Built along the mountain's natural slope, the kiln resembles a crouching dragon, its head low and tail high, with dozens of small stokeholes running along its spine.
"The structure itself is wisdom. It uses the mountain's slope to control airflow, turning gravity and wind into part of the process," Liao explains.
Unlike electric kilns, which offer precision and predictability, wood firing thrives on uncertainty. Pine logs feed the chamber continuously for days — sometimes over 72 hours — reaching temperatures above 1,300 C.
"The flames dance unpredictably, carrying ash that settles onto the glaze, forming unrepeatable textures and colors," Liao says.
He hands me a bowl with starkly different interior and exterior glazes — persimmon red outside, raven black within. "This is the mark of wood firing, and electric kilns can't replicate this natural beauty," he adds.
Jian ware dates to the late Tang and peaked during the Song Dynasty, when tea-whisking competitions were all the rage. Their black glaze highlighted the frothy white surface of whipped tea.
Over time, as tea culture changed and porcelain from Jingdezhen, Jiangxi province, gained dominance, Jian ware faded from the mainstream. Its revival, Liao tells me, began in the 1980s with the re-creation of the Song-style "hare's fur" glaze.
Today, a number of artisans like Liao have restored the ancient techniques, giving rise to diverse intriguing patterns including oil spots and partridge feathers.
As I look at their reflection magnified by a microscope, it strikes me that beauty can be born from uncertainty.
Both tea and pottery in the northern mountains of Fujian remind me that creation is never fully within human control.
Yang Jie contributed to this story.
