Discovering Slowness
Eva Lenz-Collier- Apr 16
- 2 min read
Spring is not a slow season.
Everything pushes forward, everything urges. It starts early, often in February: the buds, the light, the calendars. We are programmed to launch—trained for speed since kindergarten. “First!” we shout when we’ve finished dressing, eating, climbing. Being fast means being good. Those who arrive late don’t just miss the bus—they risk missing the whole world.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons why starting with traditional Kintsugi felt so difficult for me. I had learned a certain patience through oil painting, but this slowness here went far beyond what I was used to. Five weeks—at least—before the gold is applied? How can something that sounds like “glue and gild” take so long? What I had to learn: Kintsugi doesn’t begin with repair—it begins with understanding.
Every step in traditional Kintsugi requires patience and care.
A phrase that only truly reveals its meaning through the practice itself. What sounds like technical instruction becomes a way of being.
Each material moves in its own rhythm. Urushi, the traditional Japanese lacquer, doesn’t dry in the air but through humidity—slowly, in a controlled environment. Each step follows the next with intention. Preparing the shards—cleaning, adjusting—can take hours, depending on their condition. After glueing: wait. A week. Then: fill, sand, let cure for another week. Then: multiple layers of intermediate lacquer—three, often more than ten. Each layer takes one to two days to harden. Each layer a moment to pause.
The material demands slowness.
No step can be rushed, no process sped up—Urushi insists on attentiveness. It reminds us that things don’t finish faster just because we want them to.
Over time, I’ve come to not only accept this slowness but to love it. I see the finished piece not only at the end—it reveals itself in stages. The intermediate states have their own aesthetic, their own language. This work slows down everyday life. It sharpens perception, not just for the material, but for everything that lies between: time, transformation, patience.
Working with Kintsugi slows down everyday life.
This slowness isn’t just romanticism—it’s a natural result of working in rhythm with time and matter. And it changes how time is experienced.
People often ask if it’s hard to part with a piece after so much time and care. But what matters isn't the result—but the way to get there. The connection to an object grows with every step, and yet it is not something we hold on to. It’s not about ownership, but presence. About accompanying a process. True to its origins in Zen Buddhism, Kintsugi teaches that it is not the goal that counts, the path to it.
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