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Planted in 1940, the camphor saplings became the “green tunnel” that awes every visitor more than sixty years later; the very first kiln established in the first year of the Jiaqing era (1796) made Nantou the cradle of Taiwanese ceramics. Beside that tunnel stands Tien-Hsing Kiln, over half a century old, still steadfastly keeping the flame of pottery alive. In Taiwan’s agrarian past, earthenware was indispensable—roof tiles and bricks, water vats, pickling jars, everyday tableware. The 1950s were the heyday of the kiln industry. Lin Ching-ho’s grandfather founded the kiln; his father, Lin Shuang-hsi, expanded it vigorously. “Back then, Tien-Hsing’s glazed tiles and domestic wares were so well made they commanded prices twenty percent higher than rival kilns, with orders booked half a year ahead,” recalls the third-generation owner, Lin Ching-ho. The only son and a graduate of the Political Warfare Cadres Academy, Lin took over in 1979 after leaving the army. Yet as Taiwan’s economy shifted, glass and plastic replaced pottery, and cement or asbestos tiles ousted glazed roof tiles; clay tiles seemed doomed. In 1988 Lin began turning the kiln toward art pottery, forging a new identity. Whenever he asked the old craftsmen for advice, they would sneer: “Forget it—you’re just the boss, you’d never understand.” Unperturbed, Lin, who had studied science in high school, plunged into the physics and chemistry of clay and glazes, laying a solid foundation for his craft. “What on earth is that?” elders exclaimed at his first artistic piece. He refused to quit; in the third year of transition his work was accepted into the 45th Taiwan Provincial Art Exhibition, then into the 13th National Art Exhibition the next year, followed by the Ceramic Biennial, the Golden Ceramics Award, and more. Through perseverance he transformed from kiln heir to ceramic artist. “Imperial kilns demand flawless technique, with no personal emotion; folk kilns are the opposite—mood shapes every piece, so no two are alike.” Lin believes art has no fixed value; worth lies in the eye of the beholder. Wanting his pots to be touched, handled, and lived with, and drawn to the vitality of folk ware, he keeps his own style plain and spare. In *Spring*, whose visual focus is melting snow, he uses reduction firing to create ice-crackle below the bottle mouth, hinting at thaw and echoing the theme “If winter’s gone, can spring be far behind?” Black lines at the base suggest withered life stirring underground. The piece feels ancient yet alive, like a Chinese ink painting. “Alone I sit in the bamboo grove, strumming qin or whistling long; deep in woods no one knows—only the bright moon visits me.” Wang Wei’s lines fit *Moonlit Night*, where a full moon and staggered trees rise from a subtly swelling round form, restrained and elegant. Nine, China’s auspicious number, appears in *Light Source*: nine spouts linked into a circle, Lin’s 1991 Provincial Exhibition entry. Hand-thrown and laboriously joined, the piece spirals outward in black diamond reliefs, radiating symmetry and gradation. The central vortex conveys endless cyclical force, echoed in *Rising Sun*, where classical scroll motifs become curling waves greeting a great sun. A triptych, it invites viewers to arrange the three parts as one or separately, each still complete. *Wave after Wave* uses similar relief and glaze for simple, archaic forms, and was selected for the 14th National Art Exhibition. In *Summer Love*, palm trees evoke tropical ease; bold, primitive lines recall ancient painted pottery. Most of Lin’s works serve daily life—this piece doubles as a flower vase.