Stéphane Erler

I once thought of Jingdezhen (景德镇) merely as an historic porcelain-producing town, quietly tucked away in the margins of history books. To my surprise, it's not only alive but also thriving with modern flair: A friend of mine recently returned from Jingdezhen, brimming with stories-about a little duck made of broken shards, lovingly restored porcelain factories now taken over by young artists from around the world, and some sixty thousand hand-painting workshops. Listening to these tales, I couldn't help but feel: this city is so worth writing about, even though I've rarely delved into ceramics and seldom write about places I haven't yet seen for myself. Before it became the renowned "Porcelain Capital," Jingdezhen was not particularly noteworthy. Prior to the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), the region remained rather obscure, as the most advanced ceramic workshops were concentrated in China's central plains. That changed dramatically in 1127, when the Northern Song fell to the Jurchens from the north. Waves of skilled artisans migrated southward, bringing Jingdezhen an unprecedented historical opportunity. By the Southern Song (1127–1279), the town was already producing porcelain for the imperial court, and large quantities of its wares have been found in shipwrecks in the South China Sea from this era. Under Mongol rule (1279–1368), mature blue-and-white porcelain (青花瓷) was born here. Beyond breakthroughs in painting techniques, Jingdezhen's abundant kaolin clay resources allowed artisans to create larger, thinner porcelain bodies-a true leap in craftsmanship. From then on, Jingdezhen established itself as the very heart of Chinese porcelain. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the imperial court even established official kilns in Jingdezhen dedicated to producing porcelain exclusively for royal use. After the founding of the PRC in 1949, several large porcelain factories were set up here. Astonishingly, half a century ago, one-third of China's foreign exchange earnings came from Jingdezhen porcelain. That number alone shocked me, but what I learned next surprised me even more. In my mind, an industrial city like Jingdezhen would be turning out ceramics that were rigid in design, lacking creativity, and largely mass-produced with printed patterns rather than hand-painted ones-something without sufficient artistic value. But my colleague told me otherwise: today Jingdezhen has more than 60,000 workshops, and over 90 percent of porcelain designs are still hand-painted: Machines may guarantee standardized mass production, but Jingdezhen's true strength lies in its culture of handcrafted customization. While many former industrial hubs shifted entirely toward the service sector in the post-industrial era, Jingdezhen has remained firmly rooted in porcelain. Last year alone, the city's ceramic industry reached an output value of over 93 billion yuan, exporting to more than 80 countries and regions. Even more impressive, the city has embraced bold innovations-reimagining what porcelain can be in the 21st century. Let's take a look at a few examples. Top left: You might not expect it, but ceramic materials can be transformed into musical instruments-flutes, chimes, even stringed instruments. And not just for show-they can really play. Hit play and listen for yourself. Can you believe this sound comes from clay? Top right: Shown here are the work of a Jingdezhen artist's daughter, who returned after studying in the UK: a ceramic speaker and a beautifully engineered teacup. Ingeniously designed with clever mechanics, this teacup will not topple no matter which angle the tea is poured from. With its simple form and distinctive texture, it carries both an Oriental heritage and a modern sensibility. She shared that her daily work involves constantly negotiating the space between tradition and innovation-often engaging in passionate, sometimes stubborn, debates with elder craftsmen. But she said it's exactly in those moments of tension that the most unexpected ideas are born. At one point, Jingdezhen stood in the brink of becoming China's Detroit. Once a glorious industrial powerhouse, prosperous for centuries longer than Detroit ever was, the city began to decline in the late 1990s. Large state-owned porcelain factories shut down one after another, tens of thousands of workers were laid off, and aging dormitories fell into disrepair, some crumbling into near slums. Meanwhile, Western ceramics companies, armed with more advanced industrial techniques, took over the mass-production market, and Jingdezhen's traditional advantages steadily eroded. As the city declined, a question loomed: What should be done with the husks of its abandoned factories? Some pushed to level them for new real estate projects, while others argued for preserving the industrial heritage. In the end, the preservationists won. Many of the old facilities were restored, repurposed, and left largely intact: transformed into artists' studios, small shops, and homes for young craftspeople. The porcelain fires no longer burn only in the kilns. They now fuel the city's way of life. It is precisely this unique blend of cultural atmosphere and youthful vitality that has brought Jingdezhen back to life. Over the past decade, the city has welcomed a net population inflow of 136,000 people, more than 80 percent of them young. In their twenties and thirties, ceramic artists have set up studios in alleys and courtyards, while young visitors wander through the streets, making it feel as though every lane holds a hidden story. What's equally surprising is that Jingdezhen's charm has crossed borders. Today, a growing number of young people from the United States, Japan, France, Turkey, and beyond have chosen to live here long-term, immersing themselves in the art of ceramics. They call this ancient-yet-youthful city "China within China." At the lower left and lower right are the Imperial Kiln Museum (yes, its architecture itself resembles a kiln) and its most popular artifact. Surprisingly, this piece is actually a "reject." Made in the mid-Ming dynasty for the emperor, it is a porcelain incense burner in the form of a duck. To date, the Palace Museum in Beijing has not discovered another example like it. As for its status as a flawed piece, there are a few theories: one suggests that the designer originally intended for smoke to spout from the duck's beak, but the effect proved unsatisfactory, and the craftsmen abandoned what was, perhaps, a rather avant-garde idea; another possibility is that a more perfect version was eventually produced, but those pieces did not survive through history. In Jingdezhen, porcelain rejects from the imperial kilns of the Ming and Qing dynasties were always smashed and discarded. Over time, they formed a mountain of shards. Archaeological work on this "porcelain mountain" continues to this day, with archaeologists patiently piecing fragments back together, like working with Lego bricks. The colleague told me that among this mountain, they even found some flawless porcelain pieces. When I asked why such perfect works would also be smashed, he explained one theory: certain pieces were so difficult to fire that, had the emperor seen them, he might have happily ordered, "Make ten more!" To spare themselves endless trouble, the craftsmen may have deliberately destroyed them, pretending nothing had ever succeeded in the first place. After the duck-shaped incense burner was pieced back together and put on display, its charming form earned it the nickname Suisuiya (碎碎鸭/Broken Duck) from Chinese netizens. Quite unexpectedly, it became something of a cultural phenomenon: quirky, creative, once a "failure," now rediscovered. Many young people see themselves in "Broken Duck": imperfect, but interesting; not yet celebrated, yet deserving to be seen. Artists, too, have embraced its odd yet endearing beauty, creating popular cartoon characters. Since the beginning of this year, merchandise and spin-off IP related to the Broken Duck have already generated more than 10 million RMB in revenue. In September, Khaby Lame, the most-followed creator on TikTok, visited the Imperial Kiln Museum and posed with the duck, pulling his signature expression (Though I must admit, I still don't quite get Lame's appeal…The duck, on the other hand, I find utterly delightful). Across China, Jingdezhen has emerged as a new model for urban renewal: one that does not blindly chase GDP growth or uncritical modernization, but instead draws from its own cultural roots to find common ground between tradition and the future. Sometimes, the hope of a city is hidden in the secret of a "Broken Duck." Not because it is flawless, but because it was once overlooked, and then reappreciated. Like Jingdezhen itself, true revival is not about rebuilding, but about learning to understand who you are, and learning to see it with new eyes.

Gilt Silver Tea Grinder, part of a Tang Dynasty (618-907) royal tea set, unearthed from the Famen Temple in Northwestern China's Shaanxi Province, in 1987. Famen Temple served as a royal temple during Tang. It held a unique status because it was the only temple worldwide to house the finger bone relics of the Buddha. Over the span of more than 200 years, Tang Dynasty emperors venerated the temple and bestowed it with many precious royal utensils for worship - Emperor Taizong, also known as Li Shimin, took a particularly significant step in 631, when he ordered the opening of the temple's underground palace to exhibit the Buddha's finger bone relics. After him, eight emperors brought the Buddha's Śarīra to their palaces in Chang'an/Luoyang for worship or returned them to Famen Temple. Each transportation was a grand occasion, causing a sensation throughout the court and the public. In 1987, when archaeologists were clearing the collapsed pagoda of Famen Temple, they discovered these treasures in its underground palace. This discovery was recognized as one of China's most significant archaeological findings of the 20th century. Among the treasures was a tea set used by the Tang royal family. During the Tang Dynasty, the custom of tea drinking was progressively adopted throughout the country, evolving into a societal norm. As documented in a culinary book penned by a county magistrate of the time, the popularization of tea had its initial surge from 713 to 756, gathering further momentum in subsequent years. By 780, tea drinking had reached its zenith of popularity. Within a few short decades, it was established as a national beverage. It's widely believed that the unification of China after centuries of warfare and fragmentation, beginning from the Three Kingdoms, created the vast market and robust demand essential for the proliferation of tea culture. Tea represents purity and sophistication, aligning seamlessly with the aesthetic tastes of the scholars and nobles. Furthermore, in the mid-Tang period, edicts limiting wine were enacted, driving a proportion of habitual wine drinkers to switch to tea. These conditions all facilitated the widespread adoption of tea drinking practices, reflecting both the socio-political shifts and the evolving tastes of Tang. During the Tang Dynasty, how did people enjoy their tea? As mentioned in the first post of the tea-series, during the Three Kingdoms period, tea was ground into powder, steeped in boiling water, and flavored with ingredients like onions, ginger, and orange peel. According to Lu Yu, the Tea Sage of Tang, Tang people boiled tea with ingredients such as scallions, ginger, dates, citrus peels, bitter orange, and mint. However, Lu Yu viewed this method of preparation as a pedestrian way to enjoy tea. Lu Yu proposed a refined method of tea preparation, known as 煎茶, or boiled tea. This process involved a series of steps: the tea cakes were first roasted, then ground into a powder which was subsequently sieved. The tea powder was then boiled thrice before being served. This procedure epitomized Lu Yu's vision for a more sophisticated and refined way to appreciate tea, setting a new standard for tea-drinking during the Tang Dynasty. The royal tea grinder is intricately adorned with engravings of celestial horses, auspicious clouds, wild geese, and floral patterns. These carvings, etched into the silverware, were subsequently gilded, enhancing their prominence. At the bottom of the grinder, the inscription "Made by Wensi Institute in the tenth year of Xiantong (869)" and the signature of the craftsman can be found. Wensi Institute was a workshop for high-end handicrafts in the Tang and Song imperial courts. The engraving "Numbered 17" on the roller suggests that this piece may be part of a limited signature edition. It weighs nearly 1700 grams. Also inscribed on the grinder is “Wu Ge” (Brother Five), the nickname of Emperor Xizong of Tang, suggesting that even children in the Tang Dynasty partook in the custom of tea drinking. Upon ascending the throne at the tender age of 12, one of his initial acts was to return the Buddha's finger bone relics that his father had taken from the Famen Temple. Concurrently, he placed this tea set, which he may have held dear, in the temple's underground palace. One day in 874AD, to the sound of resounding sutra chants, the last stone door was locked, sealing the Buddha's relics and the treasures offered to the Buddha in the underground palace. These sacred items remained undisturbed for over a thousand years, preserving the conditions at the time of closure, until the palace was eventually reopened by archaeologists in the 20th century. Tang ended its history thirty years after the closure of the underground palace. The underground palace at Famen Temple, much like a time capsule, presents to us an exquisite display of the earliest surviving royal tea set in China, as well as refined aesthetics, romantic allure, sophisticated craftsmanship of a dynasty that still makes Chinese proud.