À la recherche du temps perdu ― My Grandmother's Legacy

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 held the kimono in my hands and thought of my grandmother for a moment.

Because this katabira was something she gave to her own daughter, as part of her wedding trousseau. One piece among her bridal preparations. Made entirely by my grandmother's own hands.

I had never truly examined it closely before, but now, I was struck by how beautiful her needlework was. The mitsuori-guke (triple-folded hem stitch) was fine and delicate, and the running stitches were graceful. A sweat-absorbing lining had been sewn in around the collar. Looking closely, traces of repairs could be seen here and there.

Held up to the light, plovers appeared, playing among the waves.

A kimono is a garment made to be unstitched and remade. I decided to prove that myself.

I made up my mind to remake this katabira, which must be well over seventy years old by now.

A katabira, washed and hung to dry, ready to be remade.

I made up my mind to remake this katabira, which must be well over seventy years old by now.

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

On ne porte pas forcément un kimono. Mais on peut porter l'art du Wasai.

— PASSIONEER

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