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My Story with Yixing Clay

In 2015, I encountered a Yixing teapot for the first time, and something in me was quietly struck. There was a calmness in its surface, a subtle glow, and a quiet rhythm in its curves and proportions. It felt as though nature and craftsmanship were in conversation.

At first, I was a collector. But over time, I realized that the teapots I dreamed of didn’t exist on the market. I wanted a pot that could hold not only tea, but also my understanding of beauty, my emotions, and even fragments of my life. I needed to make it myself.

So I set off to learn the craft, traveling to Yixing.

Reality, however, was harsher than expected. With passion in my heart, I visited local teapot masters, hoping to become an apprentice. One of them looked at me and said bluntly, “You’re not suited to make teapots.”
No explanation. No encouragement. Just one sentence that felt like a door slammed shut.

It hurt deeply, and for a moment I doubted myself. But I refused to give up.

I turned to books and the internet. I would sit quietly in studios, watching how the masters shaped clay, formed spouts, attached handles. I couldn’t ask questions, so I memorized every movement. Then I practiced alone, again and again—failing often, but learning each time. In the silence between rejection and determination, I carved out my own path.

In 2022, my wife and I moved to San Diego. To support ourselves, I worked in construction. For a time, teapots became something I only carried in my heart.
Then one day, I stumbled upon a tea community on Reddit—people from all over the world, seriously discussing tea, teaware, and traditions. That moment reminded me: I’m not alone in this love.

So I started again.

Making Yixing teapots in the U.S. has been far more difficult than I imagined. Firing is the hardest part. Without access to traditional kilns or familiar atmospheres, every firing is a gamble. I often spend weeks making a single teapot, only for it to crack, deform, or lose its intended color in the final stage.
It’s heartbreaking in ways that are hard to explain.

But I’ve never stopped.

Today, I still make every teapot entirely by hand. No molds, no shortcuts—just slow forming, quiet focus, and respect for the clay.
Each pot may be imperfect, but within every line and surface is my understanding of Yixing, my path as a maker, and the belief that even those once told “you’re not suited for this” can still keep going.

When you hold one of my pots, I hope you see more than just a vessel. I hope you feel the quiet strength within it—born of earth, guided by hands, and shaped by a heart that never gave up.