Persimmon tannin and charcoal powder, underneath. Kawatsura makes lacquered bowls, and its distinguishing method lies in the ground layers — the tannin and the fine charcoal that go on long before anything glossy appears anywhere. Looking at a finished surface tells you nothing whatever about what is beneath it, which is the ordinary condition of lacquer and the reason it is so easy to counterfeit badly. The craft hall shows the stages in order, though, and it becomes clear that the invisible part is where most of the labour actually went. You can try chinkin and maki-e, and the needle enters the film with far more resistance than you anticipate, demanding a steadiness of hand you almost certainly do not have.

These are bowls made for daily use rather than for display, which shows in their weight and in the plainness of most of the shapes on the shelves. Yuzawa's town centre is fifteen minutes away by car through country that is worth the drive. The snow is heavy and clearing it is an annual cost of living here, not an occasional inconvenience to be complained about at dinner.

Objects that received their care where nobody can see it reveal the difference slowly, through years of use rather than at the moment of purchase. Kawatsura has been making bowls since the medieval period and was always a place that produced for use rather than for the court. The lacquer itself is a tree sap that hardens by absorbing moisture from the air, which is why humidity matters more here than heat. Each coat has to cure before the next, so the calendar sets the pace. A bowl is about the best evidence of that principle that you can hold in one hand.