JAEJUN LEE | Words from the Artist

ON THE MOON JAR

I hesitated for a long time before I began making Moon Jars in earnest in 2020. The Moon Jar is a powerful symbol of Korean ceramics, steeped in tradition, and many masters in Korea hold very strict views on how it should be shaped and made. As someone who seeks to modernise forms and aesthetics, I was aware that my own interpretation could be seen as controversial. But over time, I began to notice how the Moon Jar’s iconic round shape was being reinterpreted in various ways — especially in Western contexts. Seeing this shift made me realise something important: I was no longer living or working in Korea, and that gave me a different kind of freedom — the freedom to approach the form on my own terms, shaped by my personal taste and context.

Through study and continued practice, I gradually found my own voice within the Moon Jar form. I made most of this work during 2021 and 2022, when I finally felt a sense of confidence in what I was creating.
It was no longer about following rules, but about exploring an open field of possibility. My tastes and experiments evolved year by year, and the variations in form began to reflect a sense of time — a visual archive of shifting thoughts and sensibilities.

My second hesitation came when I was asked to apply a celadon dripping glaze to the Moon Jars. I was reluctant at first — I didn’t want to use the glaze indiscriminately. I felt that certain forms genuinely deserved it; that there needed to be a clear reason for applying it to a particular piece. But through the process of experimenting with celadon on Moon Jars, my thinking changed. I realised that the real question wasn’t whether to use the glaze, but how to use it. That shift opened up new possibilities. I began firing at higher temperatures to create more dramatic drips — especially on Moon Jars. Through many rounds of trial and error, I gradually learned to read the subtle relationship between glaze and form — that certain gestures in the glaze felt more in tune with certain shapes.

That said, the forms themselves began to simplify. The glaze draws the eye so strongly that more complex forms began to feel distracting. Rounder, quieter silhouettes allowed the glaze to speak more clearly. I’ve come to appreciate that harmony, but as a maker, I still feel drawn to my earlier Moon Jar shapes — the ones with plain matte glaze. I hope to return to those quieter forms in the future, perhaps with different surface treatments or none at all. There’s still something in their plainness that speaks to me — something restrained yet alive. Even now, it remains incredibly difficult to achieve the right balance — but that ongoing challenge is what keeps the process alive and meaningful for me.

Having now created a number of different versions of the Moon Jar, I still feel they exist as part of a long and continuous lineage. They are fully contemporary — shaped by modern perspectives, processes, and contexts — yet they remain deeply rooted in the history of Korean ceramics. Most of the Moon Jars I’ve made so far are smaller in scale, thrown as a single piece. But now I’m preparing for a new phase — working towards larger Moon Jars. For this next chapter, I want to spend more time quietly observing and learning from the old. I want to take the time to truly feel and absorb the presence of the original Moon Jars — to sit with them, and to really see them.

When I look at Moon Jars from the Joseon Dynasty, they still feel utterly unique, and somehow alive. There is something within them — a presence, a quiet power — that no contemporary maker, myself included, has yet fully captured. That mystery continues to inspire me.

ON GLAZING 

When it comes to the vast and intricate world of glaze chemistry, I still consider myself a beginner. I’ve never approached it purely as a scientist — it’s simply not where my talents lie. Instead, I nurture a more intuitive, artistic sensitivity toward the glaze, continuously learning and evolving as I go.

I’m confident that I understand better than most what the glaze should look and feel like — yet turning that vision into reality remains a delicate challenge. Especially with my current kiln, full control feels elusive.

That’s why I’m working towards creating a more stable, consistent environment for this series. The more I engage with the process, and the more refined my setup becomes, the fewer failures I anticipate — and the closer I come to the vision I hold.

Yet, there will always be an element of unpredictability — and I embrace that as an essential part of the journey. I can plant intention, sense where the glaze might flow or gather, but I can never fully know how it will reveal itself.

Sometimes, by pushing the temperature higher, I expect the glaze to become more dramatic, more alive — but even then, the outcome remains a mystery. It’s this balance between intention and surprise, control and chance, that keeps the work vibrant for me.

I often describe firing as a moment of reckoning — a silent judgment from the kiln, where all my choices converge and reveal themselves. It is a realm I cannot command, but one I willingly surrender to.

ON SPACE

I am a potter deeply influenced by Lucie Rie, who valued harmony between her work and the space it inhabits. Like her, I have always wanted my pieces to feel harmonious within their environment, quietly adding joy and warmth to people’s lives. Previously, I hoped to communicate through both functionality and beauty, allowing people to experience this through use. 

But now, I wish for people to simply observe and feel—to connect with the work through quiet contemplation. Even without using the object, one can still touch, hold, and simply gaze upon it.

Just today, as I placed a few small bowls in the sunlight filtering into my studio, I found myself looking at them again and again. In that moment, it felt as if only the bowls, the space, and I existed—creating a new kind of relationship with the work. I believe these pieces will quietly whisper in the lives of those who take the time to truly see and feel them.

ON FUNCTION & BEAUTY 

I’ve always enjoyed making useful objects. Creating forms that are not only practical but also simple and well-balanced in form, without anything unnecessary, used to be something of a speciality of mine.

However, my approach has shifted recently. As I began working with celadon glaze in a more dramatic and expressive way, function was no longer the starting point. In fact, even in the case of bowls, I sometimes went as far as to sacrifice their usability altogether.

Technically speaking, I try to achieve the strongest, most intense blue at the bottom inside the bowl. To do this, I allow the glaze to pool and build up into a thick layer in that area. The outside of the bowl, however, remains unglazed. This imbalance creates a great deal of structural tension, and when exposed to hot water, it has caused some cracking — both in the glaze and in the body.

In these situations, if I have to choose between maintaining functional integrity and pursuing the visual effect I’m after, I choose the beauty — and the depth of expression made possible through the glaze.

ON PROCESS

I wouldn't describe myself as particularly agile or flexible in the studio. Once I begin a certain phase of the process, shifting to another can often feel quite overwhelming. So, when I'm in a firing phase, I tend to stay fully focused on that alone. After that, it can take quite a long time before I return to preparing clay and throwing again.

In the same way, when I’m spending time on making forms, the thought of having to glaze feels almost painful — even dreadful at times.

Generally, I think I enjoy throwing the most. It’s the most satisfying part of the process for me, partly because I still feel there is so much room for improvement. There’s always something I can refine or develop further, and when I get into the rhythm of a throwing session, I lose all sense of time.

As for trimming, it’s a stage where my handmade tools play a crucial role. It’s also when I can most clearly express my own formal language. I’d say it’s one of the most important stages in terms of shaping the identity of my work.

Glazing, firing, and finishing — especially the final polishing — are usually the most physically demanding parts. But even within those, there are different kinds of satisfaction and a sense of resolution that I can only find through completing each step.

Each stage of my process requires completely different tools — from throwing on the wheel, to turning using my own tungsten carbide tools, to glazing, and finally finishing the pieces with diamond polishing materials. If I miss any one of these steps, the result won’t fully express what I aim to achieve. At the core of my practice is a commitment to never compromise, and to care deeply about every single part of the process. However, I take particular pride in my own turning tool, which has gained a reputation worldwide.