Renco came to Jingdezhen from outside and stayed.
Over the years, what first appeared as a historic porcelain city became something much more immediate: a living network of studios, makers, tea houses, craftsmen, families and specialist knowledge.
What interested him most was not the preservation of old forms for their own sake, but the way knowledge remains alive through practice. A glaze is understood by firing it again and again. A form becomes better through making, using, comparing and correcting. Much of what matters in good craft cannot be separated from the hands, eyes and judgement of the people doing the work.
For Renco, this is what a living tradition means.
Tradition is not a fixed style to be reproduced. It is accumulated knowledge that remains useful because it can still respond to the present. The best work respects what has been learned before, without becoming trapped by it.
Respect for tradition does not mean that every inherited solution must remain unchanged. A form can be refined, a proportion corrected, a glaze reconsidered. Continuity matters, but so does improvement.
He values craftsmanship when skill is visible not as decoration, but as control: in proportion, weight, balance, surface, firing, touch and use. Handwork does not make an object good simply because it is handmade. What matters is whether the maker understands the material deeply enough to make deliberate choices — and whether those choices make the object better.
That kind of judgement is rarely invented from scratch. In Jingdezhen, it has often been refined across generations through repeated making, failure, correction, comparison and transmission from one pair of hands to the next. The result is a sensitivity to material and proportion that cannot simply be copied by reproducing a technique or imitating a form.
This is what makes the tradition living. It does not survive through history, museums or old forms alone, but because people still possess the skills, judgement and material understanding needed to make exceptional work now. If that knowledge disappears, the living tradition disappears with it.
This is also why use matters. A cup should not succeed only in a photograph or display case. It should feel right in the hand, pour well, hold heat appropriately, age well and become familiar through repeated use.
Blue Fir grew from that conviction: that Jingdezhen’s accumulated knowledge should remain active. Not by copying the past, but by allowing skilled makers to continue working from it, questioning it and adding to it.
A tradition stays alive when it can still create something worth using now.