​PASSIONEER

I went to reach for my grandmother's katabira — an unlined summer linen kimono — for a reunion dinner with friends I've known since my Paris days. To my surprise, it had torn, right at the seat. There was no shikiate (reinforcing lining) sewn in at all — it truly was an everyday garment, simply made. Perhaps, after all these years, it had finally given out. Seventy years later, my grandmother's katabira has been fully unpicked. Not broken — simply ready to be born again. I he

A grandmother's wish, woven into waves and plovers. Seventy years later, I am the one who wears it. A linen kimono, given to my mother as part of her wedding trousseau. An everyday garment. The occasional slub in the weave reveals it was never a costly piece. It was given to her, along with a man's jōfu, so the newlyweds could pass a summer together. The roundness of the sleeve is soft, impossibly thin — hold it to the sun, and blue sky shows through. Plovers play among the w

The cashmere coat my grandmother left behind. Inside it, a new silk story begins. A silk fabric made for Western clothing. Perhaps a lining for a man's jacket —the kind you'd find in a finely tailored Italian coat.Laid across my palm, it has that smooth, liquid drape.That's silk, unmistakably. It was easy to imagine how it would look lined inside my grandmother's cashmere coat.The real gamble was using it for my son's haori.Could I line it fully? Wouldn't it be too heavy for

A grandmother's cashmere coat, its black wool exterior now lined with French vintage silk — a new life for both. 　 A French friend gave me a piece of silk.It had belonged to her grandmother, kept all these years. A geometric pattern, impossibly smooth, a sheen that moves like liquid.Ah — I can feel the silk's brilliance, its texture, right in my hands. Japanese silk thread, woven in Lyon, I believe. No proof at all. "My grandmother had this, but I don't know when it's from.I

The dissolving horizon of the Mediterranean Sea and the solitary fortress of Château d'if resting on the sleeve. A one-of-a-kind haute couture masterpiece, born from personal sketches and brought to life by the hands of a traditional Yuzen artisan. When I lived in France, I did nothing but sketch. Day after day, intensely. Looking back now, it seems only natural. Picasso, who pioneered Cubism—when you look at his The Weeping Woman, it might look like a mere prankish doodle to

A collection of lines from my youth etched onto traditional large-format French "Raisin" paper. St. Sulpice Church is on the left, and that memorable Rue Mouffetard is on the middle right. During my student days, I spent my time entirely absorbed in drawing and sketching. Plaster busts, nude sketches, and drawings outdoors. I turned my gaze upon various things, capturing and transferring them to paper. Every day, I ran my pencil or pen across the page in a trance. One day, I

My friend in France gave me two Hermès scarves. One was a gift to celebrate the launch of my brand, sent along with a beautiful memory of fireflies. The other is a piece worn and loved by her husband’s aunt years ago—a classic, orthodox design featuring noble figures on horseback. Both are irreplaceable treasures to me. When I think about how deeply the Japanese sericulture industry is historically intertwined with France, these two Hermès scarves become even more profound. B

The ultimate hand-craftsmanship of France: A vintage Hermès silk scarf featuring vibrant insect motifs, gifted by a dear friend in Lyon. An Hermès silk scarf. Today, it is said that Hermès imports its ultra-premium raw silk from Brazil to create these masterpieces. What rests before my eyes is the absolute pinnacle of French hand-craftsmanship. Every time I look at this vivid blue and gold silk, it opens a brilliant drawer of memories from seventeen years ago. In 2009, I visi

The unforgettable sensation of wearing what you have tailored. The true comfort born from hand-sewn "slack. The moment you slip your arms into a garment you have tailored with your own hands—it is a sensation of pure, unprecedented ecstasy. Until that very second, a sense of trepidation lingers, only to be instantly transfigured into profound joy. To bear witness to that exact moment of transformation is, as an instructor, the ultimate reward. The fabric conforms seamlessly,

The Art of Hand-Sewing, Passed Down Through Generations My mother's generation could sew their own yukata. Perhaps some schools still teach it today — not just specialized institutions, but ordinary ones. For those of us who wish to preserve traditional craft, this is deeply encouraging. And yet. In a world that prizes efficiency, that demands we move faster, to sit and sew by hand feels almost radical. As AI reshapes everything around us, the hands of a craftsperson may be o

The Yukata is one of the few kimonos where you can play boldly, regardless of your age. While often spoken of as the symbol of summer, its origins lie in the bathhouse as a post-bath robe, historically known as a katabira. Did they simply wipe off the moisture with a tenugui towel, throw it on, and step outside? Or was it worn to elegantly entice someone? Though the bathhouses of today differ greatly from the past, the imagination runs wild. Here is the second indulgence enco

Wrapping the back seam with a sebuse cut from the same cloth. One small step that changes everything. The sebuse is sewn along the back seam, then wrapped with fabric cut from the same cloth. This means the center back is stitched twice — creating a stronger, more durable seam. In an era when lining panels are increasingly left out, wrapping with a sebuse makes perfect sense. And yet — it is painstaking work. How many seamstresses today still make a sebuse from matching fabri

Chikusen kago-zome. Stripes on one side, kumadori on the other. One fabric. Two faces. It's almost yukata season. In Tokyo, there's an unspoken rule: once Sanja Matsuri is over, you can step outside in a yukata. In other regions, the local festival sets the cue. Japan stretches so far from north to south that the turning of seasons feels entirely different depending on where you stand. There is no shortage of wasai craftspeople. Overseas production has grown in recent years,

Vintage silk fabric dyed using the stencil of Living National Treasure Hiroshi Kodama, beautifully washed and stretched. Why must Wasai—traditional Japanese tailoring—be done by hand? Although it is a highly exceptional form of haute couture, its rare value has long been overlooked in Japan, perhaps because it was once a natural part of daily life. However, times have changed, and the custom of wearing a garment until it is completely worn out is fading. Today, through a 70-y

The same kimono, reborn. Re-dyed, resewn — the butterflies from my seventh year still dancing. My Shichi-Go-San. This white kimono would one day be reborn as deep purple. The butterfly motif, carried forward into its next life. It is widely known that KIMONO — Japanese traditional clothing — is made to be remade. The needles used in Japanese sewing are exceptionally fine. Unlike the holes left by a sewing machine, the needle's path disappears once the fabric is unstitched and

Unpicked and washed silk fabric returned to its original bolt form, ready for its next life. The Sole Reason Wasai is Hand-sewn Wasai (traditional Japanese tailoring) is a garment designed from the very beginning with "remaking" in mind. If sewn with a machine, needle marks permanently scar the fabric. That is precisely why Wasai needles are crafted to be incredibly fine, and even our basting threads are far more delicate than those used in Western dressmaking. Our tools are

The hakama became an obi, and now wraps around my waist. From my grandmother, to my mother, to me. This crimson obi was once my great-grandmother's ceremonial hakama — the long trailing skirt worn by court ladies in the Imperial Palace. Passed from my grandmother to my mother, it arrived in my hands already transformed: my grandmother had remade it into a nagoya obi for my mother to wear. I am not a small woman, and it is a little short on me. But as long as my arms can reach

Photograph of great-grandparents attending the 1928 enthronement ceremony A photograph from 1928, taken on the occasion of theEnthronement Ceremony of Emperor Shōwa.It shows my great-grandparents, who attended the ceremony at the Imperial Court. At that time, the enthronement was still held in Kyoto.The previous one, for the Enthronement Ceremony of Emperor Taishō, is said to have involved Nijō Castle as one of its associated venues.For Emperor Shōwa, the ceremonies took plac

1928. The enthronement of Emperor Showa. My great-grandmother attended in a kouchigi court robe. This is where the hundred-year journey begins. In 1928, my great-grandparents attended the imperial enthronement ceremony of Emperor Showa.My great-grandmother stood there in a ko-uchigi, dressed according to court custom. After the war, during a time of severe food shortages, my grandmother—who had married into the family—kept this garment.She never sold it.Even then, it must hav

Unfolded. Laid flat. Time taken to think. Whose shoulders will it rest upon next? In the 2010s, I had my mother's furisode from the 1950s re-dyed for my daughter's coming-of-age ceremony. I chose the color of the deepest ocean floor. Beneath that depth, only the gold leaf remained visible — rising to the surface like light from another world. The mysterious beauty seemed to whisper of my daughter's unknown future, stirring both anxiety and wonder. And now, that re-dyed furiso