Otto Heino
I went to visit Otto Heino yesterday. I was a recipient of his scholarship in 2006. At 92 making over 1.5 million dollars a year, he is the oldest and richest potter in the world. He rediscovered an ancient Japanese glaze; his work is most loved for the hand-made texture and durability.
I was in the presence of a sage, a small monk robed in papery skin and cashier’s checks. And as he stumbled through descriptions of his craft, the rates his pots sell for ($35,000) and the process of quality pottery, his choice refrain rang bells in my bones, “That’s what they like,” “they” being the consumer. There are visionaries and there are craftsman and they hang their bodies on each other lovingly.
There is a man who lives. His low blood pressure and money make him loved. He rhythmically creates vessels. He is a pulse.
At first I did not know what to make of this. I am no craftswoman; I am restless and weary with the weight of visions. I wanted him to be human; I was starving for it. Then the universe aligned as he began to describe his time in Germany during WWII. His descriptions became clear and he laughed and laughed about watching hundreds of bodies scatter at bombs. He kept talking about the bodies running because they wanted to live. (I grew teary). And then he described an encounter on the ground with a German. They did not shoot each other. The German waved, Otto imitated this over and over and laughed to himself. They saved each others lives; he did not want to have death on his conscious, he said. The war ended the next day.
“Don’t kill the clay,” he said. People often make this mistake.
He kept making references to giving the people what they want and just waiting for the cashier’s checks in the mail. He must have said this ten times in the two hours we were at his house. I was disturbed by this, confused if I wanted him to be creating for himself or for others. But at his final understated comment of personal satisfaction, “and I like doing it,” I realized the value of perfection and satisfaction in making something well. Why shouldn’t this be his greatest good? There are so many implications of how war affects the mind in his subtle speech inflections and daily rituals. He works all day making things for other people, he makes them perfectly. His mind is at rest; it is so heartbreakingly selfless. The worlds of memories locked in his bones breathe freely in the steadily paced movements and products.
This is the faith of the indifferent.
And this picture is awesome.
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