A Conversation in Clay
Reading time: About 5 minutes.
Inside the Kyoto Studio Where a Fifth-Generation Tile Artist Keeps an Ancient Craft Alive.
On a quiet Kyoto side street, far from the temples, tourists, and neon glow, there is a studio with no sign. Just a simple wooden door, a faint scent of damp earth, and shelves lined with clay creatures whose origins stretch back more than a millennium. This is where I met Yu, a fifth-generation kawara craftsman, and where a centuries-old art form revealed itself not through instruction, but through kindness.
A Studio That Hides in Plain Sight
My husband and I arrived mid-afternoon, guided by a translator and a workshop description so vague it bordered on mysterious: “Make your own roof tile.” Kyoto had been dazzling and exhausting in equal measure, and the stillness of the residential lane felt like mercy. There were no crowds. No signs. No hints of what was waiting behind the unassuming facade.
Inside, the studio looked as though it had been shaped by the craft itself—soft daylight, tiny spatters of gray clay along the walls, and sculptures everywhere you turned. Fierce ogres. Coiling dragons. Gentle Jizo figures watching from quiet corners. They didn’t feel displayed. They felt rooted.
And then Yu stepped forward.
The Keeper of an Ancient Craft
Yu carries the lineage of artisans who have shaped Japanese roof tiles since the Heian period, when emperors’ palaces gleamed with their curved silhouettes. His grandfather learned the craft from his father. And his father learned from his father. Now Yu holds the thread, his hands shaped by the same earth that shaped theirs.
His English was better than our Japanese, but language barely mattered. His warmth translated instantly. His stories flowed in bright smiles and gestures. His hands moved through the air with the familiarity of a practice honed over lifetimes.
He told us about how clay, with its patience and its demands, had become part of his healing from a strange illness. Later, I awkwardly shared how my grandfather taught me to count to five in Japanese. Yu’s eyes lit up, and he held up a finger for each number, applauding like I’d recited poetry.
Some people meet you with technique. Yu meets you with presence.
The Spirit in the Tile
Only after we settled at a long wooden table did he reveal what we were making: onigawara. These are guardian tiles carved in the likeness of ogres, lions, and water spirits that protect homes and temples from harm. Their expressions of snarls, glares, and wide-eyed warnings carry centuries of symbolism.
Yu explained the meanings as we shaped the clay:
Ogres ward off evil
Dragons and water spirits guard against fire
Peaches bring wellness and long life
“To protect others,” he told us, “you must begin with your hands.”
The clay was cold at first, resistant. But guided by his small bamboo tools and patient encouragement, it softened. Yu showed us how to roll and press, how to pinch the fierce curve of an eyebrow, how to carve a fang that looked protective rather than cartoonish.
Our creations were far from perfect. Mine appeared startled by its own existence. My husband’s looked like it had been woken mid-dream by a thunderclap. But Yu praised each crooked edge with reverence. To him, intention carried more weight than symmetry.
In that quiet room, shaping a grinning ogre from a lump of earth, I understood what he meant.
Our scrappy protectors. Mine is on the left, Mike’s is on the right.
A Craft That Connects
Kawara tiles are everywhere in Kyoto. They curve along temple roofs, line narrow alleyways, and crown centuries-old homes. But meeting the person who makes them changes the way the city feels underfoot. The tiles are no longer decoration. They are guardians. History. Stories baked into clay and passed from hand to hand.
Yu doesn’t just teach a craft. He creates a temporary bridge between travelers and tradition, between strangers and the long arc of Japanese artistry. His workshop isn’t a tourist activity. It’s a passing of the torch, however briefly.
The Legacy We Carried Home
When our time was up, we left our small, slightly bewildered clay guardians on a shelf beside Yu’s own works to dry. Weeks later, they arrived in Seattle, carefully packed in boxes he had folded and labeled himself.
We can’t place them on a rooftop; condo life doesn’t allow for such drama. Instead, they watch over my office with their lopsided gazes. They are imperfect and earnest and somehow deeply comforting. Every time I see them, I’m reminded of that afternoon in Kyoto:
How ancient crafts survive one pair of hands at a time.
How connection blooms across language and culture.
How creation softens the world in ways we don’t expect.
If you ever find yourself in Kyoto, look for the studio with no sign. Step through the door. Sit at the table. Let your hands meet the clay, and let Yu meet you where words fall away.
What you make won’t matter nearly as much as what stays with you.
Endless thanks to Yu for opening his studio, his story, and his heart to us. You can find his handmade onigawara and other beautiful works on his Etsy shop.
And a big thank-you to World Vegan Travel for making this experience possible. Their thoughtful planning, compassionate guides, and unforgettable experiences like this one made our time in Japan truly extraordinary.
