From a family kiln in Jingdezhen
We first met the Lin family during a spring procurement trip through the narrow lanes outside the old imperial kilns. Their workshop sits at the edge of the river, surrounded by racks of unfinished greenware. The day we arrived, a fresh batch of celadon had just been unloaded from the wood-fired, dragon-shaped kiln — bowls, cups, and a set of plain gaiwans. No painted decoration, no stamped medallions; only the quiet hum of a celadon glaze that shifts from blue to green depending on the light.
We spent the afternoon testing each piece by hand. We wanted a gaiwan that felt weightless in the palm, with a lid that seated without wobble and a saucer deep enough to catch the brew’s first rinse. After dozens of trials, this 110ml shape stood out — an unassuming form, perfectly balanced, with a rim just thin enough to deliver heat without burning the fingers.
The clay comes from nearby kaolin deposits, the same veins that fed the imperial kilns for centuries. The firing schedule follows the moon: a slow climb to cone 10, held just long enough to draw out the celadon’s silky finish. There are no shortcuts. Each gaiwan carries the slight asymmetry of a thrown piece, a reminder that it was shaped by human hands.
Back at our warehouse, we still unpack these gaiwans one at a time, running a thumb over the glaze. We find they improve with use — the crackle lines will darken imperceptibly over years, tracing a private map of the teas you’ve shared.