As with most things, Kintsugi –– the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold –– is much harder than I thought it would be. It’s a technique that asks for precision, patience and intense focus. 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. 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. A perfect method for an imperfect subject. When I attempted Kintsugi for the first time, 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, my bowl and I were being held together by tape and glue. Day two was worse as I opened the muro to find that the glaze I’d used was too porous and that the lacquer had left a muddy stain across the entire surface of my bowl. I laughed it off –– no big deal, we’re here to learn –– but I was very disappointed. My first layer of sabi (the lacquer applied to fill, smooth, and reinforce the cracks or gaps after the broken pieces have been glued together) was a thick, gloopy mess, more like impasto than Kintsugi. Everyone else’s lines were elegant branches and mine was the trunk. No big deal, we’re here to learn. Embarrassment is the cost of entry. Expectations are tricky in the absence of experience And Kintsugi is not a skill one learns in three days. What I did learn in three days is that Kintsugi isn’t about fastidiousness, it’s about focus. Zooming in on the tiniest imperfections and magnifying them to a thing of beauty. And time. Taking the time –– weeks, months, years, even –– to hone a technique. To heal a wound. Kintsugi is a labour of love. Kintsugi is love.