This year has been filled with many thrilling changes. At this time last year we first announced that we would be moving; in February we did. Most of February was spent packing boxes and moving them into our new location at 9469 Jefferson Blvd in Culver City. The undertaking of moving a shop of any kind is no easy feat. With the help of friends and family, we were able to streamline the move (you can only imagine the pressure of relocating hundreds of thousands papers). By March 1st we were up and running at the new space. SGC 2017 took HPI staff to Atlanta in the middle of March to learn about and meet printmakers from all over the world. Later in March, Yuki and Hiromi led over a dozen participants through Japan during our biannual Washi Tour.
In April, acclaimed LA artist and friend Kenny Scharf painted our outside walls with his iconic imagery and shortly thereafter we had our House Warming party with an amazing turnout of customers and friends. The party also kicked off our special springtime sale. By May we felt at home and HPI staff visited Chicago for the annual AIC conservation conference. The summer months brought about a papermaking workshop at Craft & Folk Art Museum and the first of two bookbinding workshops (and first workshop in general) at our new location led by Rebecca Chamlee.
The Autumn months saw our second big change this year: the launch of our new website for which we've been taking into account and appreciating all of the feedback received. In October we led our first ever Hiromi Paper MEGA Workshop; the popularity of our Kite Making and Orizome Dyeing workshop with kite master Mikio Toki was astronomical and subsequently grew from 12 participants to nearly 40.
October also led us to the Guild of Bookworkers meeting in Tacoma Washington where we got to meet some of the most talented bookmakers in the country. In December we participated in a local vendors fair at ALLEM, a Japanese and Spanish language immersion school in Culver City were we were able to introduce ourselves to many new friends. The new year will kick off with a stint in Philadelphia for the CBAA conference and vendor fair and the return of Bill Schultz for our Washi Backing Workshops in January and February. Thank you so much for yet another wonderful year.
From World of Washi, we wish you a warm winter and a joyful New Year.
-HPI Staff
]]>Okamoto Shrine |
(photo: Yoshinao Sugihara) |
Photo: Jacinta Johnson |
Cooking the tomato stems before dyeing |
Sumi craftsman collecting the soot formed on the lid |
Sumi pieces hung to dry |
Regular Jin-Shofu: wheat paste |
Furu-nori: aged paste |
Mitsumata blooming on the hillsides at Kochi (image credit: Yuki) |
2017 Washi Tour's participants assembled at entrance to Tosa Washi Village QRAUD |
Osamu Hamada making Usu Mino (Photo: Jacinta Johnson) |
Hidaka Washi Tengucho being rolled (Photo: Jacinta Johnson) |
Toolmaker, Yamamoto-san, in his studio with the tour (Photo: Jacinta Johnson) |
Yamamoto-san demonstrating a repair on a su (screen) (Photo: Jacinta Johnson) |
So Kubota demonstrating his papermaking technique |
Shinichiro Abe-san (Izumo Mingeishi maker) |
Yuki practicing her washi making skills |
Sal in her studio
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From Japan: Keiji Oki of Mohachi Paper in Fukui Prefecture
Translated by Yuki Katayama
Keiji Oki is the third generation Mohachi papermaker. Mohachi is an extra heavy weight yet soft paper. It is sized internally, making the papers suitable for printmaking, painting and ink-jet printing.
(This article was published in 2016, in 2017, Oki-san sadly passed away from a long battle with cancer. We will never forget his beautiful papers and his wonderful stories.)
Can you tell us a little about the history of Mohachi paper?
From the Edo period, the Oki mill originally made only Hosho papers. It was only from early Showa period that first generation Mohachi Oki became interested in making a Japanese watercolor paper for western painting. The beginning of WWII prompted the development of a thick Japanese paper, since the supply at the time was all western papers that could not be imported during the war. This type of paper was invented with guidance from Mr. Hakutei Ishii (painter and print artist, one of the fathers of the sosaku hanga (creative print) movement) It was named "MO" paper, from the first two letters of Mr. Mohachi Oki.
Post-war, once the production of MO Mohachi paper normalized, the production of larger sized papers and printmaking papers began. These papers were not for mokuhanga, but for methods such as lithography, etching and silkscreen.
Any new papers that you'd like to try making? I'd like to try making papers using the same materials as the Mohachi paper, but cater to new needs of artists or printmakers. That is how the largest size 31" x 47" Mohachi paper was developed, because there was a higher demand for larger paper for artists to use.
What is your view on the future of washi? I'd like to focus on promoting the large variety of papers that Echizen has and showing the world what Echizen Washi has to offer. Also, I am still in the process of thinking of ways to keep Mohachi papers relevant and increase demand.
Any hobbies outside of papermaking?
I like to climb mountains and run marathons in my free time. My current goal is to climb as many mountains as I can in the "100 Famous Japanese Mountains" list.
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The news got to Rembrandt quickly.
The first trade ships from Japan had just dropped anchor in Amsterdam harbor. And among the exotic treasures in their holds was rumored to be a rare, beautiful paper. Luminescent, incredibly lightweight, yet more than strong enough to hold a printer's ink.
Rembrandt hurried through a maze of alleyways to the shop of the paper merchant. The artist arrived just as the new sheets from Japan were being carefully stacked on wooden shelves.
"Gampi", stated the merchant. "Made from the bark of a shrub that grows only in the wild. Quite expensive."
The cost of the paper did not register with Rembrandt. He was lost in thought, caressing a sheet, imagining the effects his dry point technique could achieve on its silken surface.
"I'll take a packet. Just put it on my bill".
"Your already considerable bill", muttered the merchant.
But Rembrandt was already out the door, the gampi papers tucked carefully under his arm. He moved quickly along the canal, not even stopping for a potato pancake at his favorite vendor.
Arriving at his large (heavily mortgaged) house he hurried up two flights of stairs to his printmaking studio and began to experiment.
The results were stunning. The gampi's smooth finish held his ink on its surface, creating a rich, velvety effect. And the papers' warm tone softened contrast in a pleasing manner he had never achieved with even the finest western parchment.
Rembrandt was so pleased he immediately incorporated gampi into his most important etching editions, the first western artist to do so. He would make several impressions of each state, some on western paper, a select few on Japanese.
Unlike other print artists of the time who released only the final state, Rembrandt considered all states building to the final state as works of art themselves, and marketed them as such. He was unique in this practice. And it was the impressions on gampi that became the most sought after by collectors of the day.
As an artist, Rembrandt was fortunate to be living in a 1650's Holland with whom Japan made its first western trade agreement. It was this "luck" combined with his fiercely open-minded, searching nature that led him to experiment with gampi. His desire for the deepest, most inward expression in his work was answered by the warm, living presence of this beautiful paper from Japan.
Author's note: I am indebted to Erik Hinterding, whose essay "The Etchings - Experimental Technique" in the catalogue of the "Late Rembrandt" exhibition (2015 Rijksmuseum) provided invaluable insights.
Early April, I attended a conservation conference in London held by ICON (Institute of Conservation). This was my first time at an international meeting, but it actually didn't feel much of a difference from conferences held in Japan.
There is one experience from London that has stuck with me.
There was a group of young Japanese conservators conversing with local young conservators, passionately explaining the methods and functions of karibari in English, which of course is not their first language. Beside them is the local translator, nonchalantly speaking in fluent Japanese. Eager students taking memos of lectures, word for word in English. All of these scenes showed me that the language and cultural barriers between countries are fading rapidly.
After returning to Japan, my trusty cell phone of one year began acting up, making it very difficult to hear my phone calls. It turns out that the phone was not broken at all, but my plastic screen protector was simply covering the holes, making it hard to hear. The clerk at this local shop window was not Japanese, but quietly listened and helped me with my 'problem'. Even in a small town such as Mino, I am experiencing the lack of barriers between languages, cultures and countries.
Through these very different experiences in London and in Mino, I feel firsthand that borders between countries are gradually fading and I am glad that I attended the ICON conference (though I do feel guilty for abandoning my paper making work during that time...)
As many of us know already, the majority of Japanese papers (washi) are made from Kozo bark. Back when the papermaking industry was still thriving, most if not all of the mills were using Japanese kozo as their main fibers. Nowadays, domestically grown kozo is difficult to find and obtain, so many papermakers are now using kozo imported from Thailand, Paraguay or other Asian countries. However, there is one of a few places in Japan that not only makes their own papers by hand, but cultivates their own kozo; this place is in Toyama Prefecture by the Miyamoto family. This summer, I participated in a 5-day program to learn and assist in working in the large kozo fields and maintaining the health of the kozo trees before their reaping season in the fall. The Miyamoto family collaborates with universities in Japan every summer with an internship program to accept current students into their home and work to teach them firsthand this important process in Japanese papermaking.
To be perfectly honest, I underestimated the amount of hard work that is put into caring for the kozo trees. I had imagined the work to be mostly cutting excess grass and weeds that grow around the kozo roots in the off seasons, and trim some branches. Starting with the 6AM radio exercises, we were in the fields for a total of 8 hours a day. Luckily it wasn't scorching heat like it usually is in the summer, which made the work a little more pleasant. The daily work in the fields consisted of three major tasks: cutting the grass/weeds with a sickle, nipping excess buds, and cutting excess branches with scissors. These three steps are continued during the summer in 3 rotations, for all 3 kozo fields that Miyamoto-san owns.
Since Yukyu-shi is produced using 100% homegrown kozo with no additives or chemicals, it is considered a high-quality conservation level paper in Japan as well as around the world. Compared to other Japanese conservation papers, I feel that Yukyu-shi is not as well known, but I hope Hiromi Paper can help in educating people on the significance of this beautiful paper. The hardest part of the work was dealing with the many insects of Gokayama (I will introduce them in a blog post to follow). Blood-sucking-bee-like insects would attack us all throughout the day, attracted to human odors and humidity. A crawling insect, what locals call "kanjyo", feed on kozo leaves which stops the plant's growth. These insects need to be exterminated one by one, to prevent the kozo plants from being too small. It is this daily laborious work that creates the highest quality kozo bark for washi. It is also surprising that by the end of the papermaking process, only 5-10% of the harvested Kozo makes it into the finished sheet.
Thank you to the Miyamoto family!
Bergy Bit Paintings on Nepalese Paper
Artist's Statement by J. J. L'Heureux
www.jjlheureux.com
"I am an abstract painter. I often use landscape as the inspiration for my work. The road from the physical environment to the inspiration on the canvas attempts to convey my enthusiasm and attraction to a place, its wildlife and selected aspects of the actual physical scenery.
Antarctica is remote, vast, windy and cold. Yet it is the most pristine place in all regards. It contains life in the most amazing forms and adaptations including penguins (birds that do not fly), birds that fly, seals, whales and in few places a handful of plants. While it is a place dominated by white on white there are colors in this setting of ice and snow that most people would be surprised to see.
Few people have had the privilege to travel to any part of this continent. There is a complex process underway among the many nations working in Antarctica of expanding the imagery of Antarctica into our shared cultural inventory of word, picture, music and scientific discovery.
Since my first visit thirteen years ago I have been building my own visual vocabulary. Bergy Bits is my first series of ice paintings. I have a photographic series that captures the colors and life in the snow and ice landscape. It is my intention to use different disciplines to capture my varied responses to this most wondrous place.
We visited J.J.'s studio in late July, to see the Bergy Bits Series she was finishing up on. We were surprised to see how she incorporated the textured Nepalese papers into her work, using the bumpy textures of the papers to portray the coarse surfaces of the actual icebergs in the Southern Ocean. Over some coffee and J.J's delicious homemade chocolate pudding, we asked her a few questions regarding her work:
Why did you choose to work with the Nepal papers for this series?
I loved the Nepal paper's texture. I used to create my own bumpy textures on smooth papers, but when I found this Nepalese paper at Hiromi, it saved me a lot of trouble.
Do you go through any special preparations?
I have someone make the special size custom panels for me, then stretch the papers on to them and adhered with PVA glue. Then, I apply gesso before I start with my oil paints. I feel that oil paints have more texture than acrylic, which tends to become 'flat'.
What is your main inspiration?
Well of course it comes from my expeditions to the South Ocean! Since 2000, I've been going every year on these adventures, and have been making art, conducting research and helping people ever since.
How long have you been using papers from Hiromi Paper?
Since Hiromi was at the Marina Del Rey location. She has the best papers, best variety and most availability. No one is disappointed with Hiromi's Papers!
Winter 2008, Volume 14, No. 1
TORORO-AOI (Nebishi)
By Satoshi Hasegawa
Tororo-aoi (nebishi)
Tororo-Aoi (or nebishi) is not particular to just Mino and it was once used in paper production throughout many Japanese paper mills in Japan. Tororo-Aoi is part of the hollyhock plant family; the slimey liquid, which is extracted from the roots, is an invaluable asset to washi papermakers using the Japanese technique called nagashizuki. Once it was said that it was grown in numerous places, but not anymore. Currently, some self-sufficient paper mills grow Tororo-Aoi themselves. Ibaraki-ken and Kochi-ken are known as the main cultivators of Tororo-Aoi. Recently, papermakers in Mino have been requesting plants from cultivators in Ibaraki-ken; and once each year around November, the harvested Tororo-Aoi are shipped to Mino.
The ideal time for harvest is typically during the finer days of fall in November. However, Tororo-Aoi must be collected and shipped off immediately because it is fragile in nature. You can see every member of each family harvesting Tororo-Aoi together when there is no rain.
Trucks, full of Tororo-Aoi, drive off in a hurry through the night to deliver to mills in Mino by early morning. After the drop-off in Mino, the trucks head west with a year’s supply of Tororo-Aoi to deliver to papermaking mills throughout Japan. The trucks drive as far as Kyushu just to deliver these precious plants. Without Tororo-Aoi, even skilled papermakers would be unable to make high quality washi.
Tororo-Aoi is called nebishi in Mino. The quality of the paper depends on the quality of nebishi. When I arrived in Mino over ten years ago, there were twice as many papermakers as there are today. They would wait anxiously to receive nebishi early in the morning. It was somewhat frightening how seriously papermakers examined the qualities of nebishi with eagle eyes. Over the years, the number of papermakers has decreased, and along with them, nebishi deliveries have also dwindled. Despite this, the sheer excitement that exudes on the important day when nebishi is delivered has never faded. Each papermaker creates nebishi using different methods, and this will instantly inspire the topic of conversations among them: “What are your results when using this technique?” “How is that new paper going?” etc. This time of the year is usually the start of the peak season for papermaking. The arrival of nebishi is a bell that signals the beginning of the papermaking season.
The Gampi Paper of Shikoku Wagami
By Tsuyoshi Ageta
Gampi, a raw material used in making washi, has been used just as long as kozo, another material in washi making. Gampi paper is called the “King of Paper” because of its very fine fibers, which result in high quality, beautiful paper.
Unlike kozo, the cultivation of the gampi is difficult because of its slow growth. If one uses gampi to make washi, wild gampi has to be obtained. Therefore, the chiritori process becomes difficult since many chiri (dirt and dust particles or damaged fibers) have to be removed. Though making gampi paper is a tough process, it is worth the beautiful quality it results in.
Shikoku Wagami is a factory that specializes in making gampi papers. Everyday there are workers who spend day and night solely removing the chiri from the gampi fiber. This chiritori process doesn’t require special skills, but is very labor intensive. I myself have experienced this chiritori process once before. I spread the gampi fiber on the palm of my hand and looked for the tiny, black chiri to remove them. The chiri would come up over and over again, and each time I would have to take them out. Even after one to two hours of the process, only a little portion of the gampi fiber was ready.
While I performed this tedious task, I thought to myself what the gampi papers were used for, and at that second, I imagined somebody with a sad expression holding up a finished gampi paper with the chiri still left behind and another with a blissful expression holding up a flawless one. Then, I realized why these workers continue to perform this tedious task: to see their customers’ excited, pleased faces when they see the product in their hand.
Gampi paper developed into copying paper because of its smooth and transparent surface. Around the year 1900, the use of gampi paper drastically increased as the paper was developed for mimeographs. To be used for mimeographs, a thin sheet of gampi is covered with wax, then words are written with pencil and holes are formed. Through the holes, the ink seeps through to print. This easy method of printing spread throughout Japan. I remember my teachers in elementary school used this method to create answer sheets and I would use it to create anthologies.
Shikoku Wagami has been the number one factory in producing gampi paper in Japan. Today we have added machines to make the process faster. After the workers handpick the chiri out of the gampi fiber, it is processed through the machine for another intense chiritori in three different stages. Also, with this machine, two types of paper can be processed at once to produce one paper, which is our surface gampi paper.
Today 53-year-old Akiyoshi Kariya, who is the third generation from his grandfather, runs this factory. His personality is gentle like the gampi papers and he has great expectations for the future of the factory.
In Japan, June is the month in which most areas of Japan experience the rainy season. The heavy rainfall continues for about one month. Because the humidity and temperature begin to rise, it becomes difficult to dry the papers. Because of this, my papermaking factory goes about papermaking in a very orderly way to best take advantage of this. Of course, this is not to say that you cannot create paper during the rainy season, but that the quality of the paper is greatly affected by the weather. If you try to continue to make paper during such weather, many of the papermaking processes become very difficult and end in failure. Because making paper is not the only work that must be done (for example: creating all the products that must be used in papermaking), one has to use the summer time to the best of one’s abilities not to waste time.
When the rainy season ends, the hot summer heat increases exponentially. When the heat and the sunlight are at their most high, it becomes the time to dry the papers. It is also the time to ensure that the drying boards are clean of any dirt so as not to sully the fibers of the paper. This sort of work is one of the biggest jobs in papermaking, but I suppose that many people do not even realize that. For us papermakers, it’s essential and common knowledge that we must accommodate mother nature’s schedule to create paper. We must continue to do everything in the same way that our predecessors have done for many generations.
In the end, papermaking is not just a matter of finishing up and completing the job, but of creating harmony between the environment and the job that must be done. This concept is, indeed, very Japanese. For some it may seem tiresome or like too much work, but the feeling of carrying on a traditional art as deep as papermaking is truly amazing.
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One of the most interesting things about working at Hiromi Paper International is meeting and talking with the artists who come into our store for paper. Last year when Marcelo Balzaretti came in I was excited to see images of his work. He combines very basic, if not primitive, printmaking processes and contemporary video technology, as he uses prints as the cells of an animated sequence. Shown on an LCD screen on the gallery wall his fish print animations, flicker and move like a real fish moving through water. Marcelo lives and works in Mexico, but his work has been shown in various locations around the world including, The Francisco Goitya Museum and Network Mill Gallery in Johnson, Vermont.
The following is an e-interview between us:
Q: What is your training in printmaking and when did you learn about and start making fish prints?
Answer: I got involved in printmaking in 1997 at the National School of Visual Arts of the National Autonomous University of Mexico after finishing a B.F.A. I started my training with courses in woodcut, etching and engraving. Three years ago, while working on a series of prints from three-dimensional inked matrixes such as reproductions of a sheep’s head, a skull or my own face and body, I found the book “Gyotaku The Japanese Art of Fishprinting” by Yoshio Hiyama and after reading the first pages decided to start working on it.
Q: If I am correct, you make prints and then create animations using those prints. Where did this idea come from and what made you pursue it?
Answer: Since the beginning, I focused my research in a way to bridge the gap between existing conditions in Mexican printmaking and the contemporary art context. I combined medias such as sculpture, printmaking, and cinematography so that one media adds significance to the other by revealing something about the other’s nature.
For example realizing that no matter which workshop they come from, 50 prints from an edition will always have differences. Spread or stacked the prints can easily be seen as a sequence. I display this sequence as a moving image to reveal something about printmaking’s nature: a whole consisting of different moments or each print as unique. Some animations are made from copies printed traditionally as an edition; others are altered intentionally on the plates or inked in different ways.
Q: I also see your work as an interesting dialogue between cultures and processes. Would you agree with this and if so does it affect your final product?
Answer: In my recent work I explored printmaking's capability to produce an image by inking three-dimensional objects and stamping them on paper. By pushing the printing processes to a confluence zone, the photographic likeness of the so produced image vanishes resulting an almost automatist drawing method.
I started working on three-dimensional matrixes while reviewing printmaking history and discovering the Shroud of Turin, simultaneously a monoprint, relic and icon that served as a departure-point image for the occidental visual culture. When an inked object is registered on a paper or fabric, some areas of the so produced image are almost photographic, while others remain like bold drawing or simple ink blots. I liked the fact that judged for its results, without the need of pushing it to the boundaries or combining it with any other media, the process itself remains in a liminal zone within photography, drawing and printmaking.
After researching the Turin Shroud, I felt Gyotaku fish printing was very close to my work, not only for its apparent similarities, but because I noticed that in his book preface Yoshio Hiyama defends fish printing by comparing it with photography. He attributes artistic value to its ability to exactly register the size of a fish in a beautiful manner. The author conceived Gyotaku as a register method comparable with photography, it means that he found a similar connection to the one I did in the Shroud series.
Fish printing offers me the possibility to continue exploring this process free of prevailing concepts in a way that let me decide a complete new set of references to work with.
Q: Can you speak to the papers you use and why you prefer them?
Answer: I visited Hiromi Paper to get the Japanese papers recommended in the book “The Japanese Art of fish printing” with the aim to develop skill in the different methods described by Yoshio Hiyama, and the quality and variety I found there really haunted me. I spent a day to decide on twenty different papers to use.
Thinner ones are the best to print Gyotaku because they suit the fish volume when wet and doesn’t tear because of the large fibers they are made of. Even though some are almost transparent they still hold ink well, and produce a feeling of an immaterial floating image. (Editors note: We recommend
On the other hand heavier and larger papers are excellent to back different prints and produce larger compositions.
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The process of fish printing or Gyotaku is a traditional Japanese art form. The process documents the size and surface of a fish by making a print of it. It is interesting to compare two artists, one from Japan, and the other from Mexico who are creating fish prints for different artistic reasons and with different end products.
Gyotaku print by Mineo Ryuka Yamamoto
Mineo Ryuka Yamamoto is considered a master nature printer and travels from his home in Japan around the world teaching his process and making gyotaku prints. Mineo uses an indirect method of printing where he first drapes a piece of paper or fabric over the fish, bird, or animal to be printed and then applies color with a special tool. Mineo makes the tampo himself, carefully wrapping pure cotton in the finest silk and securing it with a rubber band. He uses the tampo to gently apply an oil-based paint to the paper or fabric applying color and capturing the surface texture of scale, hair, or feathers. Working in layers, Mineo first applies a light base color and then more colors to capture as accurately as possible the coloring and markings of each creature he is printing.
In his travels Mineo, has printed a large variety of fish and other aquatic creatures, often working with scientists and other nature conservation groups. But his printing is not limited to sea life; he has even printed a tiger and a horse. Mineo prints are intended to be an exact replica of the animal he is printing as he prints it scale-by-scale or hair-by-hair. The final prints are beautiful items reflecting Mineo’s skill and patience as a printer and the nature of the animal itself. He often prints on fabrics, generally polyester, but also prints on washi. For a recent workshop in gyotaku at Hiromi Paper, Mineo made small gyotaku prints on the sheets of a sample book. He found Mino Gami (HM-3) to be very receptive to his process, having a nice balance of thinness and wet strength. He also got good results with Tengucho (HM-1) and Kozo White (HM-2).
Marcelo Balzaretti was attracted to gyotaku because of this reproductive and photographic-like quality. Marcelo lives and works in Mexico and began working in printmaking after getting a BFA from the National School of Visual Arts of the National Autonomous University of Mexico where he studied woodcut, engraving and etching.
He discovered gyotaku while creating a series of work printed directly from three-dimensional objects such a sheep head, a skull and his own body. Work he began after researching the Shroud of Turin which he refers to as being “simultaneously a monoprint, relic and icon that served as a departure-point image for the occidental visual culture”. Marcelo is interested in how a print of an object can be transitory, almost photographic in some areas with poor detail like an inkblot or drawing in other areas. His research led him to the book “Gyotaku: The Japanese Art of Fishprinting” by Yoshio Hiyama which led him in turn to Hiromi Paper.
Although trained as a printmaker, Marcelo often does not stop with the finished print but works with prints as a means to develop animations. He combines the basic, if not primitive process of gyotaku with contemporary video technology, using prints as the cells of an animated sequence. Shown on an LCD screen on the gallery wall his fish print animations, flicker and move like a real fish moving through water.
Marcelo works with gyotaku in a direct manner applying ink to the fish or three-dimensional object he is working with and then printing it onto paper by a direct means, as well as the indirect manner than Mineo uses. He uses the process to replicate physical aspects of the world as well as to portray social, political, and individual issues as well. In his Gyotaku series, Marcelo says economical and social issues underlie the decorative images. Simple allegories like “big fish eats small fish” reflect diminishing, global market and social organization. In his own words Marcelo says “In the aim to portray social and economic issues a taste of the long abandoned Mexican Printmaking Tradition remains, I don’t ignore that a coincidence in the theme may be found, but in my work there are no goods nor bads, there are no correct policies or utopias. Refusing anecdotic I just present the thing raw as it is, there are many different species in the ocean, big, small, some times I order them in a way they produce meaning, in others I leave the public to compare them and arrive to their own conclusions.”
Like Mineo, Marcelo has also experimented with a variety of washi for his prints. He also agrees the best papers for gyotaku printing are thin with a good wet strength, meaning they won’t easily tear when dampened. Marcelo commented on how papers like Tengucho work very well and create an image because of their thinness that seems immaterial and floating. He has also experimented with heavier and thicker papers, such as Kozo-shi Thick (MM-7), Yamada Hanga (YH-1) and Yukyu-shi Medium (HM-56) for larger prints, and to back prints on thinner papers producing larger compositions.
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Hosho student is one of the most widely known and used Japanese papers. Most larger art supply stores carry it, and more often than not it can be found on the supply list for university level introductory printmaking classes. However, the name Hosho does not belong just to this paper, but instead to a large group of Japanese papers.
Hosho-shi translates into “document paper,” a name that reflects the history, tradition and use of this paper. Manufacture of Hosho began in the 16th century, in the Echizen district of today’s Fukui Prefecture, an area where the paper continues to be made. During the Edo period, Hosho was a luxury item, made only of the best kozo for uses of the samurai and aristocracy. By the mid 18th century it was the preferred paper for Ukiyo-e woodblock printing. Able to withstand the stresses of multiple color printing, the technology of Hosho papers and ukiyo-e printing were intertwined from that point on. Over time additions and substitutions were made to Hosho pulp, and the result is the wide range of Hosho papers available today. A range that includes the Echizenshosho, the fine artist grade paper made of pure kozo by one of Japan’s National living treasure, as well as the sulphite pulp Hosho used because of its bright white color for disposal mass-produced ceremonial documents.
HPI’s inventory of Hosho, all handmade or semi-handmade, also varies greatly in their material make-up. Hosho student (HM-52) and Hosho professional (HM-51) are composed purely of sulphite pulp. Hosho Natural (HM-60) is composed of 80% kozo pulp with the remainder being sulphite.
The composition of these papers is reflected in their physical characteristics, the more kozo in the paper pulp, the smoother and more glass-like the working surface. The higher concentration of sulphite pulp is reflected in a softer, more fibrous working surface of the paper and a brighter white color. The kozo papers also tend to be more natural or off-white in color when compared to the bright white of the sulphite Hosho.
At the prompting of Hiromi, I have recently completed a printing test with each Hosho paper at HPI to gain a better understanding of their differences and similarities. For this project, I decided to create what I refer to as “combination prints” by printing both digitally, through the inkjet printer and traditionally, intaglio and relief, on each paper. This reflected my working practices while it also created a platform to fully test and challenge each paper. Working much like a scientist, I repeated the same processes without changing any variables on each paper. Success or failure was largely dependent on the paper’s ability to handle the stress of each process, and that ability directly correlated with the paper’s content.
The pure sulphite pulp composition of Hosho student (HM-52) and Hosho professional (HM-51) made these the more problematic papers with which to work. Sulphite pulp, a cellulose or wood pulp, is archival and often very close to a neutral ph, the fibers, however are short, which weakens the paper’s overall strength and flexibility. In order to get these soft and seemingly pliable papers through the inkjet, they had to be temporarily mounted to a support paper. Once through the printer the prints were good, although not as crisp as when printed on other papers. My first attempts with using these papers for intaglio printing were disastrous as they ripped, stretched, and stuck to the plate. Determined and with multiple attempts, I was able to get good, if not excellent, results from these papers with some coaxing along with minimal moisture and printing pressure. As expected these papers did work well for relief printing with the exception of surface marring if printing pressure was overly strong.
Results were different for the papers with the greater kozo content. Kozo, a bast fiber, from the mulberry plant is renowned for its long length and strength. These kozo based Hosho papers and Hosho Natural handled all printing process from my test very well. Overall these papers were easier to run through the inkjet printer, being somewhat more rigid than their sulphite pulp counterparts. These papers also worked well for intaglio and relief printing. Quality results came more easily from these papers as they captured bold velvety aquatint blacks, subtle delicate marks, and tonal transitions. The surfaces of these papers were less likely to be disturbed in either intaglio or relief printing.
Finally I printed on a one last sheet of kozo Hosho made by Japan’s National Living treasure, Ichibei Iwano. The sheet, part of HPI’s archive, was presented as a piece of art in itself as it bore the papermaker’s chop. Needless to say, this printer was filled with trepidation, but was pleased with the results as the paper responded well to my, perhaps meager abilities.
In the end this Hosho experiment affirmed the well known fact that paper content does indeed affect, if not dictate, the quality of the end artwork. Although Hosho student and Hosho professional should not be discredited in light of their own properties and low cost, they are not of the same quality as the other kozo based Hosho papers.
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Water dances on a suketa (papermaking frame)
On my second trip to Japan, in 1990, I visited a family papermaking operation in Ikazaki. Primarily interested in large, ripstop nylon, festival kites, I observed the grace of the makers as they immersed their suketa (and, of course, their hands) into the frigid water and magically produced sheet after sheet of washi. But it would be almost ten years before I used washi in my own kite work, so it took a “refresher” trip to re-enforce my appreciation for the paper making process and subtle characteristics of hand-made Japanese paper.
Having made kites for over 20 years, and flown them for another ten before that, I’ve seen kites made from an amazing array of materials; leaf-kites in the South Pacific, tissue and bamboo Indian fighting kites, silk and bamboo Chinese creations, rip-stop nylon and carbon-fiber contemporary European and American kites, and tyvek tm children’s workshop kites, to name a few. But in a country where the kite traditions are everywhere to be seen, Japan’s paper and bamboo creation have inspired me the most. Washi, especially that made from the mulberry plant (kozo), is ideal for kites: it is flexible, strong but light weight, tear resistant, and a beautiful canvas for paints, dyes, or photography. Varieties of kozo can be made especially for large kites like those in Shirone, while miniature makers like World’s Smallest Kite record holder Nobuhiko Yoshizumi might use one of the many micro-thin gampi papers.
Because the audience for the audience for this article is educated in the paper-making process in Japan and elsewhere, I won’t explain it in detail here, but see “What’s Washi”, The Hiromi Paper Catalog, or “Papermakers in Japan: Changes after Twenty Years”, by Betty Fiske and Hiromi for clear, concise explanations of the process. Let me give you a look at the kite traditions of Japan.
In the 2004 Hiromi Paper Catalog, a very powerful statement might be missed in casual reading; the “close relationship between papermaker and paper user resulted in washi becoming an integral part of the Japanese culture.” Certainly this appears to be the case with paper makers and kite makers. Kites were introduced to Japan sometime around the Nara period (A.D. 645-794), almost at the same time that paper was introduced by the Korean Buddhist priest, Doncho. The earliest written record of kites in Japan can be found in the Hizen no Kuni Fudoki (A.D. 720) and the Nihongi (A.D.697) both of which were written in Chinese characters. The earliest record of the Japanese-language word for kite occurs in the Wamyo ruiju sho, a Japanese dictionary compiled in the Shohei era (A.D. 931-938). From the first, it appears that paper was the chosen kite-sail material because both sets of Chinese characters for kite are described as an object made of paper in the shape of a hawk: shiroshi; paper, venerable hawk, and shien; paper hawk that “rides the wind and flies well”.
These early kites were most likely “T” shaped, with pocketed wings and long body. It is an aerodynamic shape that lends itself to creatures associated with flight-birds and insects- as well as gods and humans. The shape has survived through the centuries and we see it today in tombi, yakko, and sode kites. The yakko, or footman kite depicts the lowest-ranking retainer of a samurai household, a person mocked by commoners and made famous on the Kabuki stage in the Yakko-odori, footman dance. The sode, or sleeve kite is in the shape of a kimono and is famous in the Chiba area of Japan.
In the Wakan Sansai Zue, an illustrated encyclopedia published in 1712, we find the first visual representation of the ika-nobori (squid, banner) a kite that looks much like an octopus with bell-shaped body and five thin tails. In flight, this aerodynamic kite shpae is a convincing reproduction of the real squid or octopus and throughout Japan kites are known today as tako or ika.
The early years of the eighteenth century were marked with a Japanese kite-mania; shopkeepers neglected their stores to fly kites, crops and property were damaged by larger and larger kites, and Western encyclopedias describe Japanese skies filed with kites. Countless laws were passed to stem play, enforce restraint, and direct citizens toward purposeful pursuits. Size restrictions were enforced in some cities and artist were prohibited from using extravagant materials in their decorations (silver and gold leaf).
The most unique aspect of the kite culture of Japan is its regional or local focus. Because of the feudal nature of 1700’s and 1800’s Japan, provincial lords made twice-yearly visits to Tokyo, returning home with examples of the latest examples of art and craft. At first imitating Edo kites, rectangular and very rigid for the high winds, provincial designs gradually evolved into their distinctly regional forms that are seen today. These designs evolved based upon environment (the light, floppy, ho-dako of Ikazaki, a fighting kite flown in light, mountain winds), foreign influence (the early Hata of Nagasaki almost surely was introduced by Dutch traders from India), and festival tradition (large Hamamatsu and Shirone kites flown by teams to honor new births and foster neighborhood pride). In the book Kyobun azumanamari, Crazy Description of Eastern Dialects, printed in 1813, four major types of kite were identified: square kites painted with large characters; kites painted with a picture; kites in the shape of an object, like the yakko, tombi, or sode; and specialty kites, such as kites with lights for night flying.
Today, kite associations throughout Japan keep traditional kite making arts alive. Kites are associated in many cities with Children’s Day because of their association with strength, endurance, and long life. They are a New Years Icon as well and our best source of pictorial information comes from New years ukiyo-e made throughout the 19th century. The number of professional kitemakers continues to dwindle, but local and regional enthusiasts study the techniques and traditions to make the craft a vital one for the future. The kite festival at Hamamatsu provides the most vivid example of the traditional kite culture’s link to modern Japan. On Children’s Day, May 5th, kites are flown by over fifty local neighborhoods to celebrate children born in the previous year. Teams are comprised of children, who play in raucous bands; teenagers, who do the bulk of running and pulling; men, supervising final kite adjustments and flight; and women, cooking and serving tired kite fliers. Things are changing, with women taking a more active role in kite flying and making.
Using Washi today, one Kite aritst’s Approach.
From my first visit to Japan in 1989, and my first direct exposure to paper making in 1990, I knew that I would someday move to paper and bamboo as the kite making materials of choice. But the problem was my choice of artistic technique: I had use geometric patchwork designs from the early 1980’s and , through trial and error, had come upon those designs most appropriate for kites. I was limited by the very small palate afforded by the modern kite-sail materials, rip-stop nylon and polyester, so I knew that moving to paper would be exciting and rewarding. Working on the scale of paper kites (about one square meter). I could find no reliable technique that provided a consistent “seam”, a reliable bond, and a relative ease of execution. Once again, I was saved by a Japanese product; 2-and 3-millimeter-wide, double-sided tape! This provide me with an almost permanent paper-to- paper bond, a completely controllable seam line, and the right size tool for my work.
Scott Skinner
I have used a variety of Japanese papers, but prefer kozo because of its long fibers and surface variety. Strength and lightness, normally very important factors in the choice of kite sail material are not quite so important to me because of the very small individual pieces that are taped together to make the entire sail. In my most recent series of kites, I’ve used washi with laser jet printing to make a variety of black and white patchwork collages. As a complement to geometric patchwork, this is a much more “fabric-like” approach and provides limitless potential.
Having visited the paper makers on this year’s Hiromi Paper International Washi Tour, I realize that it is only through our continued use of their product that their art will survive. I’m inspired to make more paper kites and use more washi in future projects.
]]>The original meaning of the word Hogo is "begin all over again" or "go back to the start". Hogo paper is taken from discarded old books such as accounting ledgers, textbooks, old historical documents or family registers.
The aged papers are very good for use in lining the wooden base core of byobu (folding screens) and fusuma (sliding doors). Since the folding parts of Byobu are delicate and sensitive, the flexibility of aged paper is very helpful to avoid damage from distortions which could be made by newer papers or fresher stronger pastes.
Due to it's similarity of color and texture, Hogo is also used to restore old manuscripts.
Hogo paper is still available in Japan, mostly at antique fairs, but it hard to find and growing more expensive.
To check out our Hogo collection, click HERE.
Spring 2003, Volume 9, No. 2
MODEL AIRCRAFT AND JAPANESE TISSUE PAPER
By John Morril
Why Japanese Tissue? To be a successful flyer, a rubber-powered model must be lightly built for the amount of wing area. This is known as "wing loading." The airplane must also be strong to hold the tension and torque of a fully wound motor and withstand the shock of hitting objects when landing. The method evolved of making a light skeleton framework using small wood sticks for each of the parts - wings, tail, and body. At first, spruce and basswood were the best. In the middle 1920's, balsa wood was discovered. This wood is much lighter and has a very strong weight to strength ratio. It also varies greatly in weight and so different weights can be chosen for different strength needs. Balsa was a great benefit in reducing the weight of the skeleton framework. Bamboo was also used. Bamboo, split as small as 1/32 inch square, was bent over candle flame to form rounded outlines such as wingtips. However, an open framework will not fly very well so it has to be made airtight with a covering material. In the very early years, lightweight Chinese silk was used. The silk was made for lining caskets. Modelers soon discovered it could be used for covering their models. Coating it with airplane dope, a cellulous lacquer, sealed it. I don't know when Japanese tissue was first used as a covering but it certainly was in widespread use by 1925. It proved to be a very good material. It was inexpensive compared to silk. It was light, it was airtight, and it was strong for it's weight. Japanese tissue also will shrink tight on the framework when lightly sprayed with water. The secret to its shrinking properties is the long fibers, which make up the tissue. The shrinking adds a tremendous torsional rigidity to the light frame. In practice the frame can be made lighter as the shrunk tissue contributes so much strength to the whole part, in effect a monocoque construction. Today there are those of us who like to build traditional free flight model airplanes. The "scientific model" of yesteryear still exists and contests are still held. The designs have changed greatly and it is now difficult not to lose them out of sight when they fly into a thermal current. Beginning in the 1930's we set them to fly in circles and time duration only. There now are enthusiasts who like to recreate old-timer models from the 1930's, 40's, and 50's. These airplanes do seem to have more character than the modern super-efficient free flight models. Since the early years, there was also the desire to build small replicas of full sized aircraft. These are called flying scale models. These use the same building techniques. They are more difficult to build light, as they have to have more frameworks. They are more difficult to fly, as they look unscaled if the features that stabilize scientific models are used. The rubber scale model became more of a caricature of the full sized airplane, and therein lies its charm. Many modelers prefer to use colored tissue rather than paint. The light shining through the tissue reveals the underlying framework. Even when using paint many spray it on lightly to retain this translucent effect. Since the framework has to be simplified to gain lightness, the total effect is an impression or illusion of a full sized airplane.
What is Japanese Tissue? The earliest catalogs I have to date are from 1930, the earliest magazines, a few years earlier. The Japanese tissue the ads mention is called "Hakone", "Imperial", "Silk Tissue", and "Superfine". The weights are difficult to determine. However one catalog does give some weights. "Imperial" seems to be at the 12-13 gram/M2 weight and the "Superfine" about 1/2 of that. Prices for the regular tissue were 5 cents or less a sheet, and "Superfine is 10 cents a sheet. During the 1920's and 1930's, model aircraft must have caused a major use of Japanese tissue. There were literally several hundreds of thousands of boys building models. One of the popular model magazines, "Air Trails", had a monthly circulation of 800,000 issues in 1939. Kit manufactures of small rubber powered models literally shipped millions of kits just before the Second World War. Japanese Tissue was unavailable, of course, during the Second World War. It became available again after the war and continues to be available right up to now. The tissue we buy today weighs in the 12 gram/M2 range and is known by its Japanese distributor name, "Esaki." But what happened to the lightweight "superfine" of the 1930's? Hiromi has what I think it was or something very similar. It is the gampi paper made by Kanetoshi Ozaki and listed as Usuyo Gampi White-HP-09. It is pleasing to me that the tissue I use on my handmade models is handmade by maybe only one man. Quite a change from years ago when there must have been many more paper makers. Thank you Mr. Ozaki. For more information please contact: John Morrill |
Summer 2003 , Volume 9, No. 3
REMBRANDT AND GAMPI
by Bruce Meade
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The old man labors up the cobblestone street. He pulls his coat tight against the bitter wind knifing in from the North Sea. His eyes are hopeful despite the fact that he has buried two wives, his children, and lost his house to creditors. His name is Harmensz van Rijin Rembrandt and he is looking for a sheet of paper. At the paper vendors shop he runs his sensitive fingers over fine German and French rag, as well as the Dutch oatmeal paper he has used in the past. They are beautiful, but he needs something special. In his minds eye he has a vision of a soft white sheet that will take the velvety ink of his etching plate so that the print will seem bathed in light. The image will be a self-portrait. A depiction of himself, a wrinkled, sagging, jowly old man. Humbled by loss and suffering, yet he is still able to stare out at the world with steadfast acceptance, a document of the enduring human spirit. He has already etched the image onto a copper plate. He will print only one impression, for he has learned that his with his pioneering technique of drypoint the plate will not hold up to repeated use. Besides he is no longer interested in appealing to a larger public through means of editions. He wishes only to produce one perfect print. But it seems he will be denied. None of the papers in the shop suit his needs, and compromise is not in his nature. He is about to part when a glint of pearlescent white strikes his eye. The glow comes from a stack of papers in a far corner of the crowded room. Rembrandt moves to this paper and caresses its silken surface. "From Japan" explains the shop keep, pointing out the strange, exotic stamps on the wrapping. Which, if they could read Japanese, would identify the paper as Gampi, hand made in Ohmi. The Dutch have just signed a treaty with the Shogun in Edo, making them the first western country to have a trade agreement with closed door Japan. And handmade paper, with its long tradition of beauty and excellence, has been designated by the Shogun as one of Japan's first exports. These sheets of Gampi were among the cargo loaded on one of the first Dutch trade ships to ply the route from Yokohama to Amsterdam. Rembrandt expertly handles the paper. He feels intuitively that it is right for his needs. Though he pays dearly he does not care. Poverty does not frighten him, he knows his time on this earth is short. All that counts now is the work. He returns to his studio and in the thin, slanting light of the afternoon inks his etching plate. After dampening the sheet of Gampi he places it over the plate and turns the wheels of the press. The paper responds beautifully, allowing the ink to create the subtle tonal transitions he has envisioned. So pleased is the master that for the rest of his life he seeks out Gampi paper for his major drypoint etchings. Since the days of publishers clamoring to edition his works are long gone, the old man simply stores his masterful self-portrait in a box with a handful of others. A few years later, upon his death, the etching is given to a baker to settle a debt of a few gilders. Three hundred years later it sells at a New York City auction for One Million U.S. dollars. Rembrandt, like all true artists, remained open to the influences swirling through his world. By taking advantage of the winds of political change blowing between Holland and Japan in the mid 17th century he became one of the first western printmakers to utilize handmade Japanese paper. Thus began a tradition that Hiromi Paper Int. is helping to continue into the 21st century, supplying contemporary artists with the highest quality Gampi for their etching, chin colle, and digital printing projects. |
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Winter 2002, Volume 9, No. 1
A Passion for Paper
By Bruce Meade
Artist and Printers on Their Favorite Washi |
"The relationship is intimate, sensual. Usually physical beauty first attracts. Then a delicate caress, fingers glide slowly, memorizing pleasurable sensation. The relationship......that of artist and paper. " |
And as with a lover this relationship is intense and demanding. For the artist risks everything when putting down marks, the sheet must not betray or all is lost. Among the papers of the world, those from Japan, especially handmade, hold a seductive appeal that borders on the mystical. The humble, yet inviting surface of this natural paper is desired by many of the finest artists and printers on the contemporary scene. |
"What I like best is how a beautiful sheet of washi is something alive. It is collaborating with my marks, imposing its own personality into the process," states Robert Kushner from his studio in New York. |
"I lust after the huge sheets of paper that hang on the walls of Hiromi Paper!" admits Santa Barbara artist Mary Heebner. "I see these sheets as vast spaces, like an ocean, beckoning me like sirens." |
While the appeal of Japanese papers is broad, many artists and printers have developed strong attachments to a specific paper. |
"The artists I work with appreciate the beauty of Kitakata, the color, texture, and deckle," says Master Printer Ed Hamilton, who has collaborated on editions for Ed Ruscha, Joe Goode, and Raymond Pettibon among many others. |
John Greco of Josephine Press also relies on Kitakata for chine colle. "I like its strength, receptability of delicate ink transitions, and warm earthy tone." |
Gampi papers have their own loyal group of admirers. Gampi is a shrub that cannot be cultivated, it grows wild in the mountains of Japan, and paper made from it has a very special quality. |
"Delicate, translucent, holds color, and it feels good," states artist Peter Alexander, who uses gampi for his digital printing projects. |
"Machine made Gampi natural is above all our pick for optimum beauty, price and flexibility. We use it for chine colle when editioning our fine art intaglio prints. We find that the gampi provides a great surface for a beautiful impression, even on our most delicate spit bites," says enthused printers Emily York and Scott Heath of Berkeley's Paulson Press. |
Another artist enamored of gampi for chine colle is Brian Shure. "Especially handmade, Indigo dyed. It prints beautifully, and is thin, strong and shiny," says Shure. Quite a compliment from the man who literally wrote the book on the process. His "Chine Colle: A Printers Handbook" was recently published by Crown Point Press. |
There is no denying that in relationships the element of surprise is often highly valued. Thus for certain artists the unpredictable interaction of their media with washi holds strong appeal. |
"Shikishi is great when using water color" according to painter Stephen Robert Johns. "You don't realize how thick and fibrous this paper is until you see your color run upon application.....The color travels on its own accord, moving along with the fiber, and layering within its construction. It's like a sponge. Such body! Such soul!" |
Another artist who enjoys enticing the magical accident is Ned Evens. His favorite paper --Zangetsu (SH-6), a sheet made of kozo and pulp. "It's both tough and fragile at the same time. I kind of dye the paper, then let it dry. Then use pastels. It's probably the worst paper to do pastels on because you can't rub it too hard or the fibers begin to roll together and tear. But for some reason I like the diversity between the materials. And the paper works great with pastel dust." |
Los Angeles based Maddy LeMel also thrives on taking a paper and using it outside its usual context. She uses Tengucho Thinnest, a paper most often used by conservators for hinging. In LeMels' hands the paper takes on a new, more poetic function. "It's like air- it floats and moves on the slightest air current. It's practically transparent, magical. It acts like a veil over other papers. I use it as an overlay on top of mulberry paper. I print an image on the mulberry, then sew the Tengucho on top with another image." |
At the opposite end of the spectrum from tissue thin tengucho is Francessa Gabbiani's favorite paper- Triple Thick Kozo(DHM-11), an enormous two meter by three meters in size! "I use it like other artists use canvas. It's a support for my collages, sometimes visible, sometimes not," says the artist. |
It is no surprise that so many contemporary image-makers are enamored of Japanese paper. For over a thousand years creative spirits have trusted in washi to help bring forth their most heartfelt visions. Hiromi Paper International is proud to be part of this heritage, and we hope to help keep the tradition of beautiful, sensuous, handmade Japanese paper alive in the 21st century. |
Note: A huge thank you to all the artists and conservators who so graciously gave of their time to answer questions for this article. Limitations of space (and authors ability) prevented use of every reply. |
IN THE LAND OF THE THUNDER DRAGON
A Journey to Bhutan
by Bruce Meade
The small passenger jet dropped out of the clouds, darted through a heart stoppingly narrow pass, then settled onto the single landing strip of the Paro Airport. I stepped out into the sweet smelling spring air. I was in Bhutan, the last Buddhist Kingdom.
The main reason for my journey was to experience the culture of this isolated Himalayan realm, but I also had a paper trail to follow.For by coincidence no sooner had I made my travel arrangements than we began to carry handmade paper made in Bhutan here at Hiromi Paper International.
Bhutan is a small Kingdom about the size of Switzerland, with Tibet as its neighbor to the north and India to the south. The current king is a very enlightened ruler, more concerned with his countries Gross National Happiness than its Gross National Product. By his decree the protection of Bhutan's pristine natural environment is the stated policy of the government.
To enter Bhutan, whether in a group or by yourself you need to be with a Bhutanese guide and a driver. This, as well as your visa, must be arranged through a licensed Bhutanese tour agency and you must pay $200.00 per day while in the country, which includes food, lodging, and vehicle.
For me the opportunity to visit an isolated Buddhist country high in the Himalayas far outweighed any of the aforementioned limitations. As far as the $200.00 per day I figured, hey, that's why credit cards were invented.
And that how I came to be standing in a field of blooming Daphne at a 10,000 foot high pass in Bhutan! To touch this shrub whose bark would eventually become a sheet of paper selling in the store where I worked halfway across the world was an incredible feeling of being part of a full circle.
I was en route to the Paro festival, an important rite of spring in Bhutan. The festival is part county fair, part religious ceremony. Vendors from all over the Himalayas set up to sell their wares. Colorful masks, beautiful jewelry, antique prayer wheels, and exotic foods were all on display.
On its final day the Festival is capped off by the unfurling at dawn of a four story high banner depicting Guru Rimpoche, who brought Buddism to Bhutan in 650 A.D.
So blessed is the huge banner (called a Thondrol) that it is believed one achieves liberation simply by viewing it. So there I stood in the cool light of dawn, staring up at the massive image of Rimpoche seated upon his lotus throne. Bhutanese people had come from all over, many walking for days to see the Thondrol. It remains up for only a few hours, on this one day a year, as the monks do not let the 300 year old work of devotional art be touched by direct rays of the sun, least it fade.
I then made my way to the booth of Mangala Paper, who make the paper we import, and introduced myself to Kezang Udon. Her Eco Friendly hand made paper was doing a brisk business, with many western tourists checking out the beautiful sheets, as well as handsome photo albums and journals crafted from Bhutan paper. I told Kezang how proud I was to be part of the introduction of Bhutan paper to the United States and she graced me with the warm smile that is so typical of the Bhutanese people.
I promised to stop by her factory on my way back from my journey to the remote central valley, and began an arduous day and a half drive on the only paved road in the country.
I traveled over passes towering above the clouds, through dense forests punctuated by flaming red rhodendrums. I visited the cave where Guru Rimpoche first meditated when he arrived in Bhutan from Tibet. A temple has been built around the cave and a huge cypress tree stands beside it, supposedly having sprung up from Rimpoche's walking stick. I touched the tree with deep respect for the man who is believed to be the second incarnation of Buddha.
On the return journey it began to snow. We were heading for a monastery at the top of a pass, and arrived to the sound of deep guttural chanting of monks, accompanied by the plaintive cry of conch shell horns and thudding bass of drums. A healing ceremony for the Lama (Teacher) was in progress and we were allowed to observe.
The interior of the monastery was a treasure trove of wall paintings depicting various spiritual heroes battling demons. Bhutan is a Tantric Buddhist nation, thus visualizations of inner states of mind are constantly on view, serving as signposts on the path towards enlightenment.
Leaving the monastery I noticed the snow had stopped, and the sky was now a dazzling blue. I stood at the top of the pass gazing out at the Himalayan range in all its monumental glory. Massive snow crowned peaks stood as silent sentinels between the border of Bhutan and Tibet. Bathed in the clear light the mountains seemed to be the liar of Bhutans legendary Thunder Dragons. It was a sight that will linger forever in my memory.
Continuing westward I entered Thimphu, the only world capitol without a traffic light. I made my way to the paper making facility, which sits above the river at the southern end of the city. Colorful prayer flags fluttered by the entrance, sending hopes for peace out to the world on the breeze.
Over tea Kezang shared with me the story of how she came to be involved in the making of handmade paper. It was not a family business by any means. She learned about the long tradition of paper making in Bhutan, and was most impressed with the rich character of the paper. Realizing the art was slowly dying she decided to take it up despite the objections raised by her family.
Since she didn't know very much about papermaking she went to Japan to study their techniques. After returning to Bhutan she set up the Mangala House of Handmade Paper, knowing full well she was bucking all the modern trends. The labor intensive, time consuming handmade methods were being fazed out in search of higher profit margins, but she did not want to see the handmade paper of Bhutan disappear. With lots of imagination and hard work Kezang Udon is helping keep an ancient tradition alive. As I told her, we at Hiromi Paper are happy to be part of this effort, introducing these beautiful sheets to artists all over the world.
All too soon it was time for me to climb onto a Druk Airlines jet to fly up and over the Himalayas towards home. I knew how fortunate I was to have been able to visit this magical realm of beauty and insight. And someday I hope to return. Until then I can content myself showing our customers gorgeous sheets of paper that come from the Land of the Thunder Dragon.
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I became fascinated with kites 25 years ago, when, as an Air Force pilot I found them to be sophisticated flying objects and also an escape from the rules and regulations of "real flying". As I became more interested, I learned of kites' ties to the history of aviation as well as their central role in many Asian cultures. Since my first trip to Japan in 1989, the diverse kites found throughout Japan have been my creative focus, yet it is only in the past three years that I have seriously explored them using their traditional materials, paper and bamboo. I've been building kites for almost twenty years and have only recently turned to the world of paper for the raw material in my creations. Contemporary kite makers in Europe and the United States use a variety of modern materials such as ripstop nylon, polyester, taffeta, and plastic laminates like OrconTM or even oil-based "paper", tyvekTM. I used ripstop nylon exclusively, for fifteen years before turning to paper a little over three years ago. The nature of ripstop's very limited color palette, as well as influences of American antique quilts, led me to my current artistic state; that is, to use one or two colors only, and emphasize light and shadow in the changing environment of the sky. Needless to say, upon turning to Japanese papers for kite making, I found an almost unlimited palette of color, as well as an endless supply of textures, weights, and patterns. I've continued my emphasis upon patterns with high contrast, but have found that the subtle differences in paper colors lead to fantastic possibilities in my seemingly simple kites. Because my kites are pieced together patchwork style. I also needed a specific tool for joining pieces and when I found 2mm and 3mm wide, double-sided tape from Japan it was clear sailing. In India, complex pieced designs in paper are accomplished quickly and efficiently by kite makers with a lifetime of skill, using paste, their fingers, and an amazing amount of dexterity. Since I am much more attuned to the "result now" school of kite making, the double-sided tape was the answer, easy to apply, very accurate in a straight line, and highly adhesive. |
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2000 Spring Edition, Volume 8, No. 2
MORE THAN WHAT YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT KAKI-SHIBU
by Lori Goodman, artist
For years I have looked for the perfect way to waterproof paper without destroying its integrity, allowing the kozo paper to maintain its beautiful translucency without an acrylic sheen. I have tried polymers, acrylics, shellac, waxes, oils, and at last, kaki-shibu, which is a wonderful find for a strengthener/waterproofer. I have had a small sculpture outside for over a month; the rain has not damaged the paper at all.
Kaki-shibu is the fermented tannin juice from an unripe persimmon and is used to waterproof, insect proof, strengthen and dye paper. Plus, it has a myriad of other applications. It belongs to the ebony family, Ebenaceae, genus dispyros and is native to Japan, China, Burma and the hills and mountains of northern India. The astringent persimmons are used to make the persimmon tannin juice, Kaki-shibu. The fruits of green astringent persimmons are harvested before they are ripe since ripe fruits contain less effective tannin. Often a wild uneatable persimmon makes the best Kaki-shibu.
The fruits are crushed and the juice is pressed out. At this point, before the juice is processed, it still retains the green color of the fruit. It is not yet persimmon tannin. The juice is fermented for a few years to make the Kaki-shibu. The color of tannin darkens as it matures.
It is completely non-toxic and has historically been used on Kozo paper. With just one coat of kaki-shibu, painted on full strength with a paintbrush, the paper is strengthened and the folding capacity is enhanced, however the paper will become more brittle and the fibers are altered. With subsequent coatings, the paper becomes stronger, less brittle and more leather like; it also becomes more opaque. "This leather-like quality, coupled with an inherent stiffness makes it an ideal paper for bookbinding, calligraphy, oil based colors, pastel, decorative, and is especially suited for complex origami models."[1] This quality also renders kaki-shibu a good finish for sculptures.
I stretch paper over bamboo armatures and then paint the sculptures with the kaki-shibu, which tightens and shrinks the paper when dry. However, there is quite a bit of shrinkage so there is a chance of tearing as the paper dries. A more traditional method would be to paint or dip the kozo several times before adhering to an armature or before using with any project. The kaki-shibu can also be used as a design element since each application darkens the paper. The juice could be applied in select areas to take advantage of its dyeing characteristics.
Fermenting a persimmon and using the fermented juice to coat Japanese papers can keep the bugs away, make paper water resistant, and dye it a beautiful reddish brown, golden brown, or dark brown color. Persimmon tannin hardens the fiber of paper and wood, prevents corrosion and makes them waterproof. Shibugami (papers that have been treated with kaki-shibu) have been used historically as a waterproof wrapping.
One of the most prevalent uses of Kaki-shibu is for dying stencils. "Three sheets of the finest Japanese Kozo paper are laminated with persimmon tannin, and then smoke cured to make these shibugami papers. When cured, the tannin forms a plastic-like waterproof membrane allowing the paper to be extremely limber when wet, but stiff when dried." [2] Shibugami is also used in Shibori or Òtie-dye". The rice paste, used as a resist, is put into a stiffened and waterproofed cone made from the coated paper (Shibugami)---."[3]
I will continue to experiment with the Kaki-shibu and oils on Kozo. If anyone has questions or additions please feel free to contact me: loribg@humboldt1.com
Quotes:
[1] Kasuri Dye Works. Kasuridyeworks.com/fabexplankkatagami.html
[2] Kougei.or.jp/English/dyeing.html
[3] Kims's Crane Origami Supplies Home page. Kimscrane.com/japan2/Kakishibu
Selected Bibliography:
Washi, The World of Japanese Paper. Sukey Hughes. Kodansha International/USA Ltd. 10 East 53rd Street, New York, New York 10022, 1978 Japanese Papermaking, Traditions, Tools, and Techniques. Timothy Barrett, Weatherhill, Inc. New York and Tokyo, 1983
Tafu and Shifu are both woven cloth made from kozo. The difference is that tafu is made out of spun kozo fibers and for shofu, the kozo fibers are separated and made into paper, which is then cut into thin strips, spun into threads and woven. Long before the use of Washi, kozo and kaji-no-ki (a cultivated species of kozo from North Japan) were used to make tafu for clothing. In the beginning the word "tafu" referred only to fabrics made from the kozo bark and kaji but later it also included cloth made from hemp and wisteria. This primitive cloth was crude yet had a simplicity about it. The art of weaving and tafu probably developed at approximately the same time in ancient society.
The method of gathering the kozo and kaji bark for tafu is the same as the method used to gather the bark for papermaking. The bark is also cleaned in the same manner, however the fibers are kept intact and not separated into individual fibers like for papermaking.
The bark is separated lengthwise into thin strips for use. Long continuous fiber strands are most desired but such long straight stalks without branches are very scarce.
The cut stalks are put into a large container and steamed. After steaming, the stalks are placed in water to cool, then the bark is immediately removed from the stalk. The bark is cooked in an alkaline solution and rinsed in running water to soften.
The softened bark is stripped lengthwise in preparation for spinning. Any imperfections are removed by hand while trying to maintain as long a strand as possible. The bark is usually 2 to 3 meters in length. To join the pieces, the ends are overlapped and twisted together. As the thread is being prepared, the completed portion is gathered in a basket or other container to avoid getting tangled. It is said that, in the past, this work was usually kept nearby and done during any free moment.
The prepared strand is then tightly spun. The thread is soaked in water, the excess water slightly wrung out and then spun on a spinning wheel. The thread is dampened to make the fibers softer and easier to spin. The damp thread is then wound into a skein on a reel. Once the twist is set, the skein is removed and placed in a large pot and boiled with wood lye to soften. Sticks are inserted on either end of the skein and then two people will pull hard and twist the skein while rinsing it under running water to remove all traces of the alkali. Rice bran powder is sprinkled on the stretched skein and the skein is left to dry.
Once the thread is prepared, the next step is to prepare the loom. The desired length of the warp is calculated and a sample length is tied to the warping board. The thread is then wound around the pegs of the board until the desired number of warp threads have been measured. When weaving tafu, the weft is woven one thread at a time, it is not necessary that the weft be measured ahead of time, however the warp threads must be prepared according to the length and width of the finished fabric before the weaving can begin. The number and length of the warp thread depends on how wide and how long the fabric will be. Then each warp thread must be attached to the loom.
When weaving, one weft thread passes over and under alternate warp threads before the beater of the loom is pulled forward to push the weft thread in place. Then the warp threads reverse their order, and the weft thread is again passed over the warp threads and pushed into place by the beater. The process is quite simple, but very exhausting. To insure problem-free weaving, great care must be taken at every step of the preparation process, since any imperfections in the making of the thread, measuring the warp or dressing the loom will make weaving difficult.
While tafu is no longer practical for clothing, the process is continuing and new uses are being studied and pursued.
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Equipment:
The basic papermaking equipment can be roughly divided in to the vat (suki bune) and mould (suketa). The vat is usually made from pine or cedar but a stainless steel liner is added for durability. On the sides of the vat are the supports for the special device (maguwa). These are also used to hold the mould out of the way while mixing with the maguwa.
The Japanese style papermaking mould consists of two parts. The specially made flexible removable screen (su) is made of fine bamboo strips held in place by silk threads. The silk threads are treated with persimmon tannin for wet strength. The number of bamboo strips per centimeter varies according to the kind of paper to be made. The hinged wooden frame (keta) holds the screen in place and is usually made from Japanese cypress.
Papermaking Process:
There are three basic steps in forming a sheet of washi using nagashizuki or flowing method of papermaking. This method is very different from the tamezuki or accumulation method of making paper. The tamezuki method is the Japanese term for the western style papermaking.
The first step is the kakenagashi or ubumizu. The first scoop if a shallow dip that is quickly flowed across the surface of the screen to form the face or front of the sheet of paper. The excess pulp is allowed to flow over the far edge of the mould. The rapid movement prevents any hard particles from settling on the screen surface.
The next step is called choshi. This consists of a deeper scoop into the vat and the pulp flows over the screen several times before any excess is allowed to flow over the far edge. This step is repeated several times until the desired thickness is achieved. The movement of the pulp mixture on the screen surface varies according to the kind of paper being made.
There is an overhead bamboo suspension system that helps to counterbalance the weights of the pulp mixture on the screen surface. This makes it easier to move the mixture over the surface.
The screen with the completed sheet of paper is then removed from the mould and couched (removed from the screen) onto the shito (special stand that hold the post of newly made papers). The screen is aligned using the placement guides and carefully lowered onto the previously made sheet in such a manner as not to trap any air between the papers. The screen is then removed by lifting the edge nearest the papermaker, then it is lifted away from the papermaker.
The post of completed papers is left overnight to drain naturally. Then it is carefully pressed, lightly in the beginning then gradually more pressure is applied in order not to damage the paper. The post is pressed for about 6 hours until about 30% of the moisture is removed.
The pressed sheets are then removed one by one from the post and brushed onto boards to steam heated surfaces to dry. Pine, Japanese horse chestnut, etc. are used for drying boards. The best wood for drying boards is ginkgo. The smoothness of its wood and the rarity of such large trees makes it a very valuable wood for drying boards.
The drying method (natural or mechanical) affects the finished paper. When thick paper is dried mechanically, the surface easily becomes fuzzy so natural drying is preferred.
The finished paper may be sized or coated with dosa (a mixture of potassium alum and animal glue that reduces ink bleeding), konnyaku (a starch derived from the root of the Amorphopallus konjac), or kakishibu (persimmon tannin). It may also be dyed with chemical or natural dyed or textured to make paper like momigami (a randomly wrinkled paper) or chirimen gami (a crepe textured paper). The papers are given a final check before being made available for sale.
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