THE STORY 25 FALL WINTER

“Kuzushi = transformation
A form that continuously shifts its shape and expression
Could this not be seen as a uniquely Japanese characteristic?
While Western aesthetics often abstract the original, then abstract it further to intensify and emphasise expression,
there seems to be a Japanese inclination to deconstruct, distort, blur—
and allow the essence to diffuse through lingering impressions.
Could we not describe it this way?”
— Forms in Japan, Bijutsu Shuppansha (1963)

This passage made me stop in my tracks.

While researching “Katachi” or forms in my daily life, I reencountered shodo—Japanese calligraphy—and tried it again for the first time since childhood. Following a recommendation, I used the Koyagire 3rd fragments, a fragment of a handwritten manuscript of the Kokin Wakashū (Collection of Ancient and Modern Poems), as my model; grinding ink, adding water, and moving the brush across the paper. Even though I couldn’t fully grasp the flowing beauty of the continuous strokes—something gradually began to shift as I practiced each day. At some point, I felt a deep connection, as if the characters and my body were melting into one. It was an experience where the meaning of the words slowly soaked into me, both physically and emotionally. As a beginner, I sensed that perhaps this is how calligraphers of the past deconstructed and transformed characters. It was an incredibly engaging experience. This feeling of "melting together" inspired this season’s suminagashi fabric. The unpredictable forms created by the dispersion of ink on water are endlessly fascinating. Today, only a handful of workshops in Kyoto still carry on this traditional technique.

In the centre of the dyeing workshop sat a large, silver vat, almost like a water tank. The surface of the thick liquid inside shimmered as it reflected the light.
A craftsman dropped a small dot of black ink into the viscous liquid.
The colour slowly stretched and flowed into a delicate pattern. Another drop followed.
This time, the craftsman traced the spreading ink with a pair of long chopsticks, distorting the shape further. Repeating this process, a complex marble-like pattern began to emerge.
The viscous liquid is a blend of water and starch. Its unique balance had been perfected by the artisan—not only to allow for mesmerising organic "fluctuations" in the pattern, but also to ensure the technique could be repeated for production. It was a special formula, crafted through experience and experimentation.
The artisan moved with rhythm and precision, occasionally glancing at my original drawing.
Their hands flowed smoothly, but the design had to be completed before it warped. It was a race against time.
They lifted the fabric by its edges and, in perfect coordination, gently lowered it onto the liquid surface to capture the pattern. If the timing was off, air bubbles could form. I held my breath and watched.
As soon as the fabric touched the surface, the pattern began to bloom softly from the centre, gradually spreading outward and tracing every edge of the cloth.

Suminagashi, said to have originated in the Heian(8th-12th century) period, is believed to have begun as a playful pastime among court nobles—perhaps when ink was accidentally dropped onto the surface of a river, it captured their imagination. One can easily imagine such moments unfolding during a Kyokusui-no-en, the elegant poetry gatherings by flowing water.
Over the centuries, though its form has changed, the technique has been preserved—passed down through generations. Watching the surface of the water transform, I felt a quiet joy in being able to create something new from this enduring craft.
I found myself simply gazing, absorbed in the ever-changing surface of the water.