Dancing on Temple Tops

Traveling a bit further up the road from the Cedar Museum in Kitayama, there’s a village called Miyama with a wonderful thatched cottage that houses the Little Indigo Museum. Not simply a museum but also the studio and workroom of master indigo dyer and museum owner Hiroyuki Shindo, this is another gloriousl little treasure trove of experiences that makes this part of northern Kyoto well worth the repeated visits.

A wonderfully gracious host, Shindo-sensei invited us directly into his studio and explained its operation. In the picture shown below, you can see the dyer’s vats with wooden lids sunken into the floor in the foreground to the left, while on the right, white linen has been folded and wound around large spools, then tied tightly in preparation for shibori dyeing.

Indigo dyeing is unique among natural dye processes. Rather than requiring large amounts of fuel to generate heat, the energy for the dye process comes from fermentation. And since the herb needed to produce the dye grows easily, the dye can be produced in quantity. These two facts combined with the rich beautiful blues produced have made indigo dyeing popular throughout history and around the world.

In Japan, indigo dyeing has been traced back at least to the Nara period (~700 AD) and through the centuries, the process has been handed down among dyers’ families as an oral tradition.

The indigo plant itself is first harvested and dried as shown at left. Then the plants are composted for 100 days to produce the rough pebbles shown in the bucket. These pellets are then used to establish an indigo dye pot.

Clustering the pots and submerging them into the floor is another energy conserving technique. Preparation of a dye pot can take 7-10 days as it involves a natural fermentation process and can not be rushed. The dried composted pellets are immersed in water and lye ash is used to make the solution alkaline, then rice bran is added periodically to feed the bacteria. Since the mixture must be kept warm, burning charcoal may placed in the spaces between the pots in order to keep the dyepot warm in winter, though in summer, ambient temperatures are adequate to keep the fermentation going. Gentle stirring is necessary, but exposure to excess air or sunlight can diminish the dye’s effectiveness, so the dyer’s judgement grows with experience. With careful nurturing, a skilled dyer can keep the indigo pot “alive” for 3 months or longer.

When the pot is ready, the dyeing process begins. Since the rich blue color develops not only by immersion in the vat but also during the drying process, repeated cycles of immersion and drying may be required, another area where judgement and skill develop with experience.

Of course, every dyer develops his or her own working process. Here Shindo-sensei is explaining the shibori indigo dyeing process he uses to Australian textile artist Wendy Carroll. And Shindo-sensei admits that indigo dyers can become quite passionate about the beautiful blues they create. Shown below is a patchwork sampler of some of the beautiful shibori effects that Shindo-sensei has achieved over his 30 years as a dyer.

In addition to a wonderland filled with examples of his own dyework, Shindo-sensei maintains a collection of historical examples of Japanese indigo as well as a number of pieces from Africa, other regions of Asia and even woad-dyeing from Europe. Housed in the second story, the various samples hang from the rafters below the thatched roof.

Shown below is one of several beautiful indigo-dyed tapestries from Shindo-sensei’s collection.

I don’t think there is another group in Kyoto that I enjoy half so much as the Asian Studies Group. I’ve written about some of our gatherings before and since the ASG offers so much enrichment to my experience of Japan, I doubtless will be writing about them again and again. We had our annual New Year’s sake tasting again this January and it was just as wonderful as it was in years past. But I don’t like to repeat topics, so having written about last year’s sake-tasting, I decided to forego a description of the 2010 shinenkai. Here I’ll talk about February’s gathering: A wonderful presentation on the history of mechanical toys called karakuri.

Our lecturer, Murakami Kazuo is a freelance journalist who specializes in the history of technology in Japan and the author of many works on karakuri. Shown here at right before the lecture began, Murakami-san outlined the earliest development of automated devices in Japan.

“Karakuri” is variously translated as “automata” or “mechanical puppet” (although not every karkuri device was given a human form). However, the word also carries the meaning of “to tease or trick or surprise”. This is because the mechanisms that powered these automata were generally hidden or disguised, which gave their actions a magical entertaining quality. As shown in the print below, an Edo period family is being entertained by a variety of performing mechanized dolls. The small figure in the foreground of the right panel is the most famous of the karakuri known as the “tea-serving doll”. Powered by a spring device and containing a balance mechanism in the arms, the doll could hold a cup of tea and move forward to the guest, who would receive the tea. Lifting the cup from the doll’s arms, would cause the device to stop moving forward. Then the guest would drink the tea and return the empty cup to the doll. The lesser weight of the empty cup would cause the doll to turn around 180° and move back to the host—a charming facilitation of the hospitable interactions between host and guest.

The Edo period (1603-1868) marks approximately 250 years during which Japan was completely isolated from the rest of the world. And during this time, Japan’s unique cultural heritage developed away from outside influences. There was however some limited trade with China and the Netherlands, though the latter group was isolated to the port of Nagasaki. Although the Tokugawa shogunate, which ruled Japan during the Edo period, established strict control of not only foreign trade but also the internal population, the period saw a great rise in wealth among townspeople and merchant classes. Accompanying this increase in wealth came a desire for lavish and more accessible forms of entertainment. And against this background, the karakuri culture of the Edo period flourished.

A hundred years before the most stringent trade restrictions were introduced in 1663, the earliest Portuguese missionaries had already brought European clocks to Japan in 1551. But however curious and interesting these mechanical clocks might have been, the European system of marking time differed from the existing Japanese system. As these new-fangled clock mechanisms were explored and adapted for Japanese timepieces, the mechanical springs and interactions that powered the clocks were also put to a more whimsical use as they became the technology that powered some of the most popular karakuri.

Examples of the tea-serving doll are shown below. The “unclothed” version on the left shows the intricate wooden scaffolding that housed the spring mechanism and indeed traditional Japanese carpentry skills played an equally great role in the development of karakuri. Different types of wood were used to make specific parts, with some locally native woods only appearing in karakuri manufactured in that region of Japan. The cut of the grain of the wood is very important, for example the grain of the wooden driving gears is radially arranged to provide equal strength in all directions. The schematic shown on the right is an illustration from the three volume set, ‘Karakuri – An Illustrated Anthology’ published by Hosokawa Hanzo Yorinao in 1796. The anthology explains the making of four types of Japanese clocks and nine types of mechanical puppets and provides precise diagrams. Thanks to these manuscripts, knowledge of how these mechanical devices were constructed has been preserved.

Following the lecture, we were treated to a demonstration of numerous antique karakuri. Minasaki Sougo, shown at left, is a specialist in mechanical devices of the Edo period. He also restores these devices and is also one of the few remaining craftsmen who still make these automata, mainly dolls, today.

Though I’ve spent considerable time describing the tea-serving doll, which is considered the most popular and best known of the karkuri, it was by no means the only type. Sougo-san demonstrated quite a wide range of performing dolls—archers, dancers, tumbling acrobats. Not all of these were powered by the spring mechanisms described above. The acrobats, for example, often contained a capsule of mercury within their hollow wooden bodies. When movement was initiated with a slight tap, the inertia of the mercury movement within the doll provided the momentum that kept the doll tumbling forward.

But karakuri should not be dismissed as merely curious playthings from history. Some of the most famous karakuri makers were the greatest engineers of their day, interested and involved in a wide range of technology. Tanaka Hisashige, perhaps the best known karakuri maker, also experimented with pneumatics, hydraulics and was interested in astronomy. Sometimes called the “Thomas Edison of Japan”, Tanaka designed and built Japan’s first domestically made steam locomotive and steam warship even though he had only read reports of steam engines and seen but one demonstration of a Russian steam-driven device. His family business, the Tanaka Engineering Works, later evolved into the company that is now known as Toshiba.

The legacy of karakuri culture has not only had an impact on industry but also a continuing impact on Japanese popular culture, on Japanese attitudes toward mechanical devices—particularly those taking human form. The Japanese love of robots is rooted in karakuri culture, which encouraged a belief that robots are a friendly, benevolent and entertaining way to facilitate positive human interactions.

Here it is the first week of January 2010, and I find I’m still lingering over a last farewell to the Ox of 2009. It was after all my kanreki and a year filled with so many sad and sweet memories that it deserves a lingering stroke as I say my last good-bye.

New Year’s Eve in Japan is particularly magical night. The tradition is to pass midnight ringing the bells at a Buddhist temple or having a drink of sake at a Shinto shrine. Though a huge percentage of Kyoto residents choose Yasaka shrine in the city center, there are more than 1600 temples and shrines to choose from, each with it’s own particular variation on the midnight rituals. My own preference is a tour of the local neighborhood venues.

It was -4°C and the snow was flurrying as we set out walking around my neighborhood, so the bonfire was a particularly welcoming discovery when we entered the shrine garden. In exchange for New Year’s prayers, sake was served in wonderful little square wooden boxes. A bit difficult to drink from, but a delight on a cold winter’s night. After enjoying the warmth and comraderie around the bonfire, we moved down the street to ring the bell at the local Buddhist temple.

Mind you, it’s not just this temple, but every temple in the city rings it’s bell 108 times at midnight—a deep resonating sound of a massive bronze bell struck rhythmically to ring out the 108 delusions of human kind. The significance of 108 is derived from the six senses (the five we recognize in the west plus the mind as the organ in which the senses are perceived) multiplied by the past, present and future, but since the past also has its own past, present and future and the present has a past, present and future and the future likewise has its own past, present and future, the calculation is derived not as a simple multiplication of 6 times 3, but as six to the third power representing all of the dimensions of delusion from which we should seek to become free.

And so we lined up, each to climb up the platform and take a turn at swinging the rope that guides a large wooden clapper against the massive bronze bell.

Next on our mini temple tour, we dropped by Go Jinja, home of the giant ema. Normally ema are just small painted wooden plaques that fit in the hand. Prayers or hopes for the coming year can be written on the back and every shrine has a version that they sell for New Year’s, always fancifully decorated with the animal representing that year. Go Jinja goes a step further by decorating their garden with a giant ema that makes a great photo op, thus ensuring that the shrine will see a steady stream of Kyotoites throughout the early weeks of the New Year.

Of course, New Year’s Eve is just a beginning. Japan has a lovely custom of continuing the New Year’s celebrations throughout January. Since each time you meet a friend for the first time in the new year, it becomes a cause for yet another celebration.

Nestled in the mountains north of Kyoto, there is a cedar-logging village called Kitayama. Kitayama cedar is famous throughout Japan as a treasured and elegant building material. Shown here against a backdrop of growing cedars are the traditional thatched roof cottages of forest workers’ families. Sadly there are fewer families who maintain the painstaking forestry management practices required to produce Kitayama cedar. There is however a local Cedar Museum that memorializes the dying craft of Kitayama Cedar production.

Sections of the mountain side are successively cleared and replanted in a sustainable fashion. It is said that a forestry worker harvests the trees planted by his grandfather and that he in turn must plant trees for his grandson. As the trees grow, those destined to become the greatest logs are pruned of their branches so that the central trunk grows tall straight and sturdy. Trees destined to produce slender logs for lighter and more delicate constructions are pruned of their central trunk, as shown in the picture at right, so that the branches of a single tree can produce numerous small logs.

These of course are just good forestry management practices for sustainable production, but the real magic of Kitayama begins with molding of the living trees prior to logging.

As shown by the manikin displayed at the Cedar Museum, a forestry worker climbs to the very top of the tree and then begins wrapping the tree with straw-like forms made of hard plastic tied tightly against the tree with wire. The wrapping continues for the entire length of the tree from tip to base. And when complete, the the tree is allowed to grow for two years before before it is harvested.

The cross section below shows the concentric rings of the tree’s initial growth and then the outer layer develops a rippled texture as it grows into the spaces between the plastic molds wedged tightly against it. It is this molding process that creates the elegant forms for which Kitayama cedar is so famous.

Afterlogging, the fresh trunks are stripped of their bark and cured and then polished to a high sheen by rubbing with wet sand. This latter task was frequently performed by women, children and the elderly members of the family. Another manikin display at the Cedar Museum shows a woman in the traditional costume of a forestry worker’s wife, polishing a cedar log using wet sand rubbed into the log with her bare hands.

Although there was no indication on any of the signs, I did wonder how many hours of such polishing were required to transform the raw logs into the beautiful glowing wood that we saw on display throughout the museum.

To produce varying effects, a number of different sizes and styles of molds could be applied. Several typical samples are shown in the picture below. The friends with whom I toured the museum included another textile artist who wondered aloud whether this molding process should be considered a form of “shibori for woodworkers”. The thought did make me laugh, but perhaps there is some validity to the comparison.

Of many sample logs on display, polished but unstained logs are shown on the left, while those that have been stained after polishing. Such beautiful wood would be used for decorative interior architectural details in a traditionally constructed aristocratic home.

But as much as I loved learning something about Japanese woodwork, I am a textile maven at heart. So I was immediately drawn to the luscious pale colored silks I saw displayed toward the end of the exhibition. The amazing range of peach, coral, rust, and even blues and silvery greys were all achieved using different mordants with cedar-based natural dyes.

Kitayama Village is a daytrip north of Kyoto, but visiting this area is well worth the effort.

Last week I reached my kanreki and here in Japan, that calls for a great celebration with family and friends.

“Kan” refers to a “cycle” and “reki” means calendar and together “kanreki” means a full cycle around the calendar or more precisely around the Chinese zodiac. Along with the 12-animal Chinese Zodiac, each person is born under one of 5 elemental signs (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). The animal that represents the year changes with each new year, while the element changes every 12 years after one full revolution through all of the animals. These two cycles take 60 years (12 animals x 5 elements=60 years). This year 2009 is not simply an Ox year, but more specifically a yellow or Earth Ox, just as it was 60 years ago when I was born. Thus I have seen a full cycle. This is my kanreki year.

To celebrate, the person turning 60 years old usually wears red clothing that traditionally includes a red hat (e-boshi) and a sleeveless red vest (chanchanko). The color is symbolic since the word aka-chan or literally, “red one” means baby in Japanese. A 60-year-old person is once again a “baby” who is about to embark on their next 60-year cycle. It is a rebirth. Wearing red symbolizes that renewal of life as the second cycle begins. Sixty-year-olds are expected to use their kanreki as a year of reflection. They are to look at their lives and achievements and then plan which direction they would like to take as their lives begin a second sixty year cycle.

And so this weekend, I celebrated my birthday in Tokyo with my son and his family. And in a blend of American and Japanese traditions, we painted the town so red that even the astronauts looking down from the space station had to ask, “Oh, what is that red glow over Tokyo this weekend?”

And now life begins all over again.

It’s pouring rain today and will probably continue all weekend. Staying safe and dry at home could easily end in cabin fever by Sunday night, except for one little thing — I went to the annual Shimogamo book fair a few weeks ago.

Unlike the monthly fleamarkets at Kitano and Toji, the Shimogamo book fair occurs but once a year. Used book dealers from all over Japan, set up booths in the garden of Shimogamo Shrine for a book-lovers’ festival that goes on for four days. And to a book maven such as myself, it is a treasure trove of delight.

So on this rainy weekend, I can curl up with my treasures very much like the child in the festival flyer shown at right.

Shimogamo is a Shinto shrine located about 5 minutes from my house by bicycle. It dates back to the 17th century and is a world heritage site. Shimogamo Shrine was built within the Tadasu no Mori,”the forest of truth.” And despite the encroaching urbanism of modern Kyoto, a portion of this forest is preserved within the temple garden, some of the trees being marked as particularly sacred by a wrapping of straw rope. According to legend, all lies will be exposed in this forest.

The particularly rainy summer we had this year made the garden a lush green contrasted sharply by the vermillion Torii gates that mark the transition from the profane world into the sacred space of the garden.

And once inside, there beneath the canopy of trees in the forest of truth was all the books that book lover could ever love.
Collections of magazines that span the last half century, books on every topic imaginable. Whether you are a music fan, a sports fan, a car enthusiast, history buff, or poetry lover, you will find a treasure waiting there to feed your soul.

Of course, there are also a few other bits of soul food, like the vintage LPs for the jazz aficionado at left. Overall a nice lot of cool and hot jazz. Great opportunities to add some vintage jazz to your collection.

And among my personal favorites, there are sometimes a few vintage patterns from the 40s and 50s — in Japanese, of course.

Last year I was able to buy a collection of kimono style books from the Taisho period (circa 1910). Kimono style books contain line drawings of various kimono styles available from a certain kimono dealer. Since all kimono are made to order, the customer and dealer would discuss the drawing shown in the style book as a starting point for the order. The line drawings are uncolored since color would be one of the choices to be discussed, but the motifs to be dyed or woven into the kimono are clearly shown in the drawing. Old style books are a great resource for designers, so it was my hope to find yet another collection this year.

Still you never know what you may find and wandering around, perusing the choices is part of the fun.

Definitely, that’s a sentiment shared by my eager little friend at right. You’re never too young to begin a love affair with books. It was fun to see one so little enjoy himself that much. He and his mother eventually left with quite an armload containing books for each of them.

And me? What did I buy? Well, I didn’t find that vendor with all the wonderful old style books again — maybe he decided not to come this year. But I was thrilled to find a catalog to a wonderful museum show I had seen 4 years ago. I had always kicked myself for not buying a catalog at the time, but now 4 years later I found it! And another fabulous book on kimono of the roaring 20s.

But my pièce de résistance was a large six-volume set entitled Japanese Design in Art and that should keep me inspired — at least until next year’s fair!

I guess you could say I’ve had a relatively wordless summer as I quietly worked on my stitchery, but it was never been my intention to allow so much time to pass in silence. Yet here it is September and I’m just now posting about some of the delights of my summer.

I did manage to find some time to spend at the Koryo Museum. It’s just a little place tucked into the north west corner of the city. Dedicated to traditional Korean art, their exhibitions are always a delight and this summer’s fare, was lotus-themed art. For this exhibition, they assembled a lovely collection of temple bells, rubbings, etchings, stone work, woodwork, metal work, textiles, paintings and ceramics that each featured the lotus in some part of the design.

Though many people are familiar with the lotus through Buddhist art, but the lotus actually has a history that well predates the introduction of Buddhism. Lotus plants are known to have existed in the Cretaceous period (140—165 million years ago) and for at least a millennia, lotus leaves have been used as wrappers, their edible roots and seeds appreciated throughout Asia and ancient literature described its flowers in the most poetic terms. It’s only natural that they would also have become a favorite decorative motif for a wide range of crafts. And as these images were transmitted down through generations, the motif evolved to become an elegant representation crossing through the cultures of an entire continent.

In keeping with its mission to display traditional Korean art, the pieces exhibited at the Koryo Museum were all from the Koryo (918—192 AD) or Chosôn (1392—1910 AD) dynasties of Korea. Koreans have always been renowned as particularly exquisite craftsmen and women. Korean potters, embroiderers, weavers were highly valued in the courts of Korea’s more powerful neighbors, China and Japan.At right is the lovely wood carving that graced the entryway to the exhibition proper, a candlestick in the shape of a lotus plant—it’s broad leaf forms the base, the blossom holds the candle and there’s even a cute little frog crawling up the stalk.

Alongside the king, there was a class of men known collectively as the yangban, who helped to govern Korean society during the Chosôn dynasty (1392–1910).

The yangban was comprised of civil or military officials, with civil positions being considered more prestigious. Members of the yangban were expected to hold public office, follow the Confucian doctrine of study and self-cultivation, and help cultivate the moral standards of Chosôn society, in essence, they comprised the literati of Korean society at that time. And in keeping with the dictum of self-cultivation, many in the yangban class were accomplished artists, practiced in calligraphy and ink painting, which were traditionally considered the two media most appropriate for the literati.

Creating paintings like the image of fish swimming among lotu at left would have been a favorite pastime of this group. And along with the creating the painting, a proper literati was expected to own an assortment of simple yet beautiful instruments, such as porcelain or wooden brush holders (11.142.1) and porcelain water droppers as well as an inkstone, brushes, and paper. These small accessories, along with refined yet unostentatious wooden furniture, were not only for personal use but also for display as indicators of his station in life. Which naturally led to the commission of even more elegantly crafted items, such as those displayed in the rest of the exhibit.

The ceramic flask at right is stoneware, covered with white slip and then carved to expose the darker clay body underneath. Quite typical of its time, this style is called buncheong ware, and was created in the southern part of Korea. This particular style was quite admired for Tea ceremony in Japan and imported as Korai chawan or Korean teabowls.

But perhaps the most famous style of Korean pottery would be celadon. The technique was orginally developed in China during the tenth century and later transmitted to Korea, but as Korean potters adopted and refined the technique, it evolved into a truly exquisite and uniquely Korean form.

Of all the art in this exhibit, the teabowls are among the most elegant and refined. The tea bowl and saucer set shown at left was made from a delicately carved clay body, with incised designs that were inlaid red or white clay slip and then coated with celadon glaze and fired. When removed from the kiln, the inlaid slip appeared as white or black beneath the green glaze. On the cup at left you can see faint flower images on each carved petal that comprises the tea bowl, which in turn rests upon a beautifully carved lotus leaf saucer.

And as another celebration of beauty, this carved celadon incense burner dates from the Koryo dynasty and is thought to predate the teabowl shown above. Although there is only a minimal effort at the incised multi-colored slip inlay, it still features intricate carving and delicate humorous touches such as the “pedestal” of bunny rabbits on which the lotus leaf base rests.

Of course, being surrounded with so much lotus inspiration, how could I help but spend a good part of my summer making a bit of my own lotus-themed art? Last month I opened an extension of this site to sell my digitized embroidery designs. So far, my sets include not only Lotuses but also egrets and morning glories and more yet to come. May I invite you to visit my shop next door, simply by clicking here.

Early in my life here in Kyoto, I had an apartment about two blocks east of the main entrance gate to Heian Jingu. In those days, I worked evenings teaching English and each night I would bicycle home, passing by this gate lit up with flood lights that made the orange glow brightly against the inky blue night sky. And every night, as my heart sang with joy in the presence of such majestic beauty, I blessed the day I had chosen to live in Kyoto.

Heian Jingu is an imperial Shinto shrine on the east side of Kyoto. Although Shintoism is the oldest Japanese religion, predating Buddhism by several centuries, Heian Jingu is one of the newest religious structures in this city, having only been built in 1885 to commemorate the 1100th anniversary of the founding of Kyoto as the capital of ancient Japan. After passing through the massive gate shown above, one enters the immense courtyard, only a corner of which is shown in the photo below.

Within the walled enclave of the shrine, it’s easy to loose track of time and place. Inside there are few traces of modern Kyoto or its 1.5 million people bustling about their daily lives; no modern buildings tower above the various halls and shrine buildings that rim the courtyard. Only a few trees and the eastern mountains appear in the distance. I am told that the shrine architecture is intended to replicate the design of Kyoto’s original Imperial palace, destroyed by fire in 1227, and perhaps that accounts for the overwhelming sense of grandeur that permeates the site. The shrine itself honors two emperors: Kammu (737-806), who founded Kyoto in 794, and Komei (1831-66), the last emperor to live out his reign in Kyoto before the capital was moved to Tokyo.

Surrounding Heian Jingu on three sides, there are a series of gardens that are considered the finest of those laid out in the Meiji period (1868-1912). As is typical of such gardens, there are weeping cherries that blossom in springtime, irises and water lilies to nourish the soul during summer and a brilliant pageantry of maple leaves changing colors throughout the fall.

This being summer, we are in the height of iris season. Most Japanese irises today are ornamental water irises called hanashobu in Japanese. These grow in shallow marshes and along the edges of ponds and rivers, so the network of artificial riverlets and ponds constructed in the shrine gardens provide a perfect venue for these flowers. The meandering pathways that follow the water ways have been so artfully constructed within a relatively contained space that it is possible to wander along without quite realizing that the path has actually doubled back on itself to form a small circuit that can be repeated again and again with the joy of new observations.

The romance of the Japanese iris stems from Tales of the Ise, a mid-10th century collection of lyrical prose and poems, which among other stories, recounted a heartsick lover composing poetry to a wild iris (called kakitsubata) in place of his lost love. Thereafter, images of wild irises coupled with zig zag wooden bridges became indelibly linked as a romantic motif that was repeated in Japanese art and literature for the next several centuries with some particularly exquisite examples appearing in the 17th century lacquerware and painted screens by Ogata Korin.

Another interpretation of the iris is suggested by the recently published diary of Abbess Kasanoin Jikun. Entitled In Iris Fields: Remembrances and Poetry, the book is a compilation of essays and poems by Abbess Kasanoin Jikun (1910-2006). These irises were the ayame type that bloomed at Daishoji imperial convent where she was cloistered. Being a female child of aristocratic lineage, Kasanoin Jikun was sent to an imperial convent at age 5, designated to be raised to become its abbess. Those who enjoyed Memoirs of a Geisha may find an entirely new set of insights into the life of a Japanese woman trained in an utterly different environment for a totally different task during roughly the same time period. In Iris Fields is a translation of essays and poetry written by the Abbess herself, in which she shares memories of her childhood and stories of her friends and relations as she moved from court to convent during times of tremendous social upheaval in Japan. Those interested in further information about the book should click here.

I’ve been working hard of late, busily trying to re-organize large sections of my life. But sometimes you just need to stop for a break. And so when I was invited out recently for a day at the Miho, the seduction of the moment was just to great to refuse.

One of the world’s most beautiful museum buildings, the Miho Museum is nestled in the hills of Shiga prefecture about an hour’s drive from Kyoto. Approximately 75% of the building designed by I.M. Pei is actually underground to minimize any disruption to the forested hillside on which it is built, yet the rooftop constructed largely of glass floods the interior with natural light, while the steel crossbeams provide and intricate interplay of shadows across the floors and walls.

The current exhibit called “Eurasian Winds Toward Silla” focused on archeological treasures from the ancient Korean kingdom of Silla, one of three monarchies that arose on the Korean peninsula around the 3rd century AD. (as shown in the map below) The city of Gyeongju, once the capital of Silla, is now home of the Gyeongju National Museum in Korea, which supplied a collection of artifacts showing the influence of migrating central Asian tribes on the art and culture of the far east.

The fall of the powerful Han Dynasty in China around 220 AD had allowed nomadic tribes from Central Asia to roam across northern China and subsequently migrate eastward into the Korean peninsula, bringing with them advanced techniques in glassmaking, metal smelting, pottery as well as Mediterranean and European motifs that had an impact on the early culture of Silla. In particular Silla, became known for its intricate goldwork as reflected by the crown shown above and the filligree cap shown below.

It’s not certain precisely how the crown was worn, but the “duckbill” hanging downward may have formed a visor while the side panels encircled the head. There may have also been some form of cloth head covering that has not survived the centuries. Small pailettes of beaten gold are attached with twisted wires to both sides of the structure, perhaps to emulate feathers or perhaps simply to add shimmering glints of reflected light as the wearer of the crown moved his or her head. The cap on the right is fairly small object and thought to have been cover for long hair that had been twisted into a top knot.

The elegance and skill with which these pieces were fabricated is fairly obvious even in these reproductions and thought to be reminiscent of Scythian goldwork hundreds of years earlier in the region ranging from the Caspian sea to the Baltic coast. As the Scythians were displaced in the around the second century BC, portions of the population moved southward influencing artistic developments in Greece, while other sections of the population migrated eastward across the Asian steppes, bringing their skills to the Pazyrk tribes of Siberia and then downward into China. It was this type of migration, not only of Scythian technology but also that of other Eurasian tribes, that the exhibit attempted to describe through a careful reconstruction and juxtaposition of the archeological evidence.

In addition to goldsmithing, the exhibition explored the development of Silla culture through artifacts that included glassware, goblets and other forms of metal work. The introduction of new forms of kilns allowed higher temperature firing of ceramics and the production of Roman-style glass.

With the rise of the Tang dynasty, Silla was able to form new alliances with the Chinese in order to emerge the victorious conqueror of its immediate neighbors, uniting the Korean peninsula under its rule. And from this powerful new position, unified Silla facilitated the further spread of not only technical processes but also Mediterranean and other east European motifs across two continents to the rim of the Pacific Ocean.

Recently I caught a lovely little exhibit called “A Mother’s Touch”, focused on the interaction between sewing and mothering across China, Korea and Japan.

Along with all sorts of lovely little toys and trinkets that women sew for their children, the exhibit included an assortment of sewing boxes and baskets used in various parts of Asia.

The beautiful wood grained box shown above is one of the styles typical of Japan, while the heart-shaped basket at right is from China. The sewing tools below are from Korea.

Whether a simple basket, a fold of paper or an elaborate wooden box, each of the displays reflected the attention women paid to caring for their needles and threads. And both the containers and their contents often revealed not only the cultural differences but also the cross-cultural universality of sewing.

But the main focus was on the wide variety of hand sewn children’s clothing and cloth toys women made for their children in the countries covered in the exhibit, hence the name “A Mother’s Touch”. Shown at right is a collection from Japan featuring pouches in various styles as well as a few traditional rag-doll babies, all made from an assortment of kimono remnants.

Below is a young boy’s kimono from solid and checkerboard indigo beautifully embroidered with elaborate sashiko designs showing the mother’s wish for her child to be blessed with both wealth and longevity. Note the use of white thread against the blue and blue thread against white.

Sashiko is one of the Japanese embroidery techniques that has become better known in the west. It consists of small evenly spaced running stitches outlining the design and may be purely decorative, as shown in the example at left, or may be used to patch, repair, reinforce or quilt layers of fabric for use in clothing and housewares.

Photos of women stitching, like this Chinese grandmother, were sprinkled throughout the exhibit.

In Guanzhong Region of China, infants and young children are adorned with fabulous little hats embroidered with animal faces. As in many agrarian societies, the mortality rate is high for young children giving rise to a mythology that when demon-spirits looked down and saw a beautiful child, these demons would become jealous and snatch that child away. Thus, the animal hats were an effort to disguise the children, to hide and protect them from jealous demons. Of course, knowledge of disease and medicine has supplanted such mythology, but the tradition of these cute little hats has continued, though I am told that it is, like so many other hand arts, on the edge of disappearing as technology advances.

The individual hat designs are derived from papercuts like the one at right. Folded paper is cut freehand to develop a symmetrical design based a combination of abstract and natural forms. The resultant design is then colorfully re-interpreted with needle and thread making each work a unique piece of art.

But the application of this technique is not limited to children’s hats. At left are a few more examples of little slippers, stuffed toys and pillows. It’s a beautiful folk art that I’d like to investigate further.

With each piece in the exhibit, you could feel the love that added with every stitch—a visual celebration of the bond between mother and child.

And with that thought, may I wish you all a Happy Mother’s Day!