I've never met Miro Chun. But I like to think we have a secret handshake. We both like to make things. She makes vessels to hold food. I make food to put in vessels. It's a natural symbiotic relationship. We've never spoken, but we're speaking the same language.
I discovered Miro's work through her sister, Mimi Chun, a brilliant artist and designer who let me work for her several years ago when she was the Art Director at General Assembly in N.Y.C. When I saw an Instagram post that Mimi shared featuring some of her sister's ceramics, I went all heart-eye emoji. I stalked and fangirled Miro's account for a bit before we established a proper digital friendship: likes for likes.
Time passed, and after I had commented on nearly every photo in Miro's feed, she messaged me requesting my address. In the package that landed on my stoop was a rust-red udon bowl. A pair of them, actually—sisters with a familial likeness but not quite the same. Their faces are glazed smooth, sealing in a deep rouge blush. The outside skin is naked, a raw celebration of clay. They're tactile—the kind of bowls you want to cradle in both of your hands and slurp noodles from. When they arrived, there was a handwritten note buried in the nest of packing peanuts: I saw on your Instagram that you make a lot of things in bowls. I hope these will be useful to you ;) -Miro.
She gets me, I thought. (And, yeah, Miro, I use them every single day.)
Miro's work is effortlessly beautiful, but what I admire most about it is the intention and craft that she puts into her collection, Miro Made This. A former architect, she has an ethos and aesthetic that leans toward functional, reductive forms: the gets-better-with-age kind. The material is designed to patina, allowing everyday use to trace a history of meal-memories. The pieces are even stronger as a collection, with their neatly-stacking shapes and cohesive earth tones. Miro describes the groupings on her website as "mirroring the sociality that shapes and surrounds the rituals of dining." I joke with her that I'm slowly going to line my shelves with her whole collection. Except it's not really a joke.
I broke one of the udon bowls several months ago. I watched—just out of reach, my heart sinking—as it took a slow-mo dive from its perch on the drying rack onto the floor. It was almost as beautiful in pieces, and I tried to channel the notion of wabi-sabi (a Japanese aesthetic rooted in the acceptance of transience and imperfection) as I fought back a sob. When I told Miro, she said, "Don't bother trying to glue it back together. I'll make you another." That's not something you hear from Ikea.
I guess that's the beauty of befriending a ceramicist: there's something unequivocally satiating about eating food that you've made from a bowl that's been shaped by hand and is uniquely yours. The whole process of serving and enjoying a meal becomes a shared ritual between two makers. It's got a special synergy that makes things taste better. It also encourages you to slow down and be mindful of how you're plating your food. You're not gonna put something half-assed or hasty on a beautiful piece of pottery. Respect, pals. Now go find your Miro.