The Beautiful Fault — Finding Beauty in Imperfection, Kusil Kintsugi

The preciousness of objects that have accumulated shared memories, and a heart that heals as its wounds are mended. This is the message that kintsugi (金継ぎ) offers us.

Interviewer Parc Jinmyoung
Interviewee Lee Suk (Kusil Kintsugi)

My grandmother was frugal to the extreme throughout her life, but the moment she spotted a chipped or cracked cup or plate, she threw it straight into the trash. Her reason: it was bad luck. Given today’s trend of an art technique that joins broken ceramic fragments and sprinkles gold powder over the cracks, she would surely have said, “I’d better hurry up and die.”
Unlike our grandmothers, who believed almost superstitiously that using a chipped bowl would drive away good fortune, the world of tea ceremony has long regarded the act of mending broken or cracked ceramics as a mark of refinement. Kintsugi (金継ぎ), which began in Japan in the late 15th century, is a lacquer craft technique for repairing ceramics. The word literally combines kin (金, gold) and tsugi (継ぎ, to join), and it resonates with the Japanese spirit of wabi-sabi (わびさび), which finds beauty in imperfection. The process—grinding the broken edges flat, joining the pieces with lacquer, and waiting for the lacquer to dry—can take months. We asked Lee Suk, who runs the kintsugi studio Kusil Kintsugi, what mindset it takes to endure such a long and patient process.

How did kintsugi begin?
It’s not entirely certain, but one of the most widely accepted theories is that it began in the late 15th century, when the Japanese shogun Ashikaga Yoshimasa (足利義政) sent a broken celadon tea bowl to China to have it repaired. When he saw the tea bowl that had been fixed in China, Yoshimasa was unhappy with the method of repair and had it redone by Japanese craftsmen instead. After much deliberation, the potters of the time repaired the piece with lacquer and decorated the mended area with gold powder, arriving at a method that satisfied them aesthetically as well. That technique came to be called kintsugi. *Reference: “Kintsugi Notebook” by Kunio Nakamura, published by ComIn

Could you explain the kintsugi repair process in detail?
The main material used is lacquer, which has heat resistance, antibacterial properties, waterproofing, and adhesive qualities. When mixed with flour, it can be used to glue broken pieces together, and when mixed with ocher clay, it can fill in hairline cracks or uneven surfaces. Once the repaired area is decorated with gold or silver powder, the piece is complete. It’s also fine to simply finish with lacquer alone—you can follow your own taste or choose a finish that suits the object.

Hearing you describe it, it sounds quite simple.
It’s not easy once you actually try it. For one thing, you have to apply lacquer multiple times—anywhere from 3 to as many as 10 coats—and it takes 2 to 3 days to harden each time. It’s a process that requires time, patience, and care.

How did you first come across kintsugi?
In middle school, I fell in love with the Japanese language after encountering haiku (俳句, a traditional 17-syllable poem). It wasn’t until I got older that I actually started studying Japanese, though. (Laughs) As I learned the language, I naturally became interested in traditional Japanese culture. One day I happened to come across a kintsugi piece and was so moved by its beauty that I resolved to learn it if I ever went to Japan. My connection with kintsugi began in 2019, when I took part in a kintsugi class held in Korea.

You run a studio under the name Kusil Kintsugi. What led you to open it?
Before I began seriously studying kintsugi, I used to make half dolls (upper-body figures modeled after 19th-century Western women), firing them in a kiln, glazing them, and painting them. I now teach kintsugi classes and do my own work in that same studio.

Who mainly comes to learn kintsugi?
People who majored in ceramics make up the largest group. Beyond that, I have students from all sorts of backgrounds—florists, food stylists, designers, homemakers, and more.

I’m curious whether you take on commissioned work. What is the scope of repairs you can take on?
I mainly receive requests for earthenware and porcelain bowls. Glass is possible too, though it’s difficult. I’ve heard that some kintsugi artists also repair small lacquerware boxes or wooden items. I myself have experience repairing a wooden piece I own.

Could you tell us about the piece that has stayed with you the most?
The very first repair commission I ever received is the one that has stayed with me the most. You could say that experience made me who I am today. In truth, when I was first learning kintsugi and practicing on my own, I simply thought it suited my temperament well—I had no plans to run a studio like I do now.
One day, the director of the gallery next to my studio mentioned a broken celadon piece belonging to an acquaintance and asked if I could repair it. Feeling that my skills weren’t yet up to the task, I introduced her to the teacher who had taught me kintsugi. A few days later, the client came to find me in person, saying she wanted to watch the repair process herself, but that the teacher’s studio I’d introduced her to was too far away, and that she wanted to entrust the piece to me instead. I can’t begin to describe how much pressure I felt inside. With a heavy heart, I began the repair, and the work took nearly three months. During that time, the client would stop by my studio whenever she had a spare moment. And no wonder—it was a celadon piece by the master potter Doam Ji Suntak (designated as a holder of Gyeonggi-do Intangible Cultural Heritage No. 4 for buncheong and white porcelain). I still remember vividly how much pressure I felt at the time. Because it was such a difficult and delicate task, it became a time when I came to understand and learn kintsugi on a much deeper level—what it means to cherish something, and how one ought to handle an object filled with affection.
Afterward, the client became my very first student, and on her advice, I began offering kintsugi classes in earnest. We’re still good friends to this day.

Is there a place you’d like to travel to in connection with kintsugi?
I’ve just started learning maki-e (蒔絵). Maki-e is a technique of painting designs on lacquerware with lacquer and finishing them with sprinkled gold or silver. Until the 1990s, before kintsugi was recognized as a genre in its own right, maki-e craftsmen were the ones who used to repair antiques. That’s what drew my interest to maki-e—I thought this technique could also be applied to kintsugi. A few days ago, I visited Tokyo, Japan, to learn it, and I plan to keep studying it every time I go to Japan from now on.
Once I’ve gotten a good grasp of maki-e, I’d like to go to Kanazawa (金沢市). It’s a city famous for lacquerware and gold-leaf craft, and one I’m fond of, so I visit often. Before I started learning maki-e, I used to think maki-e crafts were beautiful but overly ornate. Once you understand something deeply, perhaps you can see the work through different eyes.

Since encountering kintsugi, what has been the biggest change in your life?
I move slowly but have an impatient personality, and that mismatch causes a lot of mistakes. But kintsugi doesn’t forgive even a single mistake. If you don’t bring every step of the process to completion, you end up having to start all over again. After repeating that process a few times, I think my temperament has become a bit calmer, at least while I’m doing kintsugi work. In everyday life, I’m still the same, though. (Laughs)

Lastly, what message would you like to convey through kintsugi?
A commissioned repair can take anywhere from one month to more than two. During that time, I look at the object every day and hold it in my hands for long hours as I work. Somehow, in the strangest way, you grow attached to the object. Whether it’s expensive or not, whether it suits your taste or not, you simply come to feel affection for it. If that’s true even for someone else’s belongings, it’s even more so when I’m repairing my own. Memories come flooding back—where I bought it, who I was back then, the people who were by my side—and with them comes a kind of longing. That kind of time doesn’t just calm and warm the heart; it also builds the strength to keep living.
Perhaps that’s exactly the kind of experience we need. It’s not that mending a bowl carries some grand meaning about protecting the environment—but through kintsugi, I’d like to say: take the time for yourself, and be sure to savor this beautiful moment.