À la recherche du temps perdu / A Kimono Is Never Finished

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 furisode can no longer be worn.

A kimono changes its form with time, and is reborn. The straight-line cutting — the very structure of kimono construction — is what makes this possible. It is the life of the cloth itself. A life that never ends.

A kimono does not simply survive a hundred years in storage. It reappears before us in a new form. Sometimes in a form that no one, a hundred years ago, could ever have imagined.

My daughter can no longer wear a furisode. There are traditional rules in the world of kimono. So what should become of this mysterious deep blue? I unfold it. I lay it flat. I take my time.

Whose shoulders will it rest upon next? Will it find its way back to my mother, now ninety years old?

The scissors have not yet touched it.

And then — another kimono. A red komon, also reaching the end of its role.

This red can no longer be worn either.

So where will this one go? What form will it take? Who will it belong to next?

A kimono is never finished. It breathes. It changes. It endures.

You may never wear a kimono. But you can wear the art of Wasai. — PASSIONEER

February. The scissors have not yet touched it. stillness before transformation.

A red komon, reaching the end of its role. What form will it take? Where will it go?

The Collection