​PASSIONEER

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

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

My mother's coming-of-age ceremony. The white palace shimmered with hand-applied gold leaf — Baroque grandeur woven into silk. My mother's coming-of-age ceremony photograph. In those days, the kimono world was swept up in Rococo and Baroque influences. The spirit of postwar Japan — catch up, surpass — poured itself into design. An overwhelming longing for the West made its way into silk. My mother's furisode was white, painted with Entasis columns and a palace in vivid color