As with most things, Kintsugi –– the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold –– is harder than it looks. I signed up for a three-day course because cracks are an inevitable part of my work and I wanted to learn how to repair them. What I didn’t realize is what a long and laborious process Kintsugi is, and how much precision and patience it requires. Hands must be gloved. Tools immaculate. A clean work area is crucial as the sticky lacquer picks up and contaminates easily. Kinstugi is an exercise in measure. Restraint. The ratio of rice flower to ki-urushi (raw lacquer) has to be precise, and the glue must be applied with great care. Timing is everything. Nothing can be rushed. In between each step, the vessel cures in a humid box—known as a muro —and it can take up to two weeks per step for the lacquer to fully cure. From broken vessel to the sprinkling of gold dust, there are six main steps. A perfect method for an imperfect subject. It was in this paradox where I came unglued. Surely, an art that celebrates imperfection can’t ask me to be this fastidious. By the end of the first day, I was half wishing I’d signed up for something easier, something less existential. Day two was even worse as I opened the muro to find that the lacquer had left a muddy stain across the entire surface of my bowl as my original matte glaze was too porous. I laughed it off –– no big deal, we’re here to learn –– but I was disappointed. My first layer of sabi (the lacquer applied to fill, smooth, and reinforce the cracks after the broken pieces have been glued together) was a thick, gloopy mess –– more like impasto than Kintsugi. Embarrassment is the cost of entry. Expectations are tricky in the absence of experience and Kintsugi is not a skill one picks up in three days. It was the women in the group who took a serious approach to learning while holding no expectations that seemed to enjoy it the most. My finished piece (now tucked away in a kitchen drawer) is a chaotic mess of bleeding glazes on speckled clay, smudged lacquer and golden jagged lines, an honest representation of my experience. But in the chaos, there was also profound peace such as when we held our collective breath to apply the final layer of lacquer. It was these moments that helped me understand that Kintsugi isn’t about fastidiousness, it’s about focus. Zooming in on the tiniest imperfection and magnifying it to a thing of beauty. “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light comes in.” Grace, understanding and forgiveness. It takes time –– weeks, months, years –– to hone a technique. To heal a wound. Kintsugi is a labour of love. Kintsugi is love.