from Noto

16/10/2015

Potters in the Wood

Masaka's World

“You have reached your destination.” “That’s good” I thought. All I needed to do was to call Masaka Nakayama to get final instruction on how to get to her studio. I told Masaka I was parked outside the local shrine, so she said she would come and meet me. I know what you are thinking. Were we talking about the same shrine? Evidently not, because after waiting for nearly thirty minutes, Masaka had not appeared.

On the phone again. Masaka asked, “Which shrine are you parked in front of?” Well, it was lucky that I could read the shrine name. Some can be difficult, especially for a foreigner like me. “It’s the Sugawara Shrine near the coast.” There was a long silence. “Oh, you are a long way off. Why not try getting a bit closer using part of the address”.

Fine, I could do that and I set off with renewed hope of finding my way without causing any more trouble. I was now heading for Shoinji-machi and the SatNav was doing its job well.

“You have reached your destination.” This time I was certainly near buildings that could house a potter, so I felt more confident of locating Masaka. However, although there were five or six houses clustered into a hamlet where I had stopped, there was nobody to be seen. At least, that’s what I thought at first. Then I could hear the sound of a radio and it was then that I saw a lady tending her garden.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for the potter Masaka Nakayama. Could you give me some directions, please.”

The lady began giving me directions as it seemed I was still some way off my intended “destination”. She stopped giving directions in mid-sentence and said, “Just a moment. I’ll take you there. It will be easier”. This visit was becoming much more of an adventure than I had anticipated.

Full of apologies for taking her away from her gardening, I followed her light pick-up truck and we sped off down narrow roads between newly planted paddies, making right-angled turns at the corners of the paddies until we came to a dirt track, which dropped steeply away from the road, and was shaded by bamboo and vines hanging from trees and lush vegetation of all kinds. The narrow rutted track made me more than a little concerned for the safety of my low slung and small wheeled Honda N One.

Thankfully, however, soon after crossing a narrow timber bridge, a collection of sheds came into view. This time I really had arrived at my destination.

Having thanked and bad farewell to my helpful navigator, it was time to introduce myself to Masaka Nakayama and to apologise for causing so much trouble.

“Oh, don’t worry. It happens all the time.” That made me feel a little less ashamed for not being able to find my own way to this veritable hideout in the woods. It was Masaka’s father, Tatsuma who built his kiln here well away from any other habitation, so that the smoke from the kiln would not cause any problems.

This woodland hideout has always been home to Masaka, who was born in 1981. It was perhaps inevitable that she too should become a potter. Right from an early age she was watching her father work and was soon trying her hand at making things of her own. Nevertheless, she did do some formal training and graduated in 2000. By 2003, however, she was doing her own work and started to exhibit.

She tries to exhibit about four times a year and now has a considerable following of admirers, most of whom are female. So, what it her work like? Getting to Masaka’s had already been an adventure but I was not really prepared for the kind of “adventure” I was about to be taken on next.

I knew I was going to meet Masaka and her father even before I left the UK but despite my well laid plans, I had not done any research on either of these two potters. Mind you, this is often how I have worked in the past. I prefer for a meeting to be as spontaneous as possible rather than going to interview someone with preconceived ideas about them or their work. Do you think I’m lazy? Perhaps I am, but whatever I say now will seem like an excuse.

After talking about her background and training it was now time to look at Masaka’s work. “Whoa! Is this your work?” It was a complete surprise. As you can see, it is nothing like the kind of work for which Japanese potters are usually known, especially in the West. I have never been more surprised and my honest reaction would seem to vindicate not having done any research before meeting this extremely talented young potter.

Although many of the forms Masaka uses are true to the creature, whether its domain is the sea, land or air, the colouring and patterns she uses are more like spontaneous doodles than anything preconceived. And all the better for it, I think. Take this Sea Slug, for example. In Japanese they are called Umi-ushi, literally Sea Cow, and can be quite colourful in real life but Masaka’s imagination has taken it to an entirely different plane. Masaka’s work is fun, intriguing, stimulating, thought provoking, colourful, elevating and so many other things besides.

Sadly when I visited her she had not got much work for me to photograph. I would point you to an internet search in English but very few images of her work appear. If you are willing and would like to see more of her work, please either click on the Japanese below or copy and paste it. Her name in Japanese along with the location is enough to bring up a number of images.

中山昌果、焼き物　珠洲

Masaka’s work could not be more different from that of her father’s. He was one of the pioneering potters who was involved in resurrecting Suzu ware. It was during the 1960s that Tatsuma and others such as Takashi Shinohara (see post 18th August 2015 Takashi Shinohara—Suzu Ware) worked to bring back this lost ware, which had thrived in the area in the past.

Some of Tatsuma’s crocks and pots stand in the garden outside the kiln. The simple decorative effects are simple and reminiscent of ancient pottery not only from Japan but from other parts of the World too.

So, while Tatsuma’s work reaches back to go forward, Masaka’s work is reaching out to a bright and colourful future. May they both continue to work and strive for what they do best.

Two of Tatsuma's pots sit shyly outside waiting for a good home to go to. Suzu ware at its best.

Bill Tingey Photo © Copyright

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09/10/2015

Craft, Art, Design

Takanori Waso

Artist Farmer

Some of the traditional crafts in Japan became established when farmers sought to supplement their income during slack periods of the farming calendar.

Historically a craft kept farmers busy when work outside was difficult. Nowadays things are not that much different. Some farmers find it necessary to leave their family and move to Tokyo or one of the other big urban conurbations for a period of time to earn some much needed cash, mainly from building work.

It was, however, not only the farming community which contributed so much to the establishment and continuance of Japan’s traditional crafts. Social conditions, too, helped to foster crafts. Essentially speaking peace reigned throughout the feudal period, which was strictly administered by the Tokugawa Shogunate for a little over 250 years up until 1869. It was during these times that local clan lords put their bands of more or less redundant samurai to work, in some cases by creating a “closed shop”, under which to make items for daily use. Samurai became “craftsmen” who closely guarded skills and technical secrets and thus protected their own livelihood as well as fostered the well-being of the clan.

Some of the time honoured crafts, however, become so specialised that a strict division of labour took over. The production of Wajima true lacquerware is a prime example. The greater proportion of items made under the Wajima banner are produced by perhaps as many as five or six dedicated individuals. And they only have the one job. There is no moonlighting or part-time employment. They are out and out professionals all contributing to the completion of a piece of true lacquerware. It might be a piece of studio craft or a repeated item of household goods. In whichever case, each specialist depends on the quality of work of the others involved. There is mutual admiration amongst them all and individual skills are highly respected. The aim is to ensure the completion of a perfect piece of work in what is a truly Japanese manner.

Takanori Waso is, however, something of an exception. Make no mistake—he is a highly skilled makie craftsman/artist but a shiitake mushroom farmer, too.

Makie is one of several decorative techniques employed to embellish true lacquerware. Designs are rendered in gold and silver powders, gold leaf, chips of precious metals and even in shallow relief. It is time consuming and painstaking work. In some ways it is not unlike the work of a miniaturist, who paints a loved-one’s portrait in minute detail for a locket.

Takanori makes one-off items to order or pieces of speculatively work for sale at exhibition. He needs to be a craftsman and an artist. Some small commemorative dishes he produced recently bear this out. They show floats at the Okunchi Festival in Nagasaki, and convincingly demonstrate his painterly touch. His tea caddies for the powdered tea used at Tea Ceremony, on the other hand, display his ability as a designer and express an intriguing side to his character—one in particular is unusual, ingenious, beautiful and highly individual.

But then, his life style is somewhat out of the ordinary—he is, after all, a farmer too. Family owned land in the densely forested mountains backing on to his workshop is an ideal location for the cultivation of shiitake mushrooms. Nowadays they are available in many supermarkets in the UK, although not produced in Japan.

Balancing the needs of the mushrooms with his true lacquer work, makes his life very structured and disciplined—never a bad thing for an artist/designer.

Takanori mostly uses billets of konara—a member of the beech family, Quercus serrata—as well as some chestnut and wild cherry. The seasoned wood is inoculated with spawn and the bacteria literally feeds off the wood. Preparation of the billets begins in November. He usually inoculates 800 billets but next year hopes to have 1,500 ready for treatment in March. Harvesting begins in December and peeks between January and March. Drying can take two to three weeks. Cut shiitake are sun-dried for about three hours and then artificially dried for 24 hours. The drying is critical as it will determine both the flavour and colour of the finished product.

To produce a good piece of makie work requires patience and dedication. Growing shiitake is just as demanding. So, neither can be hurried. But Takanori is fortunate. His lacquer work is just as “delicious” as his shiitake mushrooms.

If you would like to know more about the growing of shiitake mushrooms go to http://www.motherearthnews.com/organic-gardening/growing-shiitake-mushrooms-zmaz86jfzglo.aspx

Bill Tingey Photo © Copyright

05/10/2015

Snapshot 13: Sea Rough, Sea Calm

The Japan Sea coastline has hazards of all kinds.

Sea Rough, Sea Calm

The sea is never far away on the Noto Peninsula. Inland, of course, the steep tree covered mountains divided by narrow valleys and wider areas of flat farmland are the dominant components of the natural identity of the peninsula. The character of the sea on either side, however, has a significant influence on the overall demeanour of the peninsula, too.

Along the Japan Sea coastline there are often rocky shallows, which extend out some twenty to fifty meters from the shore. Seen at low tide these rough, jagged obstacles reveal themselves as the reason for the angry waves, which seem to be constantly breaking along the shore when the tide comes in. In places there are narrow channels in this barrier of submerged rock. Historically small boats used them to ferry goods ashore from larger sailing ships, which would anchor in deep water, for fear of the hull-ripping rock close to the shore. The wind, too, contributes to the rough unpredictable character of the Sotoura coast of the Japan Sea, especially during the winter, when the sea takes on a most violent and threatening countenance.

Dwellings too find some shelter in one of the coves of Nanao Bay.

The sea along the eastern shore is, on the other hand, mostly calm and benign, especially that part of the coast around Nanao Bay. It is divided into three expanses of water—North Bay, West Bay and South Bay with the large island of Notojima situated roughly in the middle. The broader areas of Toyama Bay along the coast here, however, can be rough. The northern reaches of the Uchiura part of the coast of the peninsula facing Toyama Bay are, nevertheless, lucky to have a number of sheltered bays. There is no denying the fact that the impression of the sea here manifests tranquility and calm. There are oyster beds and in some places no deep water shoreline to speak of, so the relationship of the people with the sea here is very different. The sea is respected but its placid nature seems to bear no malice.

The environment of the peninsula is simple in construction but rich in content. The character of the sea on either side of the Noto Peninsula introduces a component of contrast to the overall impression. Male and female, rough and smooth, violent and peaceful—how do such attributes affect the people living there? I would have to be living there for much more than a month to be able to answer that question with any authority.

Bill Tingey Photo © Copyright

01/10/2015

Change in Time

On the Bench

I arranged to meet Kiyomi Tsurusawa on 10th June this year on one of the longest benches in the World. Yes, really. It is 460.9 meters long and is located in Shika, facing the Japan Sea. On that day we had a wonderful panoramic view over the glistening waters of a sea that can really be very rough especially in winter.

As Kiyomi and I were talking about the Noto Peninsula, we both found ourselves remembering how Japan used to be and how different it is now.

I was reminded just how much it has changed when I was there in 2014. I was walking down a street in Kyoto when I suddenly realised that I had walked down the same street forty years before!

In 1974 it was extremely rare to meet another foreign national, so rare that it was customary to say hello and even to exchange stories about a country that was still pretty much off the regular route for travellers. After all, many people in the UK back then still did not really know where Japan was on the map of the world.

Lou and I in 1974. My how we have
changed.

Travelling around Japan by train that summer, Lou and I would often be the only foreign nationals on a train and could even be the only foreigners visiting temples or other interesting spots. At the time those among the Japanese population ready and willing to speak English were very few.

Some train station names were not in Roman script either. Despite this there was no sense of bewilderment or even anxiety. The locals were always ready to help. It was an adventure and therefore something to be excited about. Using a Japanese rail map and matching the characters on the station signs with those on the map made it possible to know where we were on the extensive railway system and only added to the sense of adventure.

Steam locomotives were still running in Kyushu in 1974, ten years after the Shinkansen line between Tokyo and Osaka was opened.

Kashiwajima located in the south-west corner of Shikoku.

We tried to stay in Youth Hostels, simply because they were cheap. Those with a short telephone number were rural and the best. At Kashiwajima on the island of Shikoku we were the first foreigners to ever stay there. At another on Kyushu we arrived at a brand new hostel to find that we were the only guests. The manager apologised for the fact that we would have to bunk-down on different floors—separation of the sexes. We said we did not mind. “But aren’t you on your Honey Moon?” No, we had already been married for five years, a fact that really seemed to surprise the hostel keeper. We must have looked like newly weds.

So at the time Japan was still “exotic” and mostly uncharted territory ready to be discovered. But what about now?

On the river at Arashiyama this scene has not changed for hundreds of years. Most tourists seldom venture this far from the shops and temples.

When I arrived in Kyoto in 2014 I went straight to Arashiyama on the western outskirts of the city as the cherry was in full bloom. And so were the people! Compared to 1974, when most of the tourists in Kyoto were Japanese, last year Asian tourists predominated. This was a great surprise, especially as I was one of only a few Caucasians.

1974 at Nikko Toshogu Shrine. Even on a large screen I can only see one non-Japanese. I would like to bet that everyone else in the picture is Japanese.

Somethings of course have not changed—the friendliness of the people, the quality of food in restaurants, the quality of service, the punctuality of the transport system as a whole and so much more.

Crowded trains—in 1974 and even now its still the same.

Sharing such thoughts with Kiyomi, she too was able to add to this catalogue of change from her own experience as a licensed tour guide and interpreter.

Kiyomi too confirmed that in the last few years the number of Asian tourists has increased enormously, many of whom come from China. Of course in April last year many had come to see the cherry blossom as well as the famous temples and historic sites in Kyoto and elsewhere. And they were not going home empty handed.

“Many Chinese visitors take home rice cookers, washlet toilet seats and cosmetics by the boxful” Kiyomi told me.

It seems the cosmetics are often for resale back in China. Most readers will be familiar with the automatic rice cooker but some may not know what a washlet toilet is. Simply speaking it is a heated seat with washing functions to do away with having to use toilet paper and it also functions as a bidet. If you would like to know more do a search with “Toto washlet toilet and bidet” to be enlightened.

A Western style loo in a new house, 1974.

Yes, forty years is a long time in which things can change. But these changes need to be seen in the context of how things were back in the 1970s or even more recently. Kiyomi remembered one instance when she met a tour group at Haneda Airport, Tokyo’s only international airport at the time. She was really embarrassed by the pungent smell wafting from the toilets. These days the cleanliness of toilets both public and private is exemplary and can hardly if ever be faulted.

It should also be remembered that in 1974 Western style, sit-on-toilets were still something of a rarity for the Japanese. So much so that many had little illustrated signs and explanations in Japanese on how to use them. These days when using a toilet in Japan we are expected to realise how a washlet toilet functions or at least be able to rely on a minimum of helpful lables in English to safely get the job done.

For the benefit of the Japanese. How gentlemen should use a Western style toilet to the left, and how a lady should use one to the right.

The urinal above and the squat-toilet
both date from the late 19th or early
20th century. Civilised!

Kiyomi has often been puzzled about one thing—a complaint that showers in Japan are not usually set up to supply water from directly overhead. This is true in hotels, guesthouses, at public bath spas and in private homes, too. For many overseas tourists this is apparently a problem.

We discussed the possibility of opening more home-stay venues, or even some self-catering facilities on the Noto Peninsula to accommodate long-stay foreign tourists, who could then better savour the delights of Noto and its wonderful natural environment.

For so many people travelling is an adventure and even a short-term tourist would, I hope, be excited to be somewhere where things are done differently.

There is no need for Japan to be too accommodating, however. Signs in at least English and announcements on trains and buses in other languages not withstanding, surely in the end people visit Japan to experience JAPAN and not some slightly watered down exotic Asian variant of what they have in their own country.

Inevitably the problem is how to strike a perfect balance. Some people visiting Japan are not adventurous and only want to do touristic things. That’s fine. Others really do want to experience the country as it is and to eat what the locals eat, for instance. Just for a short time they want to be someone different. I must admit that all kinds of settlements in Japan from the biggest cities to the smallest hamlets can be engaging, exciting and stimulating for many different reasons. But if you don’t have a fixation on modern rampant urbanism, which is slowly consuming so much of Japan, then the Noto peninsula is just the place to visit.

A sight now almost never seen on the streets of Japan. Back in 1974 is was a surprise to see ice being delivered to bars and restaurants.

Bill Tingey Photo © Copyright

Do feel free to pass on the address of this blog to anyone you think will be interested. Should you wish to leave a comment, please do so by clicking on the comment mark at the bottom left of this or any of the other posts. If you have found this blog interesting, why not become a follower.

21/09/2015

Snapshot 12: Souvenir

Souvenir—At the risk of repeating myself, true lacquer is a remarkable material. It is a finish, an adhesive and a decorative medium, too. But that is not all. In China many layers were built up so that it could be carved. In Japan a more practical and less time consuming method was developed in order to create the same effect. First a core of wood was carved and then finished with lacquer.

In fact, the better types of true lacquerware all have a wooden core. But cloth can also be used in combination with a mould or former to obtain a desired shape.

That is how this cigarette case was made. It was produced in an attempt to tap in to a niche market in occupied Japan after World War Two. What U.S. GI could resist one of these fine souvenirs.

Smoking paraphernalia spawned a universal demand for all kinds of artefacts and gadgets the world over. All that has now more or less gone and has never really been replaced. Nevertheless, I would still like one of these, which could easily be put to another use.

Bill Tingey Photo © Copyright

12/09/2015

On the Way Home

This is Andaibara....

Excursion to the Unexpected

Back at the beginning of June when I was in Noto, I spent a glorious day visiting various people who had been recommended to me, relying on the SatNav in the car that I was using to get me to my destinations. I had already become quite attached to the voice of the young lady giving directions and, for the most part, had found her instructions in very polite Japanese to be clear and easy to follow.

It helped to have looked at a number of maps beforehand and having a good sense of direction anyway, I nearly always had a pretty good idea of what direction I was supposed to be heading. Later during my stay, however, the inadequacies of the SatNav were exposed and were made worse by my false assumptions. But that is another story, or two.

Newly built and old can hardly be distinguished.

There are not many main roads on the Noto Peninsula, so even without the prompts of Ms SatNav I was beginning to find my way around fairly comfortably. In the circumstances there was, after all little chance of getting lost. If I was unsure I could always knock on a door or ask someone, that is if I could find someone to ask. Apart from the main tourist centres the Noto Peninsula as a whole is very sparsely populated. In fact, the numbers of people moving away from the area is of great concern—depopulation with a vengeance.

It was late afternoon and I was now heading back to Wajima to my guesthouse; home for the duration of my month-long stay. I was on Route 249 moving northward. This major route follows the coast up from Kanazawa in the south west and then turns sharply eastward and runs through a wide valley, passing close to Shojiji temple and the town of Monzen. It was a scene of much damage as a result of the earthquake which struck the area in 2007. There is now little sign of what happen, except at Shojiji Temple, which is still undergoing restoration. Many of the older buildings in Monzen were spared, others have been rebuilt but in a sympathetic style, so that it is sometimes difficult to say from when they date.

Although the SatNav was guiding me dutifully along Route 249, I was already so familiar with the route I decided to ignore my attentive guide and make a detour. Taking a left turn at some traffic lights I began to follow a narrow lane between rice paddies and stands of conifers steadfastly arranged on the steep slopes of the flanking mountains, or were they hills. By definition a mountain is steep and as far as the UK is concerned is over 600 metres high. So here “mountain” is perhaps the right word—steep slopes and at least the required height.

As the way in front of me began to climb the SatNav fell silent and gave up trying to redirect me. The surroundings were almost completely silent too. No bird song, no traffic noise—I was the traffic—and no people. The only sounds were the occasional croak of a frog and the faint murmuring of water trickling into the stepped paddies that filled the ever narrowing and inclined valley. It was a very fine day. Not too humid and a blue sky decorated with a few puffy clouds.

The stepped paddies here were nothing to rival those in Thailand or indeed other parts of Japan. Nevertheless, they were worth photographing. Their regularity and tidiness alone made them memorable.

Although there were two or three houses near to were I was standing looking down the valley, there was no one to be seen. All the houses could have been uninhabited for all I knew, except that the small gardens were well tended. Surely there was someone around. Indeed there was.

The peace and quite was broken by the sound of an engine starting and almost immediately a light truck driven by an elderly man appeared out of a side road and came to a stop by where I was standing. Konichi wa. Ii tenki desu ne. We exchanged greetings and even commented on the weather, before discussing the location. This was Andaibara, a small community of twelve households of mostly elderly people who were doing their best to tend the land.

Fortunately this local did not have a strong accent, or he was being kind enough to speak his mother tongue in its more standard form. I therefore had no trouble understanding him.

It seems that just as in other parts of the Noto Peninsula, depopulation in Andaibara has meant that fewer and fewer people are farming the land and there seems to be no end to the problem.

“Of course, there were plenty of people living here in the past—farmers, foresters and their families. Now all the young people have moved away to Tokyo or other big cities to find work and mostly only come back at the New Year”. This I had heard before but his next statement was something of a surprise.

“When there were more people living here, some of the men went off to fight in the Russo-Japanese War”. Pointing to a mound by the road a little way back down the valley he said, “That’s a memorial to them”. Of course, such memorials can be found in small villages all over rural Britain, especially honouring those that fell in the First World War.

The realities of the Russo-Japanese conflict, which started in 1904, could not have been further from my thoughts. I was standing in a little haven of peace and tranquility where nature predominated and even people were so scarce as to have no real presence. It was nature’s domain.

I suddenly felt very privileged to be were I was and to be completely absorbed in what I was doing. I was a spectator of other people’s lives in an idyllic location with not even the slightest sense of responsibility. Or would it be more true to say that I was an observer benefitting from a sense of happy detachment.

As our conversation began to dry up, I asked if I might take a photograph of my new acquaintance and, out of courtesy, I asked too if I might have his name.

“My name? I’m not someone who is worthy of a name.” There was no sense of any spitefulness or anger in his voice. He was, however, clearly surprised but perhaps no more surprised than I was by his answer. It might seem to some people that anonymity for the Japanese is something to hide behind. Being publicly recognised with a name, however, does for some Japanese seem to be something they feel they must have earned rather than a given right—there is a sense of honest modesty.

My short detour into the mountains had been uplifting and interesting. I resolved to take more excursions of the beaten track.

04/09/2015

Kyomi and Kazuyuki Toumi—Noto Nigyo Handmade Paper

Mother and son team—the makers of Noto Nigyo Handmade Papers

Paper in Paradise

Forty or so years ago “real ale” made its appearance in British pubs. It was the result of a reaction against the kind of rather bland beer that was being produced at the time by big breweries up and down the country. Their beers were just simply uninteresting. British beer has always been described by critics as “warm and flat”. What this really means is that it is only slightly chilled and not carbonated. Traditionally brewed real ale or what is sometimes called cask beer was kept in a pub cellar and in wooden barrels, just as it had been for hundreds of years. Yes, it was slightly chilled and also flat but it was full of flavour. In fact it had a deep rounded complex flavour. It really tasted good and this is what sealed its success. Nowadays, real ale is still holding its own and is available along side a staggering number of different beers, produced either in the UK or overseas.

Is it too fanciful to suggest that some comparisons can be drawn between real ale and handmade paper? I don’t think so. Reputably beer dates back more than three-thousand years, and paper making began some two-thousand years ago. So both beer and paper have been made by hand much, much longer than they have been manufactured by a continuous automated process. Handmade papers were the norm just as cask ales were before mass production took over and, let’s face it, in both cases something was lost when both became an industrially manufactured product. Just as there was a resurgence in interest in more flavoursome beers in the UK all those years ago, so too has there been a upsurge of interest in handmade papers all over the world.

Not tracing paper but drawn on a fine handmade Japanese paper. A detail of a scheme for a tea ceremony area in an apartment block.

Before I went to live in Japan I had never seen paper made and I had certainly never used any either. My first real encounter with a handmade Japanese paper was when I was doing a design for a Japanese tea ceremony facility to be housed in an apartment block scheduled to be built in Kanazawa, south-west of Wajima. I had been given some very thin handmade Japanese paper, on which I decided to draw up my plan, simply because it seemed to have a quality and finish completely in keeping with the project—a modern take on a traditional pursuit.

Charging a mould for pulp. The culms of bamboo above provide a little spring
to make lifting the mould a little easier.

Despite being very thin and translucent, the paper I used was strong and had a fine texture. Strength is one of Japanese handmade papers, well eh….strengths, which is acquired during its making. Simply speaking, the fibres in the pulp used to make a piece of British handmade paper settle in a more of less random fashion. Japanese handmade paper, on the other hand, is actively formed—the mould is charged with pulp and mostly rocked back and forth and only occasionally from side to side, so that the fibres line up and interlock giving the paper a grain and hence strength.

When I arrived at Kyomi Toumi’s workshop, that is exactly what her son, Kazuyuki, was doing—charging a mould with a pulp containing some adzuki bean husks. Imbedding other natural fibres, dried flowers or leaves to add a decorative quality to the already fine papers is one of their specialities, although this mother and son team also produce a lot of plain papers for calligraphy.

The rhythmical charging of the mould help the fibres to interlock.

In a sense, these decorative papers are a memorial to Kyomi’s father-in-law, Shusaku Toumi, from whom she learned the craft after she married into the family while still a teenager. There was no tradition of paper making in the district of Mii where Kyomi is based and where Shusaku began work back in 1949, initially using wild kozo—paper mulberry. But that was only the beginning. Shusaku later started imbedding his papers with such things as seaweed as well as other plant fibres to produce some unique and highly appealing papers. One of these was a paper incorporating strips of cedar bark, a tradition inherited by Kyomi and Kazuyuki, who now also makes lampshades using some of the engaging papers they produce together.

The adzuki bean husks add to the character of the paper.

They even utilise waste material—those parts of harvested local Japanese cedar which the sawmills usually discard. The Toumis, however, turn it into a robust handmade paper full of character with a resplendently warm tinge. They also make use of waste timber from old houses, which have been demolished, by using it as a source of heat for a paper dryer.

The fibrous nature of the cedar bark here is obvious.

After a sheet of paper has been formed, it is allowed to stand in a post—a pile of sheets which are allowed to drip over night. The next day they are pressed to squeeze out more moisture before each sheet is thoroughly dried. In many places where handmade Japanese papers are produced sheets are brushed out onto a wooden board and stood outside to dry.

Where Kyomi has her workshop, however, that method is impossible because, in the narrow mountain valley where she works, wind blowing down the valley would soon release the finished paper from its board and ruin it. Instead Kyomi uses a stainless steel dryer, which is warmed by burning waste timber. The smoke rising from the small chimney at the end of the building only serves to add to the atmosphere of the location beside a river and surrounded by idyllic tree covered mountain scenery. There is a sense that the paper is a product of its surroundings, made by dedicated people with care, skill and love. Everything is just perfect.

When I returned to Wajima that evening and began to recall all that I had seen that day, I smiled with deep contentment as I remembered the welcoming warm-hearted reception Kyomi and Kazuyuki had given me, the beautiful paper, the unspoilt rural setting and the balmy early June weather that day. “Where have you been today?” I was asked. “I’ve been to paradise”.

Just part of the process of forming sheets and drying follow below.

The bamboo screen on which a sheet is formed is lifted from the mould and....

....the wet sheet of newly formed paper is laid on a heap of sheets to drip before pressing to reduce the moisture.

A still very damp sheet is lifted on a flat strip of wood and....

....transfered to the warm face of the dryer.

The sheet is brushed out flat on the warm surface of the dryer.

When dry, the finished sheet is flung dramatically like a bed-sheet on to a pile of dry sheets.