They’re cotton, and just like the adult’s pair, the children’s version are also worn hard and reinforced with sashiko stitching and patches.

I don’t think that I need to supply much commentary here.  The photos say it all.

Centrally placed is the large, mon, or  family crest, in this case it is an unusual, stylized rendering of kashiwa or oak.  Beneath the mon in stepped formation is the wonderfully zigzag matsukawa bishi or pine bark motif.This noren probably dates to the early twentieth century–perhaps just a bit earlier.  Its size indicates that it was probably meant to hang in front of a building; also indicative of this is the very tightly woven, heavy cotton which would have been strong enough to withstand the elements, street traffic and its dust and dirt.Notice how the matsukawa bishi pattern interlocks and creates another iteration of itself in the negative spaces?  Notice, too, how the selvedge edge of each panel is finished: each edge is back stitched in contrasting, white thread.This is a beautifully designed, beautifully executed old noren.

Within the cities of Arimatsu and Narumi, countless families were engaged in all aspects of shibori making and finishing, and within this hotbed of shape resist dyeing, amazing technical innovations flourished during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.Pictured on the left in the photo above is a bolt of indigo dyed cotton showing the shirokage or white shadow technique, the pattern being that of the tortoise shell or kikko.The bolt on the right, above, seems to be  a vertical, fine wood grain (tate komokume) type of arashi or pole-wrapped shibori. A similar example is shown in Shibori: The Inventive Art of Japanese Shape Resist Dyeing on page 176, figure 245.

The cotton is both hand spun and hand woven, and is gorgeous to the touch.

Shown is a long section of recycled paper twine cradled by an antique Korean grain measure.If you look closely, you can see blips of black and grey in the paper cord: this, of course, is the charcoal-based ink calligraphy on the repuporsed mulberry paper.Because the fibers of paper mulberry (kozo in Japanese) are so long, the paper made from this plant is almost like unwoven cloth: it is extremely pliable, unlike the cellulose paper we use every day.I believe this paper cord was made sometime mid-to-late last century.

These two seate are a mid-twentieth century types; each is made of shredded cotton cloth that has been braided, twined and woven along with some hemp fibers.  Other seate–ones that pre-date these as well as ones that are contemporary to these shown here–are woven of rush, bast fibers or rice straw.   I posted an earlier entry on similar pieces with these two shown here visible in the photos, but they are not featured.   Have a look here.

The “festive” look of these fringed, brightly colored objects is a strange, visual irony when you consider that these pieces were used in heavy labor, on an ongoing basis.

It seems that most of the rags used to weave these seate are commercially produced cottons: by the mid twentieth century when these seate were woven, mass produced cotton fabrics were ubiquitous in Japan.

Note the presence of some hemp twine in the construction of these seate.I find this pair fascinating, compelling and really beautiful.

It is the beauty of bingata that is attractive to the Japanese and to others, but it’s also the complex stencil resist and dyeing techniques that add value to this cloth–as well as a sense of wonder.  This cloth is resisted and dyed on both sides, with additional color being added by hand: the process of the stencil resisting and the process of how and when color is added to the cloth is far too complicated to go into in this post: suffice it to say that the elevated status of bingata in the pantheon of resist dyed cloth is more than well deserved.The piece shown on the left, above and below, is dyed on ramie cloth; the yellow piece to its right is dyed on cotton.  The delicacy and colors of these patterns, and the light touch of the dyers, is really impressive.   One of Japan’s most famous modern graphic artists, Keisuke Serizawa (1895- 1984). the subject of a previous post on this blog, was so profoundly inspired by bingata dyeing that his entire artistic career was colored by the amazing technique and appearance of this extravagant cloth from Okinawa.These fragments most likely date to the last quarter of the 19th century.

Old Japan is not so different than any culture where time has marched on and has left obsolete objects in its wake.  On today’s posting are three fairly large (64″ x 30″/1.6 m x 76 cm ) items that are made of recycled sheets of paper which have been layered and laminated until they have attained the weight of cardboard.  To each is stitched four tabs, two on each short end.  What was the purpose of these?  We’re not sure, but we like the sgraffito, the layers and the texture on each.My Japanese source for these items has a long, rich history dealing in folk art; he surmises that these paper objects may have been used in a cottage industry silk manufacture, either for storing materials related to cocoons–or perhaps they acted as some kind of insulation.  Their tabbed ends certainly show that these things were suspended.The “drawing” on these papers–the result of laying out pages from recycled books–is evocative of many things: ancient city planning, circuitry–skyscrapers.  Beautiful to look at and to dream upon.

The Japanese look at the moon, and even today, the folklore is to see a rabbit pounding mochi, using a mortar and pestle, making glutenous rice.  We in the West see a “man in the moon.”There is another myth concerning the rabbit and the ocean, that is very dramatic and complex and of which are several variations.The story, is eloquently and succintly told at the website, Myth Encyclopedia, and is captioned from that site, below:

“The Izumo Cycle. The Izumo Cycle of myths features the god Ôkuninushi, a descendant of Susano-ô. One of the most famous stories is about Ôkuninushi and the White Rabbit.

According to this tale, Ôkuninushi had 80 brothers, each of whom wanted to marry the same beautiful princess. On a journey to see the princess, the brothers came upon a rabbit with no fur in great pain at the side of the road. They told the animal that it could get its fur back by bathing in saltwater, but this only made the pain worse. A little while later, Ôkuninushi arrived and saw the suffering rabbit. When he asked what had happened, the rabbit told him how it had lost its fur.

After hearing this story, Ôkuninushi told the rabbit to bathe in clear water and then roll in some grass pollen on the ground. The rabbit followed this plan, and new white fur soon grew on its body. The rabbit, who was actually a god, rewarded Ôkuninushi by promising that he would marry the beautiful princess. Ôkuninushi’s success angered his brothers, and a number of other myths in the Izumo Cycle tell about the struggles between them.”

This beautiful indigo dyed cotton tstutsugaki panel is shown here in part: not shown is its upper half on which is rendered a resist dyed famly crest, the subject being stylized  folding fans.  The entire piece measures 83″ x 13″/211 cm x 33 cm and it dates to the late 19th century.  This is a panel from a futon cover; the futon cover was reconfigured from a yogi, or sleeping kimono.