Reflections on the Raku Process

A raku plaque fresh from reduction, its crackle pattern and smoke traces recording a moment that can never be repeated.

Raku is never something we slot into the diary. It has a habit of announcing itself. A still morning, dry air, a forecast that promises calm rather than certainty — these are the cues. When they align, the kiln is rolled out, the gas bottles are checked, and a familiar sense of anticipation settles in. Raku has a way of slowing time, even before the first flame is lit.

Unlike conventional kiln firings, where patience is measured in days, raku unfolds in hours. There’s immediacy to it, and risk. Pieces that have behaved impeccably through making, drying and bisque firing can still surprise — or disappoint — once the kiln lid is lifted. That unpredictability is often cited as raku’s defining trait, but it’s not chaos for chaos’ sake. It’s a dialogue between intention and chance.

The process itself is deceptively simple. Hand-built or thrown forms are bisque fired, then

The fibre-lined gas kiln set up in the yard, ready for firing — where speed, heat and close attention define the raku process.

glazed and loaded into a fibre-lined gas kiln. The temperature climbs quickly, the glaze surface shifting from powdery matte to molten gloss. When the moment feels right — and it’s always a feeling, never a number — the piece is lifted out, glowing, vulnerable, alive with heat. From there, it’s plunged into a reduction chamber where flame, smoke and oxygen play their part. Crackle patterns bloom, colours deepen or mute, and carbon traces mark the surface in ways no brush ever could.

What draws us back to raku time and again is not just the surface effects, striking though they can be. It’s the way the process foregrounds presence. You can’t walk away. You can’t rush it. Every stage demands attention, from reading the flame colour to listening for the subtle pinging of cooling glaze. It’s pottery that insists you stay with it.

A finished raku vessel emerging from flame and smoke — shaped by intention, altered by chance, and completed in the firing.

There’s also a philosophical comfort in raku. In a world that prizes uniformity and repeatability, raku quietly resists. Each piece is singular. Variations in wind, fuel pressure, reduction materials, even the position of a vessel in the kiln all leave their mark. Two pieces glazed side by side will emerge as siblings at best, never twins. That individuality feels honest. Human.

Our raku work at Village Ceramics & Crafts leans into this character. Forms are intentionally simple — vessels, plaques, small sculptural pieces — allowing the surface to speak without shouting. We favour earthy palettes, crackle whites, coppery flashes, smoky greys and the occasional surprise of colour where flame has lingered longer than expected. Wabi-sabi isn’t a stylistic choice here; it’s a natural outcome of the process.

Perhaps the greatest lesson raku offers is acceptance. You learn quickly that control is partial, and that letting go often leads to better results. Not every firing is a triumph, but every firing teaches something — about materials, timing, restraint. And occasionally, a piece emerges that feels quietly complete, as though it could only ever have existed in that exact form.

Those are the moments that keep us returning to the kiln yard, hands blackened with soot, faces warmed by flame, grateful for a process that remains stubbornly, beautifully unpredictable.

If this glimpse into the raku process has sparked your curiosity, you may like to explore our current collection of raku-fired pieces — each one shaped by flame, smoke and a moment that can never be repeated.

Explore the Raku Collection →