SMALL JAR, Delftware, white-glazed, 2, Dutch, 18th century, Early Modern Period（16th–19th centuries）

When one thinks of Dutch Delftware, the iconic blue-and-white ceramics known as “Delft Blue” typically come to mind. Yet, there is a lesser-known but equally captivating type: the unpainted, pure white Delftware commonly referred to as "White Delft." This snowy, glazed surface, which first appeared in the 16th century, has been described as looking like yogurt poured over pottery — smooth, rich, and deeply opaque.

I was so drawn to this remarkable white and the quiet charm of authentic antique ceramics that I set off on a journey across Europe in search of them. Before I knew it, I had gathered over 300 pieces of White Delft. Some had been unearthed from the ground; others had been carefully handed down through generations. Each had endured centuries, surviving to the present day. But their numbers are limited, and with recent reevaluation of their cultural worth in Europe, collecting them has become far from easy. After many visits to local collectors, excavators, and their acquaintances, I finally encountered some delicate pieces of White Delft. Bringing them back to my lodgings, placing them by the window, and gazing at them — I found myself settling into a quiet calm, as if in seated Zen meditation.

The fickle Dutch sunlight cast shifting shadows across the surface of the Delftware. The stillness, the spaces in between — no two whites are ever the same. Each carries its own expression, like a canvas capturing the passage of time, vividly preserving the essence of antique ceramics.

This striking white glaze originated from a fusion of techniques: lead-glass glaze, popular in medieval Europe between the 13th and 15th centuries, combined with tin oxide, a material used in Islamic ceramics, to create a white surface. This technique, commonly known as tin glaze (or tin enamel), allowed potters to create a bright white base suitable for painted decoration. Before this, decorating ceramics meant contending with the natural color of the clay and how it would affect the final hue after glazing. Dark clay would mute colors, making quality control a challenge. With tin glaze, light colors became vibrant, and dark ones gained striking contrast. This innovation sparked a ceramic revolution across Europe — the vividly painted majolica in Spain and Italy being notable examples. Pottery made using this method came to be known as faience in France and Delftware in the Netherlands.

In contrast, Japanese kilns rarely used tin glaze. Instead, they favored silicate glazes derived from rice-husk and straw ash to achieve whiteness. Comparing the various whites — those of Song China, Joseon Korea, old Imari, and Delft — reveals how each reflects the cultural history and natural conditions of its land. Perhaps my fascination with white and my desire to interpret the “blank spaces” comes from being Japanese.

White Delft, in fact, has a long and quiet relationship with Japan. In 1609, the Dutch East India Company established its trading post in Hirado, initiating direct trade between the Netherlands and Japan. Delftware, along with other Asian and European ceramics, made its way into Japan. Among these, White Delft, known as kōmōde (red-haired ware), was especially prized by tea masters and was even adapted for use as tea bowls and waste-water vessels. The potter Ogata Kenzan is said to have produced imitation pieces, suggesting that White Delft enjoyed a discreet popularity in the world of tea. Even at tea gatherings hosted by ROCANIIRU, I sometimes prepare lids for White Delft jars and reinterpret them as tea caddies. When I do, I often wonder what the tea masters of the past must have thought upon first encountering such exotic pottery. Surely, their minds stirred with imaginative associations, finding rich potential in the vessels’ quiet emptiness.

Despite their individual quirks, these pieces generally follow a few common forms — shallow plates or albarello-style jars, for example. Their contours may be uneven, their rims softly rippled like waves. They exude a warmth that feels imbued with the breath of their makers. These works fall into the category of so-called “anonymous” ceramics — unsigned, unbranded, and humble. Their recurring presence in 16th–17th century Netherlandish paintings, such as those by Bruegel, suggests how closely they were woven into daily life. In this way, the universal beauty held by anonymous, everyday craft presents a compelling question to contemporary lifestyle and applied arts.

There is beauty in nameless vessels. What do we see in the white that has lived with people’s lives? Perhaps White Delft continues, even now, to ask that very question — in silence.