From the Dingshu workshops to your gongfu tray
This pot comes from Dingshu, where the narrow lanes smell of wet clay and charcoal — the kind of smell that tells you real work happens here. The workshop is a small one, run by a potter whose duànní work had been quietly earning a reputation among local tea masters. The brief was simple: find a daily user — nothing gaudy, nothing fragile, a pot that would make green and yellow tea speak clearly. The first five lots didn’t pass. Pour lines wobbled, lids sat tight in all the wrong ways, and one otherwise lovely duànní pot had a hidden hairline crack. Then the potter brought out this fǎng gǔ. Tested with water: the stream arced clean, the lid held under a full tilt, the balance when held was effortless. Next, a light Lóng Jǐng and then a Huáng Tāng yellow tea. Both came through with a purity that is rare — no muddiness, no clay bite, just the tea. The pot’s duànní, sourced from a small bed near Dingshu, is high-fired enough to avoid scent absorption but still soft enough to let delicate notes bloom. The lot was negotiated on the spot, and by June the pots were waiting in our warehouse, still carrying the faint scent of Yixing mud. Every one was hand-checked again before listing — pour, lid, sound. It’s a quiet piece, made for slow afternoons and tea that deserves to be heard.