KAZUHITO
KAWAI

Artist ISSUE 4 2026 SS

When standing before the works of Kazuhito Kawai, one is left momentarily without words. Built up from layers of clay and fired under multiple applications of glaze, their presence effortlessly subverts the conventional image conjured by the term “ceramic art.” They are not orderly. And yet, their beauty cannot be denied. Distinct from any familiar notion of beauty, they generate a form entirely their own. Strongly influenced by 1990s fashion, Kawai was drawn into the world of art. He studied fine art at a university in the United Kingdom, later spent time working as a salaried　employee, and eventually encountered　ceramics. Now based in Kasama, Ibaraki, he continues his practice there. What emerges through his dialogue with clay, and where is it headed? We spoke with him about the appetite that lies beneath.

“Ever since junior high, I have been utterlyobsessed with fashion. I read smart magazine and grew up immersed in the culture of men’s fashion publications. There was no YouTube back then, and the Internet wasn’t nearly as accessible as it is now. I would watch Fashion Tsushin on TV, where Junko Ouchi analysed collections, absolutely glued to the screen. I was deeply drawn to the overwhelming sense of narrative in John Galliano’s work and to the somewhat unsettling, experimental air surrounding Martin Margiela. I think it wasn’t so much clothing itself as fashion as art that captivated me.”
In high school, he decided to pursue art school, and after graduating, moved to the UK to attend university. There, he majored in fine art, primarily creating installations and video works. Life in London proved somewhat harsh. Being naturally sensitive, he struggled with the cultural gap and found it difficult to assimilate into the community.
After graduating, he returned to Japan and, somewhat unexpectedly, experienced life as an office worker in Tokyo. However, unable to adapt to what he describes as the “hierarchy of corporate society,” he came to the conclusion that acquiring a tangible skill suited him better than simply earning money, and decided to return to his hometown.

In Kasama—one of the Kanto region’s leading centers of ceramics—he enrolled in the Ceramic Industry Guidance Center, where tuition is free. At first, he made small bowls almost as a form of rehabilitation.
He recalls his very first ceramic works in these words: “I had stepped away from making things for a while, so creating again felt a little frightening. But one day I was told there was space available in the kiln and that I could use it however I liked. I started crushing clay, mixing dried clay into wet clay. I became fascinated by the way the cracks formed, and as I worked obsessively, something switched on. All the frustration I had carried from my time as a salaried worker came pouring out.”

That moment propelled him back toward creating. At the same time, there was another experience that left a deep impression. “In one class, everyone used the same blueprint to throw plates of the same size on the wheel, applied the same glaze, and fired them together. When the kiln was opened, I couldn’t tell which one was mine. In a sense, it’s only natural—we were making objects without identity. But it felt incredibly humiliating. I hated it.”
At school, he did more than acquire technical skills. As he worked with clay, the emotions and subtle dissonances within him gradually began to take form, allowing him to articulate himself as an artist from the inside out. 

There is scarcely any blank space on the walls of his studio. Showa-era characters, anime, fashion photography, landscapes, politics, music—events and figures tied to various strands of culture—an immense accumulation of visual fragments layered one atop another. Rather than presenting a fixed blueprint of a finished work, the wall feels like thought itself laid bare. Sometimes a piece begins here. At other times, he looks back at a completed work and realizes, “So this is what I was doing,” prompting him to gather images anew. “
“In London, I would first define a concept and then conduct research to materialize it. Now, it’s both. I move back and forth between the two,” he explains of his mood boards.
Surrounded constantly by what he loves, he continues to revise, reassemble, and evolve.

Kawai’s production process demands a considerable investment of time. Depending on the piece, the forming stage alone takes roughly one to two months. He then moves into the glazing process, layering it repeatedly over the course of another three weeks. In addition, there is the meticulous decorative work of placing tiny droplets of color one by one with a dropper. By the time a piece finally enters the kiln, several months have already accumulated.
“Once you’ve experienced how demanding it is, it might be normal to give up,” he says with a laugh. “But maybe I’m just a bit foolish—I somehow reset.”
Even remembering how arduous it was, he finds himself repeating the process for the sake of achieving something he cannot let go of. He imagines, “It should turn out like this,” and places the work in the kiln. Yet when it emerges, only about a third of the effort he felt he had invested seems to remain. “I should have inserted that step,” he thinks in retrospect, and before long, the number of processes continues to multiply.
That is why he must construct each work by calculating in reverse—assuming from the outset that something will inevitably be lost.

Where does the urge to create come from? “I think it’s anger,” he says. “That may sound a bit simplistic… But when I look back at my work during exhibitions and begin to think about its themes, I sometimes realize it then. Through counseling, as I dig into myself, I become aware of anger I had suppressed, emotions I had pushed down. That’s what surfaces in the work.”
When asked whether there is an element of selftherapy in his practice, he pauses. “It’s not quite therapy,” he clarifies. And yet, there are moments when he feels he can stay close to himself through the work—that, he says, is a form of salvation.

He also emphasizes the tactile quality of clay. “It’s essential to make things while touching them. With painting, you design the composition from zero on a white canvas. But clay dents when you touch it. That’s where discoveries happen, and that’s what drives me forward.”
In dialogue with the clay, shifts occur. Those shifts accumulate into form, and layer by layer, a structure eventually takes shape.

What, for him, is “beauty”? When asked, he responds with an unexpected question. “Do you find natto delicious? Have you liked it since childhood?”
As a high school student, he encountered an art book by Paul McCarthy at the the bookstore of the Art Tower Mito. At the time, he says, he simply couldn’t “see” it. But perhaps now he could. In this way, the boundaries within him have gradually expanded.
“I can’t definitively state what I consider beautiful right now. Human beings can create beauty by thinking about it. For example, finding beauty in a concept itself, or in a value like ‘equality.’ I find the lumpy dresses by Comme des Garçons beautiful precisely because they question the relationship between body and clothing. Concept matters. And it’s also important to articulate that concept clearly in a statement.”

At the same time, he acknowledges the immediacy of intuition—“This color is beautiful,” “This texture feels right.” He tries to shape those instincts into something distinctly his own.
“I don’t believe that releasing a single work will change anything. But by continuing to put work out into the world, images slowly accumulate within people. And at some point, there may be a shift— ‘So this is beauty.’ I’m not there yet. So I want to keep presenting my work, increasing its exposure, so that something like the presence of my work gradually builds up within different people.”

Seven years into making work, he has continually posed the same question to himself: why does he keep returning to vessel forms? “It may be a typically Japanese way of thinking, but rather than acting purely on emotion, I often find myself unconsciously deciding, ‘Given this situation, this is what I should do now.’ I’ve always felt a certain discomfort with that mode of being, yet I’ve never been able to fully step outside the system. Then I realized that this very way of thinking is, for me, a metaphor for the vessel—and it finally made sense.”

The same attitude carries over into his exhibitions. The distinctive titles and spatial designs are not attempts at provocation; they arise from a genuine desire to communicate with visitors in a meaningful way. “I don’t want it to end as self-satisfaction. I’m always thinking about how the people who come can truly enjoy the experience.”
Rather than prioritizing novelty or critical positioning, he chooses sincerity. “When you try to be sincere, you can’t make absolute statements. It’s quicker and stronger to declare things outright, but that’s difficult for me,” he admits.
And so, within that enormous mood board, the act of thinking—questioning, recalibrating— continues again and again.