Toshio Iezumi

I am a glass grinder.

First, I would like to tell you how I make my pieces. I begin by gluing some plates of glass into a mass. This is ordinary plate glass with green hues that come from the iron content. Then I cut this mass with a diamond blade. After that, I grind and polish it, a process that involves 7 steps - grinding grits of increasing levels of fineness: #60, # 150, #300, #500, #800, #1000, ending with a felt buff. In these steps, I use a small hand grinder. This technique is almost the same as that of stone carving, except that I don't use a chisel. I do not seek to represent or express ideas through my works; I want to present my works. This material - plate glass, and this technique - grinding, are both significant for me. The pieces are not mere embodiments of ideas. The process is for me the defining moment. 1 like grinding glass, because in doing so, I see a form arise from it.

I like to look at ancient Chinese ceramics, bronzes, lacquer and pottery figures, Japanese temples, Buddhist statues, old ceramics and other craft works, ancient Egyptian and Mediterranean arts. I also like Constantin Brancusi, Barbara Hepworth, Alberto Giacometti, Max Bill, Isamu Noguchi, Donald Judd, Tony Cragg, Georges Braque, Joseph Albers, Ben Nicholson, Giorgio Morandi, Mark Rothko, Ells\.vorth Kelly, Agnes Martin, CyTwombly, Frank Stella and David Hockney.

When I look at a piece of Chinese bronze, I don't know who made the piece or what idea he had. But these works stir my imagination. In almost the same way, the works of the modern artists I mentioned above affect me; in their works there is something that cannot be reduced to their ideas. For example I feel the yellowish white color of white porcelain in the Tang dynasty, cold and hot, solid and soft at the same time.

I would like to make such pieces myself.

In order that my works have something beyond my intention, I concentrate on grinding glass. In grinding glass, I have a conversation with the glass through my body: I ask the glass and the glass answers me. I ask the glass with my hands and receive its answer with my eyes. The answer from the glass is how it looks. The look of the glass varies with my grinding and I have to understand it. If I feel the glass very soft, it means our conversation goes well. My works are born from such conversation. Once the work is finished, I see what I wanted. When things go well, I discover myself in my works. But this does not always happen, and I reject those works.

The finished work varies in the way it appears, depending on the environment in which it is viewed; the situation around it influences how it looks. The unexpected may appear and anticipated appearances may not happen. To me, this is the problem of illusion. What do we see? How do the things look? This question is always in my mind when making my pieces and seeing the works of other artists.

I take photographs of my work. When I do so, I create an environment for the photograph, to achieve a certain look. A photograph cuts off and fixes on one aspect of how the piece can look. At first I took photos as a record. But I cannot take photos of all its varying looks. As my work consists of infinitely varying appearances, it is impossible to view my photographs as a record. My photos are completely different from my glass work. Now I take photos to be conscious of how I see it.
I present it to others, to offer a vision I cannot otherwise describe.

Visit Gallery