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Field Note No. 003: The Soul in the Clay
—A Journey to the Heart of Yixing
Location: Dingshu Town, Yixing, Jiangsu Province
Date: March 16 – 19, 2026
Travelers: Richard Zhang (Founding Curator) & Miles (Digital Architect)
Objective: To trace the lineage of Zisha art and curate the first collection for ZENTAOEAST
Date: March 16 – 19, 2026
Travelers: Richard Zhang (Founding Curator) & Miles (Digital Architect)
Objective: To trace the lineage of Zisha art and curate the first collection for ZENTAOEAST
March 16: The Rain and the Root
The sky was draped in a soft, silver mist as Miles and I pulled out of Tunxi. A light spring rain followed us across the border from Anhui into Jiangsu. It was a three-hour drive, a slow transition from the white walls and black tiles of my home in Huizhou to the low-lying, watery landscape of Yixing—the "Pottery Capital of the World."
By the time we reached Dingshu Town, the rain had turned into a steady, rhythmic drizzle. We didn't wait to unpack. After settling into our lodgings, we immediately headed for our first destination: Shushan Ancient South Street.
If Yixing is the heart of Zisha, Shushan is its root. Walking onto the ancient cobblestone path of South Street is like stepping into a silent, sepia-toned archive. For centuries, this narrow lane was the primary marketplace for Zisha teapots. Today, it feels heavy with the weight of time. The stones beneath our feet have been polished smooth by the footsteps of countless masters, porters, and scholars.
The atmosphere was profoundly thick with history. Along the street, rows of old wooden-structured shops stood quietly. Through the windows, we could see artisans sitting under warm lamps, their backs hunched in total concentration as they beat and shaped the purple clay by hand. We passed the former residence of Gu Jingzhou, the "God of Teapots." Standing before the humble doorway of a man who elevated a piece of mud into a national treasure, I felt a deep sense of reverence. In the modern world, we are obsessed with the "new," but here, the "old" is the only currency that matters. The weathered walls of South Street are a reminder that ZENTAOEAST must first be a steward of this history before it can be a curator of objects.
By the time we reached Dingshu Town, the rain had turned into a steady, rhythmic drizzle. We didn't wait to unpack. After settling into our lodgings, we immediately headed for our first destination: Shushan Ancient South Street.
If Yixing is the heart of Zisha, Shushan is its root. Walking onto the ancient cobblestone path of South Street is like stepping into a silent, sepia-toned archive. For centuries, this narrow lane was the primary marketplace for Zisha teapots. Today, it feels heavy with the weight of time. The stones beneath our feet have been polished smooth by the footsteps of countless masters, porters, and scholars.
The atmosphere was profoundly thick with history. Along the street, rows of old wooden-structured shops stood quietly. Through the windows, we could see artisans sitting under warm lamps, their backs hunched in total concentration as they beat and shaped the purple clay by hand. We passed the former residence of Gu Jingzhou, the "God of Teapots." Standing before the humble doorway of a man who elevated a piece of mud into a national treasure, I felt a deep sense of reverence. In the modern world, we are obsessed with the "new," but here, the "old" is the only currency that matters. The weathered walls of South Street are a reminder that ZENTAOEAST must first be a steward of this history before it can be a curator of objects.
March 17: The Geometry of Perfection
On our second day, we visited the China Zisha Museum (also known as the Yixing Ceramics Museum). For Miles, the digital architect, this was an explosion of form and structure. For me, it was a reunion with the masters.
The museum houses a staggering collection ranging from the Ming and Qing dynasties to the contemporary era. We spent hours studying the evolution of minerals—the raw ores of Zini, Duanni, and Zhuni—and the meticulous steps required to turn a mountain stone into a breathable vessel.
I found myself standing for a long time before the works of Gu Jingzhou. I have seen his work in books a thousand times, but in person, the shock of his genius is visceral. His teapots are deceptively simple. He worked within the boundaries of classic shapes, but his greatness lay in the "invisible modification."
I leaned in close to the glass, observing the transition from the spout to the body. It was a matter of a single millimeter—a curve sharpened just a fraction, or a line softened with the grace of a calligraphy stroke. These tiny, almost imperceptible adjustments are what bring a teapot into the realm of the "Perfect Proportion." It reminded me of the Taoist principle: The greatest skill seems like a rugged clumsiness. Gu’s teapots don't shout; they resonate.
However, as the hours passed, a strange sadness settled over me. Despite the brilliance of the exhibits, the museum was nearly empty. For long stretches of time, Miles and I were the only two people in the galleries. In this high-speed digital age, has the silent, slow beauty of the Zisha teapot become too "lonely"? Does the modern world still have the patience to listen to the dialogue between fire and clay? I don't have the answer yet, but it reinforced our mission to bring this stillness to a global audience.
The museum houses a staggering collection ranging from the Ming and Qing dynasties to the contemporary era. We spent hours studying the evolution of minerals—the raw ores of Zini, Duanni, and Zhuni—and the meticulous steps required to turn a mountain stone into a breathable vessel.
I found myself standing for a long time before the works of Gu Jingzhou. I have seen his work in books a thousand times, but in person, the shock of his genius is visceral. His teapots are deceptively simple. He worked within the boundaries of classic shapes, but his greatness lay in the "invisible modification."
I leaned in close to the glass, observing the transition from the spout to the body. It was a matter of a single millimeter—a curve sharpened just a fraction, or a line softened with the grace of a calligraphy stroke. These tiny, almost imperceptible adjustments are what bring a teapot into the realm of the "Perfect Proportion." It reminded me of the Taoist principle: The greatest skill seems like a rugged clumsiness. Gu’s teapots don't shout; they resonate.
However, as the hours passed, a strange sadness settled over me. Despite the brilliance of the exhibits, the museum was nearly empty. For long stretches of time, Miles and I were the only two people in the galleries. In this high-speed digital age, has the silent, slow beauty of the Zisha teapot become too "lonely"? Does the modern world still have the patience to listen to the dialogue between fire and clay? I don't have the answer yet, but it reinforced our mission to bring this stillness to a global audience.
The Shadow of the Machine: Safety and Spirit
For the next three days, we lived in the alleys of Dingshu. We drifted from one independent studio to another, drinking endless cups of tea with artisans, listening to their struggles and their philosophies.
The reality on the ground is sobering. The global economic downturn has hit Dingshu hard. Sales are at a historic low. Many studios that once thrived are now struggling to pay rent. We saw many talented practitioners closing their doors and turning to other industries just to survive.
The reality on the ground is sobering. The global economic downturn has hit Dingshu hard. Sales are at a historic low. Many studios that once thrived are now struggling to pay rent. We saw many talented practitioners closing their doors and turning to other industries just to survive.
To understand the full spectrum of the market, we visited Qianluo Village, the center of mass-produced "Machine-made" and "Slip-cast" teapots. What we found there was startling. Industrial technology has improved to the point where, to an untrained eye, a machine-made teapot can look almost identical to a handcrafted one. In an economy where consumers are hyper-sensitive to price, these replicas are devastating to the traditional craft.
However, during our exploration of Qianluo, a deeper concern emerged: The issue of material safety and the death of the Zisha spirit.
Raw Zisha ore is a remarkable mineral, but it is naturally "stubborn." It does not have the high fluidity required for machine-pressing or liquid slip-casting. To force this ancient earth into a machine-friendly state, manufacturers must add chemical thinning agents, plasticizers, and metal oxides to artificially increase its flow and mimic the color of natural clay.
As a curator, this raises a grave concern for safety. When you pour boiling water into a teapot laden with industrial chemicals, you are no longer engaging in a healing ritual; you are exposing yourself to an artificial chemistry that has no place in the "Way of Tea."
Furthermore, these industrial processes destroy the most distinctive advantage of the Zisha teapot: its breathability. Authentic Zisha is prized for its unique "Double-Pore Structure." These microscopic, interconnected pores allow the teapot to "breathe," absorbing the tea's essential oils and allowing oxygen to interact with the water. This is what softens the brew and creates the legendary "mellowing" effect over time. Machine production and chemical additives effectively seal these pores, turning a "living" vessel into a "dead" piece of glass or plastic-coated clay. If a Zisha teapot cannot breathe, it has lost its soul.
At ZENTAOEAST, we made a solemn vow in Qianluo: We will only ever offer handcrafted teapots. We do this to honor the heritage of the human hand, but more importantly, to safeguard the purity of your tea and the natural breath of the clay.
However, during our exploration of Qianluo, a deeper concern emerged: The issue of material safety and the death of the Zisha spirit.
Raw Zisha ore is a remarkable mineral, but it is naturally "stubborn." It does not have the high fluidity required for machine-pressing or liquid slip-casting. To force this ancient earth into a machine-friendly state, manufacturers must add chemical thinning agents, plasticizers, and metal oxides to artificially increase its flow and mimic the color of natural clay.
As a curator, this raises a grave concern for safety. When you pour boiling water into a teapot laden with industrial chemicals, you are no longer engaging in a healing ritual; you are exposing yourself to an artificial chemistry that has no place in the "Way of Tea."
Furthermore, these industrial processes destroy the most distinctive advantage of the Zisha teapot: its breathability. Authentic Zisha is prized for its unique "Double-Pore Structure." These microscopic, interconnected pores allow the teapot to "breathe," absorbing the tea's essential oils and allowing oxygen to interact with the water. This is what softens the brew and creates the legendary "mellowing" effect over time. Machine production and chemical additives effectively seal these pores, turning a "living" vessel into a "dead" piece of glass or plastic-coated clay. If a Zisha teapot cannot breathe, it has lost its soul.
At ZENTAOEAST, we made a solemn vow in Qianluo: We will only ever offer handcrafted teapots. We do this to honor the heritage of the human hand, but more importantly, to safeguard the purity of your tea and the natural breath of the clay.
March 19: The "Happy Fool" of Ceramic City
After lunch on our final day, I felt a profound reluctance to leave. I turned to Miles and said, "Let’s walk through the Ceramic City one last time."
The massive complex was ghost-like. Row after row of shops were locked tight. Those that were open were manned by owners who stared listlessly at their phones. Then, we saw a light. In a corner of the mall, we saw a woman in her late fifties working with total absorption. Her hands were covered in clay, and she was beating a piece of purple mud with a rhythmic "thud-thud-thud." We pushed the door open.
The massive complex was ghost-like. Row after row of shops were locked tight. Those that were open were manned by owners who stared listlessly at their phones. Then, we saw a light. In a corner of the mall, we saw a woman in her late fifties working with total absorption. Her hands were covered in clay, and she was beating a piece of purple mud with a rhythmic "thud-thud-thud." We pushed the door open.
She greeted us with a radiant smile. This was Master Liu Huachun, a certified National Industrial Artist. When we asked her about the quietness of the market, she laughed. "My neighbors say I’m a fool. They say, 'Liu, the market is dead, the teapots won't sell, why are you still working so hard?' But I started this at 17. I’m nearly 60 now. It’s the only thing I know how to do. I don't care about the market; I only care about the clay."
Miles and I were stunned. She looked ten years younger than her age. I realized then that perhaps focused, mindful work really does stop the clock of aging. As she brewed tea for us, we began to look at her work. She didn't use the word "sell." Instead, she spoke of "finding owners."
"This is a wood-fired teapot," she said, pointing to a vessel with a beautiful, natural ash glaze. "I only made three. One went to Guangdong to accompany its owner. These two are still waiting for their destiny."
Miles and I were stunned. She looked ten years younger than her age. I realized then that perhaps focused, mindful work really does stop the clock of aging. As she brewed tea for us, we began to look at her work. She didn't use the word "sell." Instead, she spoke of "finding owners."
"This is a wood-fired teapot," she said, pointing to a vessel with a beautiful, natural ash glaze. "I only made three. One went to Guangdong to accompany its owner. These two are still waiting for their destiny."
She treated her teapots like her own children. Every design choice and every innovation was a story she held dear. In a world of "atomic" individuals and digital deserts, Liu Huachun was a mountain of stability. Listening to her, I felt a surge of strength. It is because of "fools" like her—artisans who remain optimistic even when the clouds are dark—that the art of the Zisha teapot will never die.
In her stubbornness, I saw the spiritual 'True Heart' (本心) that ZENTAOEAST must steadfastly uphold, safeguard, and pursue. As we drove back toward the white walls of Huizhou that evening, I knew I would return. I would return to visit artists like Liu Huachun. Because as long as there is the temperature of the hand and the honesty of the clay, there is a path back to ourselves.
In her stubbornness, I saw the spiritual 'True Heart' (本心) that ZENTAOEAST must steadfastly uphold, safeguard, and pursue. As we drove back toward the white walls of Huizhou that evening, I knew I would return. I would return to visit artists like Liu Huachun. Because as long as there is the temperature of the hand and the honesty of the clay, there is a path back to ourselves.
Field Summary
Locations Visited: Shushan Ancient South Street, Yixing Zisha Museum, Qianluo Village, Ceramic City.
Key Insight: The "Invisible Proportion" of the masters is the ultimate standard of ZENTAOEAST curation.
The Conflict: The rise of chemical-laden machine teapots vs. the struggling handcrafted heritage.
The Resolution: A renewed commitment to handcrafted, chemical-free Zisha to preserve safety and the legendary "Double-Pore" breathability.
Key Insight: The "Invisible Proportion" of the masters is the ultimate standard of ZENTAOEAST curation.
The Conflict: The rise of chemical-laden machine teapots vs. the struggling handcrafted heritage.
The Resolution: A renewed commitment to handcrafted, chemical-free Zisha to preserve safety and the legendary "Double-Pore" breathability.
Curator’s Verdict
"A Zisha teapot is not just a tool for tea; it is a resistance against the machine. We choose the 'rugged clumsiness' of a handcrafted vessel because it carries the heartbeat of people like Liu Huachun. At ZENTAOEAST, we don't just sell teapots—we bridge the gap between a master’s fire and your moment of stillness."