Kumie Tsuda

Perfect is not perfect

Tsuda-san, this is your first solo exhibition, isn’t it?

That’s right.

Please tell us what led you to begin making art.

When I was little, I used to pick up and collect things I found on the ground―beautiful stones or pieces of glass―and had fun arranging and playing with them. Or, I would go into the spaces between houses and look for things on the ground, or just hide there for while.
I also drew pictures when I was a child, but it wasn’t until much later that I made a conscious decision to make things.
In junior high school, I gradually realized that I liked drawing, but at the beginning it wasn’t anything deliberate, I would just sketch the things that were floating around in my mind.
My most important early encounter with art came when I was in high school and saw Andy Warhol’s Silver Clouds at the Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo. Entering that room full of silver balloons gave me the sensation that I was part of the installation and led me to start thinking about artwork and the space it inhabits.

I believe your earlier works were in terra cotta. When did you start making them in glazed ceramic?

About four years ago. I started making small glazed works.

I’d like to ask you now about the works in the show. What is the significance of the numerals written on the bodies of the figures in this series?

Each work in the series is missing something, and I chose numbers because everyone understands them. The numerals themselves have no meaning here, and they could just as well have been letters from hiragana or the English alphabet. Numerals one through nine―there are no zeroes―appear on one figure only, the other nine are each missing one number.

It’s connected to the work’s title "Perfect is not perfect".

Yes, that’s right. It’s also the title of the exhibition. The idea is that things in a state of completion never express the total picture, and that things lacking something can represent wholeness.

Some of the other figures are full of cracks. Did you plan for these cracks to happen on purpose during the firing process?

That’s right.

Does the work fall apart in the process sometimes?

Yes. But you always have a few chances to put things back together and repeat the process.

How do you make these crystal-like objects?

I form a clay ball, hollow it out to an even thickness, and once it hardens a bit, I carve it with a knife. I used soft clay as a glue to join several stones together as in these clumps.

How long do your works usually take to make?

It depends on the size and shape of the work. The works I’m showing here took anywhere from ten minutes to a week to make. If I spend too much time on a work, it breaks my concentration and I become less able to judge when the piece is done. For me, making the objects is similar to doing drawings. The forms come quickly, but other processes follow. After I form the work, I have to dry it, fire it once, apply the glaze, and fire it again.

At what stage did you draw these numbers?

The numbers are actually carved. I waited for the clay to dry a bit and then carved them. I chose the color glaze I wanted, painted it on, and fired the piece. It’s also possible to redo the colors and refire the piece several times.

What’s this thread here?

The individual pieces have a common presence, and the thread serves as a landmark to connect this presence. Rather than simply displaying each work in its own place, I used the thread to draw the viewer’s gaze to the connections between different objects, to unite the spaces that exist between the pieces.
I’m interested in the idea of deploying works within sheer space. I made this sleeping figure and this work beforehand, but I created the other pieces while evaluating the space. Placing an object into a space automatically sets up relationships between it and other objects there, so I had to consider where each piece would fit in the total space as I was making it.

I’m told you have a ball of thread long enough to go around the world [laughs]. Do you collect thread?

I collect various kinds of thread. For the installation, I used this type of frayed thread.

This work here resembles the large work you displayed in the middle of the space at the Tokyo Wonder Site. Could you please tell us where this form originates?

I originally made the work for the "Meteora" show with upside-down legs sticking up in the air. I was fascinated by a story that I couldn’t fathom, that of these monks [at Meteora in Greece] who, with very few tools, risked their lives scaling hundreds of meters of rock wall to build their monasteries. This uncanny human ability enabled by an invisible force.
For the Tokyo Wonder Site work, I ultimately decided to place a white forest instead of a pair of legs, on top of the melting rocklike form. The piece "Meteora" is based on the same idea. Are the forms caused by forces falling from above or rising from below? Or are the forms themselves spreading upwards and downwards? The work is about these simultaneous pairings of beginning and end, of destruction and construction.
In contrast, the works in this exhibition are based on the notion that “perfect is not perfect”: human figures that are missing something; figures whose bodies are obscured by stacks of stones; scattered stones; a pocket that overflows when used; images that take on new meanings when placed next to each other.

These reliefs have an unusual title: When have a meaning.

I wanted to make works in which two became one. Where meaning is empty in only one object, it spreads outward when this object joins another. It’s not about you or me searching for these meanings, the meanings themselves overlap where we can’t see them; they expand and scatter on their own.
I often get ideas for pieces while riding on trains and buses. When I do, I look around at my fellow passengers and sketch the first thing that strikes my eye. Later, I also draw things that I’ve been thinking about. When these contrasting images are then united, fresh meanings arise.

So, you have all these random images that you pair up. Do you consciously join images that you feel will have the greatest impact as a pair? Or is it more a matter of, “oh, this one could go with that one, couldn’t it?”

I avoid pairing images that would seem to logically go together. My selection system is much slacker. It matches the loose process I use to come up with the images in the first place. I don’t feel the need to look for the beautiful; everyday things are just as compelling.
This [pointing at work] shows a huge bunch of cherries that I felt lucky to find.

What about this image? [pointing at work]

It’s a chocolate bar. Or maybe a keyboard. One of the two.
The act of combining things to achieve a completely different meaning is akin to writing poetry.