Kazuhito Kawai (b. 1984, Ibaraki, Japan) graduated BA Fine Art at Chelsea College of Arts (UAL) in 2007. After studying contemporary art in London, he encountered his new medium which was ceramics and experienced the liberation of his creativity allowing him to find a breakthrough. Kawai then graduated at Kasama College of Ceramic Art (Ibaraki) in 2018 and is currently working in Ibaraki. His ceramic works, characterized by dynamic colors and shapes, show various expressions such as irregularity, ugliness, grotesqueness, and fragility, and express his inner self drawn out by the materials in a multilayered manner. The piled-up lumps of clay reflect the time axis of a dialogue between the clay and himself. He has been exhibiting in Japan and overseas such as Hong Kong, Brussels, Los Angeles and more.

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

I was born in Kasama City, Ibaraki, Japan—a town known for its ceramics. Growing up, I was fascinated by fashion, especially through magazines. At that time in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, the thriving Japanese fashion magazine scene provided a window not only on style, but on a larger worldview and cultural perspective that transported me beyond the countryside where I lived and into the thriving subcultures of Tokyo and beyond. I was drawn to fashion, but found the strictly structured rules-based approach to studying art and fashion adopted in Japan too stifling. That’s what initially drew me to London, where I was planning on studying fashion at a school like Central Saint Martins. At my interview for the foundation course, the interviewer recommended I enroll instead in the BA program at the Chelsea College of Arts, so that is what I did. That is where I shifted toward contemporary fine art.

At Chelsea, I worked mainly on conceptual installations and video works—very structured, logic-driven pieces. But eventually, I burned out. I struggled with alcoholism and had to step away from art altogether. I returned to Japan for rehabilitation, and worked as a salaried employee for a while, but it didn’t suit me. I felt lost, unsure of my future, until I stumbled upon a ceramics school back in Kasama. At first, I thought I might open a pottery shop or curate others’ work—I didn’t expect to become a maker myself.

On entering the ceramics school, I discovered their curriculum was unexpectedly tilted towards contemporary ceramics, and I found myself re-engaging with art. I hated the rigid education style at first, especially after the freedom I’d experienced in London. And, in the process of trial and error of engaging with the clay and glazes and firings, at first I struggled, battling these materials that wouldn’t behave in lockstep with my thinking and do as I wanted. But somewhere in my reflections along the way, I looked things over and realized that these ceramic pieces were actually truthfully expressing something about myself.

I began to see that the intuitive, hands-on expression that working in clay and ceramics uniquely makes possible could reveal something essential about myself.

My work today blends that spontaneous, tactile approach with the conceptual foundations I learned in London. Ceramics are a part of everyday life deeply rooted in Japanese culture. That familiarity helps break down the barriers people often feel toward contemporary art. I think that’s where my voice lies: using humble materials to explore personal stories and cultural narratives in a way that feels grounded and accessible.

How do you stay inspired and motivated to create new work?

For me, staying motivated is rooted in a constant process of research, experimentation, and self-reflection. I don’t wait until everything is conceptually clear before I start working—instead, I create in order to understand. When I encounter a technical or aesthetic failure, like not achieving the color I imagined, that becomes a challenge I want to solve. There’s a tension between accepting accidents and still wanting to realize my original intention. That gap is incredibly generative.

Curiosity plays a big role. I’m always asking myself: Is this really true? Even when I finish a work and explain my intentions, I question whether I truly understood myself—whether that piece is really the answer I think it is. That’s why making art becomes a kind of self-excavation. I dig into my own psyche, sometimes drawing from counseling sessions or conversations, and that inner search and constant questioning becomes the seed for future work. I treat each new piece as a chance to explore a slightly deeper or different perspective.

Motivation also comes from making note of contradiction—when things don’t add up. Those inconsistencies push me to keep going, to find new answers. I’ll revisit unresolved ideas from previous works and allow them to transform across time. This process generates an evolving loop of deepening, clarifying, and re-evaluation that drives me to create new work.

Ultimately, making art helps me grow and explore. With each piece, I see things in a new way, and that shift in understanding becomes the motivation for the next one. I don’t believe in arriving at a final truth—I believe in staying in motion, responding to uncertainty, and trusting that the process itself will lead me somewhere meaningful.

How did you first choose the medium you work with, and how has your relationship with it evolved over time?

I didn’t set out to work with ceramics from the beginning. I was originally drawn to fashion as a teenager growing up in rural Japan—specifically, through magazine culture, which was a form of escape for me from the conservative countryside environment I felt alienated from. I moved to London to study fashion but eventually found myself in the fine art department at Chelsea College of Arts. I explored installation and video work there, creating highly conceptual pieces with strict internal logic. It was all very reasoned and controlled.

After returning to Japan, I went through a difficult period—physically and mentally—eventually stepping away from art entirely and working regular jobs, including in advertising sales. It didn’t fit. Needing to regroup, at around 30, I returned to my hometown, Kasama, a city long associated with ceramics. I enrolled in a local ceramics school, not initially to become an artist again, but more to consider running a pottery shop or working in curation. I thought I wasn’t dexterous enough to be a maker—but something changed.

At that school, the curriculum was oriented toward contemporary ceramics, and though I initially resisted, I found myself pulled back in to making art. I discovered that the clay became something I could use to communicate internal truths. Unlike painting, where I could control every detail, ceramics introduced unpredictability. Kiln firing, cracks, collapses—things happened I couldn’t plan. At first, I was frustrated. But over time, I realized that this loss of control, this collaboration with the material, was meaningful. The clay expresses something I can’t articulate any other way.

Now, clay feels like the perfect medium. I’ve come to accept that art doesn’t need to be fully explained or perfect—it just needs to feel true. Working with clay allows me to explore imperfection, contradiction, and even failure as creative forces. This shift—from demanding control to learning to trust, from imposing intellectualizations to working on instinct—embracing dialogue—is how my relationship with my medium has evolved.

How do you balance artistic integrity with commercial considerations, if applicable?

To be honest, I don’t consciously think about how my work will sell when I’m making it. I don’t create with the market in mind. My process is driven by personal vision and intuitive authenticity—what feels necessary or interesting to me in that moment. 

But at the same time, I do want my work to be understood. 

I see the role of the artist and artistic creation as a form of communication with society—creating dialogues between people—not just personal expression for the sake of personal expression. If it were purely for myself, like a private diary, I wouldn’t even need to show it. But because I exist in society as an artist—adopting the social role as a contributor to society I think an artist must fulfill as a requirement of the profession—I believe there’s a responsibility to connect with others through the work.

That doesn’t mean I compromise my ideas. I always start with what I genuinely want to do. But I am aware of how people receive it. I think about how an exhibition flows, how accessible the presentation is, and whether I can guide viewers into my world—even through something like wall text. I’ve learned that communication doesn’t mean compromise or commercialization; it means helping others engage with what I’ve created.

I don’t chase commercial success, but I do feel encouraged when my work resonates with people and attracts their attention. That kind of response gives me energy to keep going. It’s a reminder that the work isn’t just for me—it’s a bridge. In that sense, “selling” isn’t the goal, successfully communicating is. And, this meaningful communication is then what leads to the work’s value being recognized, including its commercial or financial value. So rather than thinking in terms of artistic purity versus commercial appeal, I try to stay sincere in what I make while ensuring it reaches people—and that balance feels natural to me.

What challenges have you faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

One of the biggest challenges I face as an artist is communicating my vision to others. Especially with installations presenting my work, I often have a clear image in my mind from the beginning, but others can’t see it until the setup is complete. So, I’m constantly having to justify costs, materials, and decisions to galleries or collaborators. People might say, “Can’t you use cheaper materials?” or “Do you really need this?”—and I have to patiently explain why the choices are essential to presenting the work. Gaining trust has been key. When people see the finished product and understand my intention in hindsight, that builds credibility. Over time, a history of successful work helps others believe in the next project.

Another deep challenge has been internal—struggling with low self-esteem and self-doubt. I think many artists deal with this contradiction: being sensitive or insecure, yet needing to publicly present and defend very personal narratives. It’s hard to be assertive about something you’re not entirely sure about yourself, or are still working through in your own mind. And, this struggle is compounded by the difficulty of putting into words others can understand the visions you have in your mind. In London, for example, when trying to bring together the teams needed to realize conceptual installations, I found myself struggling to effectively communicate my vision to others. In the end, the struggle was often too great, and I found myself more often than not painting alone. 

As I established my practice, at first I thought that being recognized by the gatekeepers of the art world would solve this issue with confidence and self-esteem. But, I’ve come to realize that confidence can’t rely on this kind of external recognition from within the art world. Critics and gallerists and the like are all part of a system. Everyone has their own agendas, which are subject to change. This recognition by figures in the industry is brittle, not something you can trust or rely on to be stable or genuine. Instead, I’ve learned to rely more on private, trusted relationships—with friends, counselors, or a few people who truly understand me and my practice.

Ultimately, I’ve found that overcoming these challenges means building long-term trust with others while also learning to trust myself. Confidence doesn’t come all at once; it’s something I develop piece by piece, project by project, as I continue to make work, reflect, and surround myself with people who offer honest support rather than surface-level praise.

What advice would you give to emerging artists trying to establish themselves?

If I had to give advice to emerging artists, I’d start by saying: don’t rush things. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to gain recognition or success. I know how tempting it is to want to be seen or to make your mark quickly—I’ve been there myself. But in my experience, rushing often leads to compromising your vision or aligning with the wrong people. I’ve exhibited in places that didn’t honor the value of my work, and looking back, I realize those mistakes came from trying to move too fast.

Instead, be sincere. Be honest with yourself and with your art. Ask yourself why you’re making what you’re making, and stay true to that. Don’t chase trends or success for the sake of it. Integrity to your art matters. You might not see results immediately, but if you keep going with authenticity, the right opportunities and recognition will come in time.

That said, being an artist is not just about expressing yourself in isolation. Art is a social act. To call yourself an artist means, in a way, to take responsibility for presenting your vision to society. You must think about how your work exists in the world—how it’s understood, received, and valued. That means considering not only what you’re saying, but how and where you’re saying it. Don’t just throw your work into the world carelessly. Be thoughtful about its context and presentation.

Also, take care to assess and understand your art’s value. Before sharing your work, step back and ask yourself if it’s something truly worth showing right now, worth making right now. Be objective: Is it meaningful today? Does it communicate something relevant to society, something sincere and culturally meaningful? If the answer is yes, then take the time to present it in a way that aligns with what your work is about —through the right channels, in the right context.

Lastly, believe in what you’re doing. The path can be confusing, and your confidence will be tested. But through patience, sincerity, and care, you’ll be able to build something real—a meaningful life as a practicing artist.

Text & photo courtesy of Kazuhito Kawai

Website: https://www.kazuhitokawai.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kazuhitokawai/