青海波
seigaiha"Blue ocean waves." First recorded as a court-music costume in the Heian period; the repeat mimics the patient layering of distant surf seen from the Ise headlands.
A scattering of pine needles, cut by hand from mulberry-paper laminated with persimmon tannin. Backlit, the negative space breathes — a stencil holds shape only as long as the cutter's patience does.
For four generations our house has cut katagami from mulberry paper and laid them, sheet by sheet, against bolts of silk and ramie. The result is not printed — it is resisted. The fabric remembers what the stencil refused to give it. We dye twelve metres in a day, no more.
Each bolt is photographed at three distances — the raking-light macro of weave structure, the pattern repeat, and the bolt-end drape. Hover the title for the pattern's etymology.
"Blue ocean waves." First recorded as a court-music costume in the Heian period; the repeat mimics the patient layering of distant surf seen from the Ise headlands.
"Hemp leaf." Worn on infant kimono as a charm — hemp grows straight and quickly, a wish for the wearer to do the same. The hexagram radiates from a single cut point.
"The pattern of good manners." Dots arranged on a 45° grid, each spaced as if bowing toward the next. Edo-Komon's most disciplined cut — over 900 perforations per square centimetre.
A bolt of katazome silk passes through twelve sets of hands before it leaves the workshop. Scroll the rail — the photographs march in the order the work is done, from a single brush of charcoal on washi to the final salt-rinse in the river.

A first pencil tracing on persimmon-tanned washi; the lattice is laid out by eye.

Three layers of mulberry paper are pasted together, fibre running crosswise.

Sheets are brushed with fermented persimmon juice and cured outdoors for ninety days.

The carver works in stillness — a single dragged blade for every aperture in the field.

Komon dots are punched, not cut — a single forged awl, rotated by the wrist.

Fine silk gauze is glued across the stencil so floating islands do not collapse.

A spatula drags warm nori across the stencil and into the weave below.

The bolt is hung in the shade. Direct sun cracks the resist; only ambient air will do.

Sukumo, wood-ash lye, sake, and patience: the vat ferments for two weeks.

Eighteen short dips, each followed by oxidation in open air. The cloth turns green, then blue.

The rice-paste is dissolved in cold running water; the reserved pattern emerges cream-white.

Steamed, stretched on bamboo poles, folded into a tan — twelve metres, ready to leave.
For interior houses, ceremonial tailors, and patrons commissioning a single garment, we accept a small number of bespoke yardage projects each year. Bring us a family crest, a poem, a Heian textile fragment — we will cut a new katagami from it.

Painterly, polychrome, with rice-paste piped from a cone — a manner inherited from the Genroku-era painter Miyazaki Yūzen. Our house keeps the wax-rosin recipe his apprentice carried east.
In autumn we still grind our own pigments at the Kamo river, drying the powders on cedar boards — a half-day's labour for an hour of brushwork.
A monochrome counter-tradition perfected by samurai retainers forbidden bright colour: at three paces a solid grey; at three inches, a constellation of nine-hundred-per-square-centimetre dots.
Our seventh-generation cutter, Komuro Tatsu, holds the designation ningen kokuhō — Living National Treasure — for komon work first cut at age fourteen.
Shirokane Tōkichi opens a single-vat workshop in Ise.
A second house opens in Nishijin; the looms come east.
Apprenticeship begins under the Yotsuya school.
Komuro Tatsu is formally designated ningen kokuhō.
Twelve metres a day, by hand, and not a metre more.