faithfully reproduce the drawing on the wheel. That resulted in quiet, static forms built around straight lines and arcs. But when I moved from sponge to brush, I also began allowing the tactile sense of the wheel to guide me more directly. Sometimes now, I sit at the wheel without a concrete plan and create intuitively in the moment.
What ties both the change in surface and the change in form together is a fundamental shift: I moved away from a one-way process of “visualizing and executing” toward a more organic relationship between my physical body and each act of making. Embracing that connection - rather than controlling it - has been a major transformation for me.
Your work places a strong emphasis on color and pattern - some are layered and interwoven, while others are composed with a more structured, precise rhythm. Could you tell us more about why you developed these intriguing designs?
In terms of color and pattern, over the past three years or so, I’ve been experimenting with the possibilities of slip and glaze as mediums - creating ideas one after another as they come to me. Rather than inventing everything from scratch, many of my works are developed and expanded based on results from past tests and previous pieces.
For example, the grid patterns composed of various colors arranged in a lattice - something I’ve been making frequently lately - were created to explore how adjacent colors appear in a minimal format. The vertical and horizontal lines that form the grid align with the rotational shape of the vessel, and I feel this structured pattern represents one of the most minimal forms of decoration.
We’ve learned that your works are single-fired, which is relatively uncommon in contemporary ceramics. What led you to choose this firing method?
In contemporary ceramics, bisque firing is typically done to prevent the clay body from breaking when applying slip or glaze, as it can absorb moisture. However, since I apply slip and glaze using a brush, this method introduces less moisture compared to conventional techniques, which lowers the risk of breakage. That’s why I usually skip the bisque firing. That said, I do bisque fire certain pieces when I feel it’s necessary based on the nature of the work.
Which part of the ceramic-making process do you enjoy the most?
Perhaps it’s when something I envisioned in my mind emerges from the kiln exactly as I imagined - or sometimes even better than expected. With ceramics, there’s always uncertainty about whether the work you’ve put in will bear fruit until the kiln is opened. Because of that, every time I open the kiln, it’s a mix of hope and anxiety. And when the results are good, it’s a feeling of relief and true joy.
Is there anything you would like to try or challenge yourself with in the future?
There are several things I’d like to explore moving forward—such as creating more intricate hand-built pieces, developing cohesive series of works, and designing tableware that leans more toward practical, everyday use. These are all natural extensions of my current practice, and I hope to continue deepening and expanding my work in these directions.
