Pathway to Japanese Literature

Last year’s journey led naturally to this year’s.
Many visit Korea, but those venturing forth with purposes like ours might have been the first.
There were seekers of old things, but those pursuing new creations had long since vanished.
Yet in Korea—steadfast guardian of traditions—objects of unstudied beauty still emerged spontaneously across the land.
To witness Korea’s past, one need only observe its present.
We yearned to see what artifacts persisted through time’s flow.
More urgently, we sought to trace their origins—to understand what environments and states of mind birthed them.
To behold Korea’s pure essence demanded penetration into its deepest hinterlands.

This time we chose both provinces of North and South Jeolla.
That region had long been blessed with materials from its favorable climate and geography, where various crafts had developed since ancient times.
Moreover, it was a land we had been unable to visit the previous year.
We had long yearned for this journey through Jeolla.

May 2, 1937 (Showa 12).

Welcomed by the islands of the peninsula under a clear morning sky, we disembarked at Busan.
At the pier, we met Mr. Hamaguchi Yoshimitsu and Mr. Doi Hamaichi, who would accompany us on this journey from Keijō.
Korea is refreshing whenever one comes.
It was around this time last year as well.
That we could all set out together again this time was also a great joy.

First, we visited Mr. Takeshita Ryuhei, a collector in this area.
Mr. Takeshita was renowned as a collector of Korean roof tiles, but within his collection—beyond many splendid bricks and tiles—there were numerous excellent pieces such as confectionery molds, brush holders, and brass incense burners.
Each and every one was unforgettable.
Even we, who had seen countless things, encountered something unexpected and felt a fresh thrill.

We went out into the town and scoured for newly made items. We had plans to collect these and hold an exhibition. At the Busan display area, stone braziers and small knives caught the eye. So soon to have encountered Korea, we rejoiced. Finding such things within the glass-paned doors of this display area—commonplace anywhere in mainland Japan—was akin to discovering green grass in a sandy plain. We made our way once more to the market we never failed to visit. At the permanent stalls, various things could be found. Steamers, black-glazed medicine boilers and lidded containers, or large water jars and such—we could not help but purchase them. They seemed to come from nearby kilns and even as far as the Goksung area. They lined up all in a single row on the street and were accounted for. Already, we encountered a crowd. Enamored with their hexagonal shape and patterns, we purchased the entire bundle of inksticks. Brass food containers—anyone would be delighted to use these as washbasins; whenever we found ones with good form, we would not overlook them and made sure to select them. Even being a permanent market, it was delightful that some vernacular charm still lingered here. Seeking out places where even a trace of this color remained, we would walk around all day.

We had intended to depart for Jinju in the evening.
But the car’s seating capacity was limited to just three people.
This inconvenient regulation rendered our plans futile.
We reluctantly chose the sea route and waited for departure.
As starlight sharpened in clarity, we all boarded a small coastal steamship.
The vessel was to weave through Hallyeo Waterway’s minor ports toward Mokpo in Jeolla Province.
Though the moon had set early and darkened the sea, we advanced briskly, leaving behind countless ink-black islands.

May 3rd.

In the early dawn, we entered Yeosu Bay.
Today was another brilliantly clear Korean day.
We gazed upon an ancient Korean edifice towering on the hills ahead.
They said it had been a former government office—this structure lent a vitalizing breath to the harbor and heightened the surrounding landscape’s beauty.
After disembarking, we learned it now served, rather extravagantly, as an elementary school.
Though Yeosu had likely gained fame through the ages for its beauty, its recent transformation into a modernized port left few noteworthy sights remaining.

We immediately hurried to Suncheon. In this town, we were met by a car dispatched from the provincial office. Mr. Son Seokdo had specially come to guide us. He was a graduate of Keijō University and a young, capable administrator. From this day onward for several days, we received Mr. Son’s gracious hospitality.

In Suncheon, we met Governor Ku Ja-gyeong. A gentleman of gentle and magnanimous character—we were deeply grateful for the numerous courtesies we received from him. To us, he remained etched in memory as a man of splendid character for a long time. Suncheon is an old capital city and remains quite a substantial town even today. Fortunately, some of the old ways remain.

Under Mr. Ku’s guidance, we were shown Mr. Seo Byeong-gyu’s house. Surrounded by splendid stone-walled houses, this yangban’s residence had been concealed. Upon passing through the gate, several splendid buildings—on a scale that made one think it might be a temple—appeared to float upon the white sand as if in a dream.

Mr. Seo was a quintessentially Korean elderly gentleman—an exemplar of this land’s venerable tradition.It is said that his beloved son, Seo Jeong-gwon, was known as a boxer.We were invited for tea,but pressed for time, we wrapped our good memories in our hearts and took our leave from this place.

In Suncheon, there were Korean shoes, cloisonné rings, embroidery and such.
Among them, the shoes stood out in their superb form and exquisite craftsmanship.
Regrettably, such items had now generally fallen into disuse, replaced everywhere by rubber shoes.
That shops displaying those beautiful shoes of varied colors had nearly vanished from Korea—what vibrancy this had stripped from the towns!
Yet the fact that their form alone remained steadfastly preserved was not to be overlooked.

Our party of six headed toward Goksung in the afternoon.
We traversed the serene landscapes of Jeollanam-do.
When we saw the lush trees, there was a striking difference from those rocky mountains of North Korea.
We could discern why this was called the southern country of crafts.
There, bamboo grew thickly.
On the way, we were welcomed by Mr. Fujimoto Ineshige at Goksung County Office.
Along the bright valley of the Yalu River—bearing the same name as the border river—we visited the kiln site in Takegok-myeon Hahari.
In the rice fields along a tributary of the river stood a new makeshift workshop.
At this sight, we were all disheartened.
We were just about to turn back when we heard of another kiln site further in; taking heart, we began ascending along the mountain stream.
Told by village children mowing grass that it lay three turns beyond the stepping stones, we quickened our pace.
When we left the river, we suddenly encountered a slope.
Seeing white clay being excavated quickened our anticipation.
When we finally reached the summit, we realized we had already arrived at the kiln site.

This village was completely hidden on the immediate backside of the pass we had climbed, so everyone involuntarily raised a cheer.
At a place not ten steps from the pass, the kiln was already emitting smoke.
The village displayed a splendid layout along the slope on the mountain’s backside.
There were likely few construction methods so completely integrated into nature as this.
Here, people and nature are one.
When we peered into the workshop, there too were mountains and valleys, not opposing the natural terrain in the slightest.
We thought of how these crafts had taken root in such a place.
The fact that all the crafted items were splendid—there, the mystery would be solved.
That way of life would never allow the work to become unsightly.

However, that day was Goksung’s market day.
Feeling pressed for time, we postponed shopping at the kiln site to the next day and hurriedly descended the mountain.

Goksung was a small town.
This market was the first we encountered on this journey.
Throughout all of Korea, in villages and towns everywhere, markets were held on fixed days approximately every five days.
It was said that on market days, products from within a radius of twenty kilometers would gather and disperse.
If one saw scattered lines of people along the highway in morning and evening, one could tell a market was being held in that village.
Market days were accompanied by festival-like joy everywhere.
A place where people and goods gathered and moved with such purity was difficult to find elsewhere.
At market days, anyone could encounter the true Korea.
We wove through the crowd and sought out notable items.
Straw mats (*wara enza*), yellow hemp cloth, *masu*-shaped drinking bowls, willow bento boxes (*tonkuri-chatsu*), iron hinges, and such.
Among them hung several bundles of beautiful hemp thread for sale.
We offered to buy everything, but with the seller nowhere to be found even after searching, we ultimately had to part ways regretfully.
This time, when we tried to buy all the hemp cloth in one lot, we couldn’t settle the account—the seller explained they wouldn’t sell in bulk.
A scene so quintessentially Korean for a market day.
Even in such circumstances must lie hidden a seed from which things are beautifully made.
The white bowls we bought there were kin to what is called *masuhakari* in the tea ceremony world, yet in Korea they still served as both *masu* measures for *makgeolli* and *sakazuki* cups.
Whether the tea ceremony’s *masuhakari* derived its name from its original purpose as a measuring box (*masu hakari*), from the *makgeolli* it holds, or from the subject *mari*—in any case, it intrigued us.
There was no doubt these white porcelain bowls had been fired somewhere in Jeollanam-do; we inquired extensively to locate the kiln site but ultimately failed to ascertain its whereabouts.
(They bore a striking resemblance to those we later discovered in Kobae.)

In the evening, we left Goksung and arrived in Gwangju.
Here was the capital of South Jeolla Province, and the towns bustled.
We unpacked our travel attire at Izumiya Ryokan.

In the evening, a welcome banquet hosted by Governor Matsumoto was held for us at the Harukirou restaurant. In attendance were the governor, the head of the interior department, the prefectural governor, and other notable gentlemen of Gwangju. Among them was Mr. Hyun Jun-ho, head of Honam Bank, who was deeply knowledgeable about culinary matters; we heard many stories about Korean cuisine that tantalized the palate. That the banquet consisted entirely of Korean cuisine was, above all, a most gratifying affair. We encountered various indescribable delicacies. Above all, the flavors of the numerous salted fermented seafood dishes remain unforgettable. As holds true for any country, there is nothing that allows one to properly savor a nation more than its cuisine.

May 4th.

We left Gwangju early and headed for Damyang.

It was a famous village of bamboo crafts. That well-known Korean bamboo screen was mostly produced here. Damyang, too, had been a place where an old capital once stood; along the clear stream flowing outside the city walls, pavilions rose on the hills, while along the banks stretched beautiful rows of willows and zelkova trees. A profound sense of Korea as a southern country lingered. When we crossed the long earthen bridge, the road ascended the hill. Centered around an aged Confucius shrine, the village houses clustered on the slope. The village school we saw there remains unforgettable. It seemed to belong to an era even earlier than the temple schools one hears about from elders in Japan. In two ondol rooms packed to overflowing with youngsters, they sat cross-legged, swaying their bodies and raising loud voices as they chanted their recitations in a disorderly chorus—shaking their bodies, shouting at will, reading as they pleased, sometimes breaking into fights. The teacher’s pipe came down with a smack on a head. Such methods remained wonderfully alive there even then. Could one simply dismiss this as a backward approach?

The bamboo crafts of this village followed a communal division of labor: households that split [bamboo], those that shaved [it], those that wove [it], those that assembled combs, and those that applied pyrography—each specialized in their own trade. No household had a room particularly resembling a workshop; each individual room immediately served as that workspace. Here, home and work were not two separate things.

We visited a house where combs were made. In an ondol room about four tatami mats in size, three women in Korean clothing were intently weaving combs. That scene could not be perceived as anything other than a painting from the Tang Dynasty. The pink dress of the youngest girl brightened the dark room. Their hands moved with such swiftness that one could scarcely discern their actions—there, too, the miracle of handcrafting was at work. It was said to be work where weaving a hundred earned three sen.

The pyrography technique we had long wished to see could also be observed in this village.
What kind of sharp chisel drew those delicate lines? What kind of painter created those skillful designs?
Everything overturned our expectations.
They were using those thick, short pyrography chisels meant for soldering applications!
Thus they burned those fine pictures into them.
We were astonished by how easily the work was done.
They placed a furnace outdoors and passed the chisels through a small hole in the room’s wall to repeatedly heat them red-hot.
Placing the handle of the pyrography chisel against the big toe of their right foot, they skillfully and swiftly applied designs while moving the chisel with their right hand and the bamboo with their left.
When the chisel had cooled slightly, they used it to add gradation.
Because the designs were intricate, they emerged with the slightest movement.
No matter how long we watched, we never tired of seeing it.
We had the craftsmen burn onto bamboo spatulas all the designs they knew.
Flowers, birds, fish, and trees—they skillfully depicted them all while observing.
Their ability to grasp patterns remained as alive then as it had been in the past.

In Damyang there was an industrial association engaged in work. We entered its warehouse and made various purchases: bamboo screens, bamboo bark crafts, color-dyed bamboo stationery cases, combs, fans, round fans, bamboo baskets, and numerous other items. Among these, the finest bamboo screens resembled silk in appearance while retaining craftsmanship unchanged from ancient times. Bamboo bark products represented a new industry for this region—their craftsmanship splendid and forms reliably crafted.

In this village they say urine has been used since antiquity for dyeing combs. The laboratory ordered them to replace it with ammonia, but reportedly the colors failed to develop properly. What became of this afterward? Recalling tales of mixing excrement into the lacquer joints of Naju trays, we found ourselves pondering many matters. They say good Naju trays never break at their joints. In village homes' kitchens we first observed kushi—single-block pine cutting boards doubling as dishwashing tools—being used. These kushi placed against small earthen-floored kitchens' walls enhanced the space alongside simple utensils. Overwhelmed by their beauty we requested they be packed; they now reside in the Mingeikan. Every household uses them.

The afternoon’s itinerary was Jirisan.
At Hwaeomsa Temple there, mountain monks had carved wooden objects since ancient times.
They made not only Buddhist implements but also daily utensils.

Captivated by those wooden crafts, we once again took the road south from Damyang.
We passed through Goksung once more, emerged in Gurye, and headed toward the mountains.
In the valley at its foot rested this great temple.

Pheasants called incessantly within the temple grounds. The thicket of trees stood dense and deep. Hwaeomsa Temple's buildings presented a magnificent sight. Regrettably, the Main Hall could not be viewed, being under major repairs. This temple holds particular renown for its stone pagodas and lanterns from the Silla Dynasty. The structures' proportions held incomparable beauty, their carvings so exceedingly splendid they caused us to linger. Korea remains ever Korea through its stone carvings.

However, we hurried to the mountain monks’ workshop. The wooden lacquerware there was renowned as a sideline of the monks. Yet all our expectations were dashed. Under whose guidance had they installed new-style potter’s wheels? The forms now approached Japanese ones, and the craftsmanship had lost Korea’s inherent beauty. With this state of affairs, scarcely anything remained for us to select. Korea must be made in the Korean style—only then could it stand unashamed anywhere presented. We descended the mountain quite disappointed. At that moment, our eyes caught a net bag carried on a temple man’s back—a marvel of form woven from straw yet reinforced at its lower corners with twisted paper cords for sturdiness, its swelling curves enhancing its beauty. We received this single piece, cleansing our memories of Hwaeomsa Temple. That night we attempted lodging at a Korean inn in Gurye but found no suitable rooms, returning instead by car to Goksung where we spent one night at Goksung Lodge.

May 5th.

We visited Oguksan-myeon Oji-ri, located a few ri outside Goksung’s castle town. We had made a point to visit there because when passing through this village on the third, its beauty had deeply captivated our hearts. Along the way, we instinctively stopped the car at a newly built shrine along the highway. There, someone remarked upon the natural shape of four pillars swelling at their base. Even now, structures built in the pure Korean style remain almost without exception flawless. Oji-ri appeared to be a prosperous village. Every house stood considerably large, each uniformly encircled by walls of rounded granite stones. The narrow path wound between these stone walls like a wild river twisting freely through its course, endlessly delighting us as we walked. Branches cascaded over the walls, and with spring’s arrival, flowers bloomed riotously. From nearby came the crisp sound of a fulling block. Peering through an opening, we saw a woman in indigo robes beating cloth in quiet rhythm. All these villages gathered like parts of a single garden along the riverbank embankments. At the house of Menjang An Gyu-seon here, we received splendid straw deokseok mats and fugo winnowing baskets.

Two or three children attending the village school emerged from the narrow path.
In their hands, they each held a book.
We asked to see them.
They were all manuscripts.
The title read *Chuigu*.
When we opened them and looked, every line consisted of five characters, all arranged in couplets.
It began with the couplet "Heaven above, earth below," then proceeded to depict various matters.
But when we came to the next couplet, we involuntarily raised our voices.

"Flies swarm where meals are served;"

"Dogs race ahead when one heads to the toilet."

No couplet captured Korean life as directly as this one.
Days spent living with nature as a friend; a life prior to hygiene; health unconcerned with healthiness—was this not the key that unraveled that mysterious enigma of Korean goods?
Beauty came from some distant depth.
It was neither work of the hands alone nor work of the head alone.
Unless one traced back to an entirely different source altogether, one would not be able to grasp its true nature.
The beauty of Korea was not shallow beauty.

Repeating those unforgettable words, we proceeded once more along the riverside highway, turned off the road, and visited the Shimahari Kiln Site again. We had work that day. We asked the villagers to bring various items from their kitchens—what kinds of things they had made up to now. The items we wished to see—tall stands, rice bowls, plates, jars, bowls, and more—were lined up in a row on the porch. We compared each item with its actual form, drew sketches to determine dimensions, and began placing orders. They were both Tenmoku and white porcelain. In total, how many hundreds of pieces did it amount to? Now we moved on to payment. But they said they couldn’t calculate because they had never encountered such a large order before. We reluctantly undertook the calculations ourselves. The villagers appeared utterly perplexed by sums exceeding 100 yen. In Korea, they say haphazard calculations are called *kamezan* (“jar arithmetic”); I found it amusing to reflect on this connection. A life that does not require handling large sums of money, a livelihood not bound by strict calculations—is it not natural that such a state of being would give rise to something? Gazing at the beauty of these goods, we contemplated the distant origin from which it arose. We wondered if we might not harbor some sickness within us.

Thinking such thoughts, we descended the mountain and directed our car toward Jangseong.
We passed through Goksung again and soon came through the town of Changpyeong.
When we looked, it was a bustling market day.
We could not afford to miss this opportunity.
We all entered into the bustle.
At every market, they sold fish.
What assailed the nose was the foul stench of dried red skate.
In the jars, the salted fish slices were dyed red with chili and drawing crowds.
For us, it was food we couldn’t bring ourselves to touch.
But the people living here still seemed to lead a life prior to hygiene.
Is it not because we harbor some sickness within us that we fear the deliciousness of half-rotted meat?
Here too, we were shown once more the vigor of an unclouded life prior to hygiene.
We have become too fastidious.
We have fallen into a life where we must be fastidious.
Since crossing over to Korea, we ate almost nothing but Korean food.
It is actually quite delicious.
We had lunch at a local restaurant in this town as well.
We savored with gusto Bibimbap (a type of mixed rice).
The complexity of its flavor was beyond comparison with that of Japan.
The taste of Yakchū clear sake made here purely from glutinous rice is unforgettable.

They were all homemade.

The itinerary was copious.
Jangseong was still preserved.
Jangseong is the foremost paper production center in Jeollanam-do.
Had it already grown close to three in the afternoon by the time we arrived there?
Fortunately, under the guidance of Mr. Lee Jeong-seon, Director of the Paper Industry Association, we were able to see the papermaking workshop.
The place was called Umgok-ri and primarily produced base paper for ondol heating.
That workshop was a sight to behold.
Measuring perhaps over two and a half ken (approximately 4.5 meters) in length, two massive pestles fashioned from a single thick zelkova trunk lay there.
Ten people would step on the two limbs of the pestle, raising and lowering it repeatedly.
It was under this weight that the stacked sheets of ondol paper were completed.
Such paper imbued with primitive power does not exist in Japan.
Now they had adopted new methods using iron plates for drying, but not long ago, everyone used sun-drying.
Ondol paper was distinguished by its thickness.
Even within Jeolla Province itself, it was said that in South Jeolla they classified this into third-grade through sixth-grade paper, while in North Jeolla they categorized it into threefold up to eightfold paper.
Naturally, increasing numbers signified greater thickness.
The way these oil-coated papers gleamed like leather on Korean floors was known to all.
Of course, here they produced not only ondol paper but also strong paper or Myeong paper.
The quality was exceptionally good.
The latter was said to have acquired its name because the method had been transmitted during the Ming dynasty.
They also produced that widely known moss paper.

Moss paper cherished its natural undulations; sheets that dried straight were disparaged as "dead moss." Every sheet used paper mulberry as its base material. For binding they employed tororo aoi root—what Koreans call *takpul*, meaning paper mulberry paste, equivalent to Japan's "tororo." At this workshop, we placed substantial orders for various papers. We specifically avoided pulp-based products, requesting only pure mulberry sheets made through traditional methods. Should these standards endure, Korean paper would surely become the world's finest. We held unwavering faith that reviving ancient techniques would elevate both the prestige and prosperity of Korea's papercraft tradition.

As we departed, our hearts were drawn to the long earthen-walled house visible beyond the fields.
We requested Mr. Lee to guide us and visited that house.
His name was Mr. Lee Ji-bong.
The host, it was said, had once resided in Kumamoto.
“I was treated kindly by people from your country, so I am delighted by your visit,” he said.
He warmly welcomed us inside; soon we were offered sake and even had a meal prepared.
We could do nothing but feel overwhelmed by this unexpected hospitality.
What remains unforgettable are the cluster of pickling jars in the central courtyard and the fodder comb in the cowshed.
Especially the latter had a splendid form made of zelkova.
(Later, through Mr. Lee Jeong-seon’s arrangement, we were able to acquire this fodder comb.)
(It is now displayed at the Mingeikan.)
When we left after expressing our deep gratitude, the sky had already grown dark.
But at a street-side izakaya, we were waylaid again.
Not by the sake, but by those white porcelain teacups used for drinking it.
We acquired two or three beautiful items there.
And we learned that those also appeared at Jangseong’s market days and were fired in kilns in Gopyeong, not far from there.
We decided without hesitation to place an order for five hundred units.
Mr. Lee graciously stood among us and promised to handle the shipping.

That day, when we returned from Jangseong to Gwangju, the night had already grown quite late.
At Izumiya, we fulfilled our aspirations.

May 6th.

Today was the day for Naju.
Those who favor Korean trays would have long known the name of Naju trays.
We had added that production area to our itinerary early on.

As usual, the six of us companions departed Gwangju early in the morning. However, those once-prosperous tray craftsmen had now nearly vanished. Even if one went into town seeking Naju trays, shops that sold them no longer existed. But fortunately, there still lived a master craftsman called Lee Seok-gyu. Having been guided, we visited his workshop. He was already an old man. His son and disciples assisted in the work and handled orders. The work there alone was said to be reliable. When looking at the finished pieces, their forms had no excess, the lacquer was applied with care, and the workmanship was executed flawlessly. But precisely because of that, their prices were higher than others’. Depending on one’s perspective, one might even have said their very quality made them inexpensive. We placed orders for many Naju trays there, for it seemed unlikely that we would have another opportunity to commission this old craftsman for some time to come. If he were gone, would there be no one to carry on the work? This was because those who would order fine products were disappearing, driven out by cheap goods.

We were drawn to the chest of drawers with beautiful iron fittings used in this house. We asked if he could make the same for us. However, the old craftsman did not consent. He said he wouldn’t make it because he couldn’t obtain materials that satisfied him now. We were struck by his resolute refusal to take on this lucrative commission, even though he was not wealthy. We prayed for blessings upon the elderly craftsman’s longevity.

We could do nothing but marvel at the splendid plank flooring of that house’s kitchen.
In general, throughout Korea—whether in temples, homes, or palaces—the method of laying floorboards and veranda planks outside ondol rooms was uniformly structural and remarkably beautiful.
In Japan, it is common to lay planks tightly over joists and frames, but here they cut planks to widths of one shaku to one shaku five sun and laid them between the joists and frames.
In every house and sarang guest quarters, this plank flooring—laid in finely spaced intervals between thick frames—gave a more beautiful impression than even the most splendid parquet work.
At times, they used warped frames as they were, cutting and laying planks to follow the curves.
That they were not bound by carpentry rules was nothing short of admirable.

We departed Naju for Yeongsanpo and headed toward Nampyeong.
It was because a grand market was to be held there on the sixth day.
The market here proved prosperous.
The grounds were expansive; its layout followed traditional patterns; both the gathered crowd and wares for sale remained genuine and untainted.
Here we acquired several types of items—large three-shaku jars, iron fittings, fully carved paka-chi ornaments, and others.
The shipping arrangements benefited from the district chief’s generous assistance.
The district office stood as a splendid structure from the old Lee dynasty era, with rows of monuments commemorating good governance before its entrance making for an impressive sight.

However, we hurried back to Gwangju.
This was because, through Governor Matsumoto’s efforts, a roundtable discussion with Japanese and Koreans surrounding us was to be held at the provincial office.
The topics were naturally about Korean life and crafts.
It was gratifying that half of the attendees were Koreans with purpose.
How many splendid crafts still remained in Korea!
How deeply that beauty was rooted in daily life!
In Japan, which had lost such power, how difficult it had become to produce fine goods!
Therefore, how splendid were the inherently Korean items that remained untouched by Japanese influence!
If they were to make only slight modifications to adapt them for contemporary use, how immense the future work would be.
How necessary was a correct understanding of the value that inherently Korean items possessed!
How much we desired that Koreans have awareness of their own products above all else, and how crucial it was for policymakers to respect and nurture this!
We were able to discuss these matters not through abstract theories but through actual items, intimately reflecting on our own experiences.
In the end, we could only repeat the words: “How remarkable they were—truly remarkable!”
Our expressions of delight over the items and daily life were so excessive that people laughed at us.
However, this delight must have reached someone.
We were grateful that it had been such a good gathering.
We would like to engage in more conversations praising Korea.

May 7th.

This day was indeed Gwangju’s grand market day.
Without market days, Korean products would be scarce.
But since the peak time was said to be around ten o'clock, we decided to visit the Commercial and Industrial Promotion Hall and main shops before then.
Fortunately, several kinds of fine items caught our eye.
Bridal furnishings and Buddhist ritual implements particularly exuded a strong Korean character.
Among these items, what delighted us were the pillows with embroidery on both sides (corpiqué).
Flowers, birds, butterflies, and various other designs were embroidered with colored threads.
In Korea, items with such abundant color were scarce.
When colors were present, they arranged them with childlike innocence.
The patterns were naive and pure, with something that resonated with Western peasant crafts.
While embroidered pillows of this kind could be found in places like Gyeonggi Province, those from Gwangju were perhaps the finest.
The very lack of technical mastery made them artlessly pure.

Gwangju, being the capital of South Jeolla Province, had a market of corresponding scale.
Regrettably, with modern facilities added and permanent huts arranged in orderly rows, Korea's vestiges had grown scarce.
However, beyond the market's outer areas lay an open-air square where goods were sold in the traditional disorderly fashion.
The essence of market days felt far more pronounced there.
That day we collected numerous items—iron kettles, combs, pottery and such.
The quantity became considerable.
We gathered about ten chige porters, lined them up single-file, loaded them with mountainous bundles, and had Mr. Son lead them to the Commercial and Industrial Promotion Hall.
The lively procession resembled nothing less than a caravan train.

We were invited by Mr. Hyun Jun-ho for lunch. Governor Matsumoto was also present. At Mr. Hyun’s residence lay an array of pure Korean-style delicacies. We could do nothing but deeply thank Mr. Hyun for his generous hospitality. Among these, the taste of the drink called “Hanasai” proved unforgettable—seasoned with honey, azalea flowers, green beans, and potato starch, yet mysteriously possessing a vibrant flavor and rich aroma.

When the octopus dish was served, the host remarked, “This is tough. You must let octopus drink fresh water to soften it,” then rose himself for the kitchen. After some time had passed, the octopus dish reappeared with perfect tenderness and flavor. In this world teeming with gourmets, few likely harbor such culinary passion as this household’s master. His octopus-inspired tales grew ever more enthralling.

Mr. Hyun’s hometown lay in Miam Township of Yeongam County, South Jeolla—where fisherwomen shouldered their daily octopus catch to market, walking two to ten *ri* each day (averaging eight *ri*, roughly twenty miles). Calculated thus: 240 *ri* monthly, 2,880 yearly, 28,800 over a decade—a distance said to rival circumnavigating the globe. Hence the saying: glance away after spotting them, and they’d already be darting cloud-like toward distant horizons.

We were treated to a feast for tongue, eye, and ear.

Mr. Hamaguchi of our group had school duties requiring his return to the city, so we saw him off at the station. The remaining five had our car head south once more toward Mokpo. As we journeyed onward and passed through Naju, we chanced upon a market day. The market lay within the gates of Jeongsuru Pavilion. This rustic fair, its afternoon bustle already past, stood lonely yet delightful beneath May’s slanting sun. We felt profoundly that here we saw Korea preserving its ancient visage intact. From among the unsold pottery remnants, we managed to gather many pieces rich with character. Though likely only inferior items had been left behind, to us it seemed as if precisely the good ones had been reserved for our sake.

Within the gate stood several iron monuments.
They had been erected in praise of pastors from ages past, their imposing forms upon stone pedestals evoking something akin to Norman memorial stones.
Though carelessly left neglected, they naturally deserved special protection.

The car drove ever southward, bathed in twilight's glow.
The sea appeared and vanished between the hills.
The inlet viewed from the mountain pass was as beautiful as a lake.
Bathed in soft light, the islands floated serenely, bestowing upon us a dreamlike vista.
We knew we would never forget.
When we approached Mokpo and crossed the final pass, Yudalsan Mountain suddenly spread before us, drenched in sunset hues.
In the embrace of two sheer-cliffed peaks, small houses overlapped from base to summit like ivy creeping upward.
They resembled soft-capped gray mushrooms clustering across the hillside.
Houses slumbered in the mountains; mountains sheltered the houses—there, people and nature embraced.
Without those houses, those mountains could not exist; without those mountains, those houses would vanish.
One could scarcely believe the world held many scenes of such mysterious beauty.
Though Korea claims fame through Mount Kumgang, Mokpo might well stake its name on Yudalsan.
No—were one to count Korea's finest vistas, we would include last evening's Yudalsan among them.
A painter would yearn to capture this with brushstrokes.
Even should Mokpo fade from memory, that mystical mountain would endure.
To either side, distant waters lay veiled in haze.
We stood transfixed.

Urged by the setting sun, we entered our lodgings.

May 8th.
We woke up and went to see Mokpo’s public market.
The main acquisitions of this morning were wooden products, bamboo crafts, pottery, and other items.
The variety exceeded our expectations.
Among these, the quantity of coarse pottery we purchased was considerable.
These are all used for water jars, pickling jars, bowls, and such; there is not a single household that does not possess ten or fifteen of them.
While they are extremely modest compared to celadon, white porcelain, or dyed ceramics—and since they are still actively produced today—no one deems them worth preserving.
However, no matter what they may be, there can be nothing ugly among items inherent to Korea.
If these items were to disappear, a time will surely come when they are looked back upon with astonishment as Korean ceramics.
They may be crude, but they are sound.
Their form is faultless.

At noon, we unexpectedly received hospitality from Mokpo’s governor, the previously unknown Mr. Masuda Michiyoshi.
This too was a curious twist of fate.
Yanagi’s writings on Korea had served as the intermediary.
We conversed unreservedly, like old friends.
His sincere and passionate attitude toward Korea lifted our spirits.
For a government official to immerse himself so deeply in Korean life must have been extraordinary.
The same gentleman’s devotion to kendo seemed to be making him ever more a man of spirit.
The talk naturally centered on Korea.
Our discussion turned to Mokpo’s future and touched upon Yudalsan Mountain.
According to Mr. Masuda, while Mokpo’s recent development had gradually pushed Koreans up Yudalsan’s slopes, the resulting poor sanitation and destruction of the mountain’s vistas had become frequent civic concerns.
Yet from our perspective, Yudalsan Mountain—adorned with clusters of those beautiful houses—stood as Mokpo’s supreme scenic treasure.
We emphatically declared that preserving it constituted an honorable duty entrusted to Mokpo’s citizens.
Though our conversation showed no signs of ending, our packed itinerary demanded attention.
We took our leave of the town, hoping to meet again.
Our path now led us back temporarily to Gwangju.

When we passed through Tasi-myeon along the way, the comings and goings of people made us realize it was a market day.
We stopped the car.
The market was held in a small open space along the pretty bank of the stony river.
On the small stones of the riverbank, various goods and people were lined up.
In the midst of a vast green plain, here alone was bustling with life.
We heard that this is the renowned production area of Tasi cotton.
The quality was extremely good, with the price per itan starting at eight or nine yen and reaching up to twenty yen for superior products.
It was, naturally, hand-spun and hand-woven white cotton.
It is said that in Uji, gyokuro tea costing sixty to seventy yen per kin is produced, and in Tokyo, there is nori priced at forty yen per cho.
It must be that there are those who secretly savor them, which makes them fine products and justifies their prices.
That rural cotton like Tasi’s commands such a market price must also be because there are those somewhere who cherish it.
Considering this, there arose a feeling of touching upon one profound aspect inherent to humanity.
We sought that one itan.
One could say it represented the pinnacle of woven cotton.
May it continue long.

This night, we stayed at Senya in Gwangju for one night.
Because we had to leave here the next day, the whole group stayed up late packing.

May 9th.
After bidding farewell to the director and many others, we departed Gwangju and headed to Iri by train.
After parting there with Mr. Son, who had guided us for six days, our party became four.
Once again, we found ourselves pursuing market days.
Before long, we were plunged into a wonderfully lively commotion.
The market here was large.
It appeared to be a place where railways crossed and goods were gathered and dispersed.
There, we packed metal fittings, spoons, combs, and small pakachi into our respective net bags.

We waited for the train and then headed further toward Jeonju.

Here was the capital of North Jeolla Province.
Needless to say, this counted among the most significant locales of our journey.
No sooner had we arrived than we urged our car toward the Commerce and Industry Promotion Hall.
Though it was Sunday and the appointed hour had passed, having notified them beforehand from Gwangju meant the doors had been left open for us.
Through Director Takatsu's kindness we inspected the collection, only to find this place a repository far surpassing our imaginings in richness.
When the next set of items appeared before us, we could not help but exclaim aloud.
Stone tools, lathe-turned objects, inkstones, inksticks, small knives, fans—a wealth of discoveries awaited us there.
Our greatest joy came from confirming that the stone tools we had long sought, together with the turned woodenware, indeed originated from Jeonbuk.
Our thoughts raced ahead to their places of origin even then.
Stone tools from Jangsu; wooden products from Unbong.
The map made clear how distant the road would be.
Yet find a way there we must.

As night approached, we stayed at Ginkgo Inn.
A large inn.

May 10th.
We visited the provincial office in Jeonju.
Through an introduction from Director Matsumoto, we met Governor Son and Director Kim of the Industry Department.
We were profoundly grateful for their deep understanding of our journey’s purpose.
A car and a guide were provided to us, with instructions to conduct our investigations freely.
Thus did this two-day excursion add many artifacts and countless joys to our travels.
To our astonishment, we discovered that Mr. Park Hyung-jin—who had come to guide us—had once attended Yanagi’s lectures and cherished his writings, a most fortuitous coincidence.
It was said Mr. Park had previously devoted himself to rural side industries in Daegu.
There could be no better guide.
The rush grass (*wangul*) upper shoes reportedly designed by this same gentleman were exquisite in both form and craftsmanship.

The car was heading for the far-off Namwon.
Before long, we found a paper mulberry processing workshop on the left side of the highway.
Both the boat and drying area stood exposed to the open air.
There were no grand facilities whatsoever.
Yet from this humble setup emerged the finest paper in the land.
The supreme mulberry paper was said to hail from Jeonju.
After some time, we reached Imsil Town.
By fortune, we chanced upon another market day.
Instantly, four pairs of eyes began darting about.
Resolutely, we purchased several large items.
One was a bamboo birdcage—
Slightly elongated and egg-shaped, stretching over six feet in length.
From what realm had they conjured such audacious forms?
A square window pierced its midsection served as the avian passage.
(It now resides in Shinjō Snow Damage Research Institute’s exhibition room in Yamagata Prefecture.)
Another was a comb measuring six feet long,
Unusual for its two hollowed water basins,
Supported by natural wood limbs serving as legs.
Too exquisite to leave behind.
Then came a large winnowing basket.

The winnowing baskets from Southern Jeolla also had wings that spread outward with distinctive shapes.
Among them, those from Imsil had excellent workmanship, superb materials, and splendid color.
We almost felt it would be a shame to use them.
We exchanged these for a low price, ashamed in our hearts.

From Imsil Town, we crossed a large mountain pass and headed toward Jangsu-myeon.
As we ascended, a boundless vista spread out below us.
The mountains stood deep in spring, trees competing in verdure.
There could hardly be many such long and beautiful passes.
Jangsu of stone tools had been our dream since the previous night.
We alighted from the car in the town and met County Magistrate Lim Myeong-sun.
The stonemasons' village lay in Sangchang-ri, some twenty cho beyond the town.
Along the highway running mid-slope, far below on the left, we glimpsed a village sheltering several houses.
We descended single-mindedly through trackless paths.
In the distant haze, mountains veiled by clouds came into view.
They said stones were quarried there and brought to this village.
At the foothills stretched vast rice fields.
This humble village rested amid the beautiful scenery of the hillside.
We wound through maze-like alleys to reach the stonemason's house.
The master had gone quarrying in the mountains and was absent, we learned.
Looking about, we found several raw materials and a few simple tools scattered in the small workshop.
Yet there on the veranda lay a magnificent square brazier he had carved, casually put to use.
Once again unfolded the mystery of Korean craftsmanship.
Who transmits the methods? Who shapes the forms?
Why do they never create ugliness even by error?

But its prosperous era had already passed.
Now only two stonemasons remained.
We recorded the names Yang Hae-ju and Choe Man-yeong in our notebook.
It seemed strange that such a quiet little village had sent forth those numerous splendid stone tools all the way to the capital.
Was there no one who would preserve this unparalleled craft?
This was splendid handiwork that could only be born in Korea.
We had likely forgotten it would take a full year as we earnestly placed numerous orders.
At the same time, we commissioned villagers to gather as many well-used items as possible from nearby settlements.
(Later several crates would reach Tokyo from the County Magistrate.)

How we rejoiced at having come to this distant land!
Leaving many thoughts behind, we set our course for Namwon where we would stay that day.
This ancient capital welcomed us, its many buildings speaking of times past.
That night, we stayed at the large Kikusui Inn.

May 11th.
Today was the day for our journey to Yunbong.
The village of Yunbong lay on the slopes of Jirisan Mountain and had been renowned since ancient times for its woodenware and carved items.
Those round stacked bowls came to be called “Yunbong,” which was how this place gained its name.
They likely originated from Buddhist utensils, and many were probably crafted by the hands of Buddhist monks.
In Sannai-myeon, the work continued even now.
We visited the workshop.
Most seemed to use pine as their material.
Several large logs lay in the garden, awaiting work.
They cut them into sections about a foot long and mounted them on the potter’s wheel.
All were green wood.
As we watched, didn’t the pine splinters emit a strong fragrance and strike our faces?
From beneath the blade, drops fell in steady plops.
They carved away with a pleasant sound into the softness of green wood.
They did not stop halfway through.
They finished them in one continuous motion.
It differed greatly from our work, which was particular about drying.
Later, cracks would likely form and the shape would warp.
But it seemed to say, “Why should that be a problem?”

That natural, free form—wasn’t it these very circumstances alone that ensured it?
They surrendered everything to shapes only green wood could yield.
Nor was this deliberate.
It simply followed nature’s most fundamental logic.
This serenity became our balm.
Nearly all carved pieces received lacquer coatings.
Their creations centered on trays, bowls, pots, and rice containers.
We documented several forms and dimensions, entrusting them to craft pieces for us.
Had we lingered but a few days in such villages, countless masterworks would surely have revealed themselves.

Crossing the river brought us to Tateshi Village.
The renowned temple Hōjōzan Jissō-ji lay within shouting distance.
Before passing through the temple gate, we were greeted by two massive stone-carved generals.
They were majestic sculptures.
We had never seen such magnificent works of this kind before.
Did their era date back to Silla?
There could be no temple treasures comparable to these.
The temple’s history appeared ancient.
Several Silla stone pagodas speak of the faith of old.
Within the temple grounds stood quite a few temple buildings.
Inscribed on one door were the words: “Azure Dragon Draws Water, White Tiger Bears Firewood.”
Was this not an intriguing phrase that captured the heart?
But we lacked sufficient time to linger.
Declining even the abbot’s hospitality, we hurried back.
For we wished to reach Jeonju’s grand market opening that day.

We hurried by car through Naju once more.
When Namdaemun came into view, we had already reached Jeonju.
Looking up at the tower’s upper level, we saw two plaques hanging there: "First Fortress of Honam" and "Hōnan Gate."
On the reverse side was another plaque inscribed with the title "Akashirō."
Here too we found ourselves in a realm of exquisite calligraphy and poetic inscriptions.
The grand plaque displayed at the Commerce and Industry Promotion Hall—formerly the county office—alongside “Hōhai no Yakata,” held a beauty impossible to forget.
The market unfolded expansively beneath the shadow of the tower gate.
Amidst the cacophony—vendors’ cries, shouted greetings, murmured conversations, bursts of laughter, sounds of eating and drinking—every imaginable item was being sold: garments, containers, water vessels, cooking pots, decorative ornaments, cutting tools.
People of all ages and stations—men and women, children and elders—along with cows, pigs, dogs, and chickens streamed toward the market from every compass point.
To witness living Korea, one must never let market days pass unobserved.
Here we found ourselves able to purchase more than enough.
Bush clover baskets, brass gongs, jars, pots, sake bottles, paper goods, silverwork, bamboo crafts, folding fans, round fans, combs—these and more.
In truth, since embarking on our journey we had chased twelve market days across nine days.
We had traversed nearly all of South and North Jeolla.
From dawn till dusk we delighted our eyes, our hearts, our very bodies.
When would we ever again share such a divinely favored journey?

The journey through Jeolla ended here.

The night train carried our dreams to Keijō.

May 12th to 16th.

A stay in Keijō.
We continued spending our time busily hunting for items and organizing our work.
As this was also Korea’s center, various goods gathered here from all directions.
In the past, they must have thrived.
Had one walked along Jongno’s main thoroughfare stretching from Dongdaemun to Seodaemun, they would likely have seen all of Korea’s principal crafts.

However, the passage of time had wretchedly altered its charm. In the past, shops must have displayed silver-inlaid crafts and ornate leather-covered furnishings. Pottery and woodenware must have bustled with activity as well. Yet now we could no longer find what we sought. Jongno’s night stalls mostly sold cheap Japanese goods. These days, even Korean-style items were imported in great quantities from Japan. Souvenirs could not be purchased carelessly. Even items painstakingly crafted in Korea lost all vitality once they fell under Japanese management. The Miwakōrai and Tōrai mother-of-pearl inlay works stood as fitting penance. Many claimed they were Korean souvenirs. Such things could not possibly be Korean. The chasm between false Korea and authentic Korea yawned vast. Our journey sought to articulate this truth through the objects themselves.

Even in the vast Keijō, shops dealing exclusively in Korean goods became scarce.
But they were scattered here and there.
We decided to provide a map guide for those visiting for the first time.

In Keijō there were two large permanent markets.
At Namdaemun and Dongdaemun.
However most were food; even if one expected goods they were not so abundant.
Rather than that it was better to walk west along the main street from Dongdaemun.
There were some on both the south and north sides but generally there were more on the south side.
There houseware stores and general goods stores lined the street selling various items.
Proceeding further one would see brassware shops sundries stores silverwork ateliers textile merchants and such come into view.
Such shops continued sporadically to where Jongno intersected with Taihei-cho.
Among them what was particularly intriguing was Tōshōden located in the shadow of the bell tower.
Perhaps here would show us the most pure Korea.
Various sundries shops huddled close together.
When one turned onto Namdaemun-dong from there shops displaying brassware and handling paper lined both sides.
Chests and the like had been abundant since old times near Seodaemun and behind the city hall.
To obtain those distinctive water jars and the like the area behind Pagoda Park was best.
The best textile shops were likely those across from the bell tower.
All those shops retained the traditional Korean layout.
Recently the department store Washin had begun handling various items.

Judging from the trend thus far, those shops were gradually disappearing.
Otherwise, they had replaced their goods with Japanese ones.
Yet if Korea’s essence continued to fade like this, was this not a grave matter?
We believed there were two paths from which this decline could be recovered.
The first was the self-awareness of the Korean people.
It was to fully recognize how excellent their inherently Korean goods were.
The second was for us to take the initiative in introducing them.
It was to speak of their excellence.
Probably many customers were waiting in Japan as well.
It was solely to fulfill that role that we had planned this journey.
Next, we would hold a meeting and compile another volume to dedicate to that report.
Somewhere, there must be an answer.
If we were to let such items perish, it would be our failing.
Even if those who cared were few now, we wanted to convey overflowing joy to those few people and share the many things we had learned.
Ripples always begin with a small circle.

We stayed in Keijō for five days.
With the items we brought back each day, our room at the Keijō Hotel had already become full.
The time to return had come.
We had to hasten our next preparations to meet many kindred spirits through those items.