Our Story

For those who know.

Made to be used every day — but first and foremost, a work of art.

Painting porcelain wares, from a Qing dynasty album on porcelain manufacture — Painting the wares — from a Qing album on porcelain manufacture. Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Nothing here is made by machine. Each piece is thrown, glazed, and painted by one pair of hands, the way it has been done in Jingdezhen for a thousand years — which means no two are ever the same. A brushline leans a little; the glaze pools where it chooses. Hold one against the light and you are looking at something that exists exactly once. That is what we mean by a work of art: not a style, but a fact.

Firing the kiln, from a Qing dynasty album on porcelain manufacture — Firing the kiln — from the same Qing album. Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Long before it was called Jingdezhen, this town was Changnan — 昌南. The story goes that foreign merchants, asking again and again for the wares of Changnan, slowly wore the name down into "china": first the word for porcelain itself, then for the country it came from. We took our name from that older word, as it sounds in Cantonese: Cheong Nam.

The porcelain itself has always travelled. From the kilns it went down the river to Canton, where the ships of the East India companies loaded it for Europe and America — packed beneath the tea, ballast and treasure at once. We carry that journey on in a small way: a few pieces at a time, chosen slowly, for those who know what they are holding.

The foreign hongs at Canton, early nineteenth century — The hongs at Canton, where porcelain began its voyage west. Early nineteenth century.

The place

Porcelain has been made in Jingdezhen for more than a thousand years — once for the imperial court, and for far longer than the word "china" has meant anything in English. The clay, the glazes, and the way they are fired here have been refined over many generations.

The hands

Every piece is made entirely by hand — shaped, glazed, and painted — so no two are ever alike. A line drawn a little differently, a glaze gathering softly at the rim: these small variations are simply the trace of the person who made it.

At home

Each of these is, first, a work of art — something to be set on a shelf and looked at. But it is not sealed behind glass. On the morning the mood takes you, lift it down and drink your tea from it; it was made to be held. An object to keep, and — when you wish — to use.

Knowing Porcelain

How to tell good porcelain.

Most people are never shown what separates a fine piece from an ordinary one. It is easy to see, once you know where to look.

Peachbloom-glazed vase, an imperial Kangxi monochrome — Peachbloom vase, imperial Kangxi ware — a single colour, perfected. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

For most of recorded history, Chinese porcelain was the most coveted luxury on earth. Kings emptied their treasuries for it; merchants crossed oceans for it. It travelled the Silk Road and the sea routes as something nearer to treasure than to tableware — by weight, at times, dearer than gold. What the West would come to call china was never the everyday mug. It was among the rarest things a household could own.

Imperial kilns and folk kilns

For most of that history, China made porcelain at two levels. Folk kilns — 民窯, minyao — supplied the everyday bowls of ordinary households. Imperial kilns — 官窯, guanyao — made for the court and the government, and answered to a different standard entirely.

An imperial reign mark on the base of a Chinese porcelain bowl — A reign mark on the base of a bowl — 康熙年製, "made in the reign of Kangxi." The court's signature, painted in cobalt beneath the glaze: proof that a piece was imperial ware, not common.

The cost of an imperial piece was rarely the clay. It was the labour, and the waste. To send one flawless cup to the palace, a kiln might break hundreds: anything with a warp, a bubble, a brushline gone astray was smashed on the spot and buried, so that no second-rate ware could ever carry the emperor's reign mark — those few characters on the foot that named the reign a piece was made for. Archaeologists still dig the shards from beneath Jingdezhen by the ton. A few seconds escaped into the markets, which is how a farmer might, now and then, drink from a near-imperial cup. The principle outlived the emperors: quality was never about the material. It was about how much you were willing to throw away.

What to look for

Four things separate a serious piece from a cheap one. None of them needs an expert — only a little attention.

Fine porcelain

The walls: Thrown so thin that light passes through. The thinner the wall, the more pieces collapse in the kiln — and the more skill it took to keep this one whole.
The pattern: Drawn by hand, one stroke at a time. Lines breathe and vary; no two pieces are identical. Up close, you can feel the brush.
The ring: Tap the rim and it sings — a clear, lingering note. 聲如磬, the old phrase: it rings like a chime.
The foot: Trimmed and finished smooth, the glaze cut cleanly at the base.

Ordinary porcelain

The walls: Thick, heavy, opaque — made to survive a fast firing with little loss.
The pattern: A printed transfer. Mechanically perfect and identical on every cup; under a glass, a grid of dots.
The ring: A short, dull thud — a denser, coarser body.
The foot: Rough, gritty, or left unfinished.

Where ours stand

We make only the two hardest things on that list: every pattern hand-painted, never printed — and many of our cups thrown eggshell-thin, light enough to glow against a window, yet fired hard enough to last a lifetime. We keep close to the imperial habit, not the folk one — a few pieces at a time, and whatever does not pass, we leave behind. Hold one up to the light, and you are looking at the difference: not the mug in the cupboard, but a thing the old world would have crossed an ocean to own.

For those who know.

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