Pathway to Japanese Literature

Omiyamagami Customs

The location was Rikuchu Province.
Was it some six or seven ri west of Morioka?
We entered a village called Shizukuishi.
Proceeding further soon brought us to Omiyamagami Village.
Few travelers visited this place yet those who did found it unforgettable,
for here survived an extraordinary custom -
the working attire worn by women when laboring in fields.
Though Kyoto's Ohara women are famed worldwide,
these garments surpassed theirs in beauty,
distinctiveness,
and complexity.
Among Japan's regional customs,
this deserved special mention;
indeed,
among all women's attire across nations,
it stood particularly eye-catching.
Why had such splendid tradition endured our changing world?
I did not merely recount antiquity -
these were garments still worn today,
not solely by elders,
but by young women too.
How many items composed their full ensemble?
The number proved astonishing.

The woven hat looked exactly like something French women would own. Woven with grass, both ends curled sharply. Artisans edged the rim with black velvet and adorned it with beautiful embroidery using five-colored threads. They often decorated the crown with four tassels. Not only was the embroidery intriguing, but the underside of the hat also revealed beauty. They attached backs of various shapes using different fabrics. All were cotton-padded, demonstrating their sewing skills in this detail as well. Throughout Japan's inlets and shores existed various woven hats. I had come across exquisitely crafted ones from Tosa in Shikoku, but those of Omiyamagami possessed even more distinctive characteristics.

The hat alone would likely have ensured this village’s name was remembered, yet it represented merely one aspect of its customs.
Many wore indigo kasuri short-sleeved kimonos, donning work pants and aprons over them.
At times, they took pleasure in applying sashiko stitching to these garments.

Once this preparation was complete, they attached the sun-shielding back cover (higomo). Most were constructed with a base body edged with navy cloth that was then adorned with patterns using thread or fabric. The patterns varied, but fan-shaped designs were most prevalent. This was presumably to celebrate auspiciousness. It measured about one shaku (~30 cm) in width and reached four shaku (~120 cm) in length—an unusual shape for a back cover rarely seen in other regions.

This piece was worn on the back, though they also made a separate chest cover. Most were rectangular indigo fabric panels. They then tied the back and front pieces together with an obi cord. Next came the arm covers (teue), where white-thread embroideries of grass patterns stood out against the indigo background. Naturally, coverage extended beyond the hands—the wearing of a head cloth went without saying. This was a rather large cloth called "shihan," designed to envelop not just the head but also the neck and chin.

But the women’s preparations did not end here.
Finally, they donned two extraordinary items.
One was that thickly woven straw waist apron reminiscent of what Urashima Taro wore.
Most consisted of cords woven from white hemp.
During rice harvesting, they aligned the stubble there.
To this they added yet another mysterious item.
It was roughly five or six sun square.
It was a single net finely woven from horsehair.
They placed it in front of their faces.
It was, so to speak, a veil.
This "face screen" was said to repel insects when working in the daytime fields.

This completed the basic set, but when rain fell, when snow fell, or when shouldering heavy loads, they donned a straw raincoat over everything.
The collar decorations on those straw raincoats included some of exceptional beauty.
And thus, with a single sickle in hand, they set out to the fields.
That they wore tabi socks and straw sandals on their feet went without saying.
The tabi socks were often adorned with beautiful sashiko stitching.
The workmanship and shape of the straw sandals were also excellent.
How many items in total were required to complete a full set? Over a dozen articles came together to form this remarkable attire.
Was this for brides to wear? For celebratory occasions? One might have thought it festive attire for rice planting.
However, this was attire for working.
They are nothing more than items born from necessity.
Who established this? From what era did it begin?
Though I am not well-versed in the details, no one could have imagined that such meticulous work attire existed.
This must surely be one of Japan’s customs still existing today that deserves special mention.

Is it not truly a blessing that such things still remain?
This was an age rushing headlong into Western styles.
That such purely Japanese attire could still be seen today seemed rather wondrous.
Moreover—it being not merely their rarity—I particularly wished to preserve in memory how beauty accompanied them through time.
These very things might well be called rural regions' special privilege indeed!
Urban dress appeared insipid when set beside them—
for containing too much borrowed finery and false pretense!
Let us therefore hold not mere curiosity toward local customs but rather cultivate awareness and pride: recognizing how traditions born from native soil form Japan's most precious heritage!

Araya Shimmachi Lacquerware

Not many practitioners in the field visited here either.

Along the railway line connecting Rikuchu to Ugo lay a station called Araya Shimmachi. However, the name of this place would one day grow in renown. At least, there were various elements that gave the name a good ring. Now, there was a single highway that ran from this village to Jōfukuji. Even then, this remained true: many villagers set out to market days shouldering bowls, small pouring vessels, wooden plates, and such. Jōfukuji served as the hub, where market days were held on the second day of each month and other set dates. Merchants gathered there to purchase goods. These spread throughout northern Rikuchu locally but were often carried as far as Hokkaido. That history too had by then grown old.

The bowls known as Nanbu-wan, which were highly prized, could generally be considered products of this area.
It seemed they had been produced in considerable quantities since ancient times.

The best evidence lay at the house of Mr. Saito Zensuke in Ishigami, Azasawa Hamlet, Araza Village, where a grand building said to have an eighteen-ken frontage remained.
It was said to have been built in 1820.
The fact that this house took the lead in producing lacquerware was known to everyone in this vicinity.
Even now, the lacquer workrooms continued to exist.
Yet in its immediate vicinity were many people who made their living through lacquer application.
It was not limited to lacquering alone.
Lathe turners were also among them.
Far from it.
In this area were planted lacquer trees in abundance.
If one went to the mountains, one would often find trunks scraped bare.
Because their work was deep in the mountains, and because they mostly produced utilitarian ware, they had not inherited glamorous reputations like those of Wajima or Aizu.
They engaged in even more rustic work.
But I had never encountered a lacquer workshop that had inspired me with such abundant hope.
There were more things here that captivated the heart than in any renowned place.
I wished to write about the reasons for its vitality.

What makes me recoil about Japanese goods is how their finish becomes so fastidiously beautified.
It may have been intended as a display of technical brilliance in such details—but how much they lost because of this!
Judging from results，they fell into being cold，flavorless dead things.
When reconsidering products from various places，I thought Hida’s crafts had until then been least afflicted by this flaw.
The products from those mountains were wondrous，for no superfluous touches marred their final finish.
Thus they became natural and vigorous，gaining an added layer of reliability and strength.
Hida’s works stood strikingly close to Korean pieces—their creative spirit and methods seemed profoundly akin.
There was no need now to expound on Korean elegance.
In craft beauty，preserving nature’s force remains paramount.
Things made too artificially perfect inevitably grow feeble and cold.

Places engaged in lacquerware production were exceedingly numerous.
But as for those retaining the elegance seen in Hida’s work—to my knowledge—it was solely the craft of Rikuchu Ninohe District.
They were not consciously aware of that.
Had they become aware of it, they would likely have ruined it.
Fortunately, they made ordinary items—thus their work remained rough.
This circumstance was what preserved their craft.
Particularly in elements like the old-fashioned shaping of foot rings—there was no other example.
Places striving for refined items added touch upon touch—resulting in crafts that died beyond salvation.
The reason I placed such great hope in Araya Shimmachi’s work was precisely because it seemed the sole place where these vital elements still remained.
The elegance of those Nanbu bowls passed down among Ainu homes remains something I cannot forget.
Since this vitality still continues there—I could not help but be moved.

But that was not all. Thanks to its long history, they painted with colored lacquer there. They preferred painting designs in yellow and vermilion on black backgrounds. In those paintings were traditional patterns of landscapes, peaches, ginkgo, and such, executed with remarkable skill. Truly, there were scarcely any other artisans who could depict with such vividness as this. There was no shortage of skilled hands elsewhere that could render technically intricate details, but all had lost their vitality. However, only in this village did they still depict vivid elements. In this age when our instinct for patterns had so abruptly declined, the survival of such artisans was nothing short of a godsend.

If the potter’s wheel work and painting were good, that already showed ample potential, but what deserved special mention in Araya Shimmachi was their use of seventy percent local lacquer.
Nowadays, local lacquer had nearly vanished from every country, forcing reliance on materials from China and India—yet this could hardly be called good lacquer.
Nothing compared to Japanese lacquer.
That it could be produced locally became its strength.
The quality being excellent went without saying.

Moreover, as an advantageous factor, nearly the entire village engaged in this work.
Some handled the base material, others operated the potter’s wheel, and still others undertook the lacquering process.
Nothing proved more advantageous than these circumstances.
Moreover, many combined farming with craftsmanship—their ethos differed greatly from that of seasoned full-time artisans.
If this village could have been fully utilized, Japan would have regained its historical honor as the country of lacquerware.
Because I could envision that future before my eyes, even then my heart turned toward the northern country.

But one thing I had to add here was that what passed as superior lacquerware from this village proved inferior indeed.They imitated foreign designs or worked with diminished vitality,yielding few pieces worthy of attention.Especially those newly conceived for trade lacked local character,failing to honor the village's legacy.What deserved regard instead were traditional inexpensive wares—bowls,"hiage",wooden plates.Yet their very affordability brought regret:lacquer peeling away,lacking endurance.Had they but applied more steadfast coatings,the pieces might have secured firmer standing.Since their traditional forms held such excellence,I sought through lacquerwork to elevate them further still.

Torigoe Bamboo Crafts

This was Rikuchu Province, Ninohe District, Namiuchi Village, Aza Torigoe, Koaza Yagisawa.
From the highway leading to Fukuoka, turning left at a point approximately one *ri* [~3.9km] short of it brought one into this village.
I had come to see the bamboo crafts made by the village's many men and women.
Though we speak of bamboo, in these cold northern climes the thick-stemmed varieties did not thrive.
What they cut from the mountains was thin dwarf bamboo measuring perhaps four or five *bu* [1.2–1.5cm] in diameter.
Locally they called it black bamboo.
The name likely came from its darkened bark.
Nature's tyranny restricted their materials.
Yet this very limitation provided resources unseen in southern lands.
Thus were they granted crafts impossible in warmer countries.
One might rather consider this nature's blessing.
To lament constraints was mere human selfishness; better to marvel at nature's wondrous design.
The bamboo crafts of Rikuchu existed nowhere else.
Their forms and weaving patterns arose inevitably from slender stalks.
Here was born a unique beauty.
Countless exquisite things took shape in this village.
Visiting hardware stores in places like Ichinobe or Fukuoka, one would see these crafts handled with colorful local dialects.
Their distribution reached Hachinohe's outskirts and towns like Morioka and Hizume.
"Ōmarukibuchi," "Komarukibuchi" (rimmed round baskets), "Kakobe"
(Kuwa-kago) "Ara-tosu" (coarse sieve)

("Tosu" means "to pass through," referring to a sieve), "Oboke" (possibly meaning "cord bucket"), and so on—they were called by various names. What they made most frequently besides these were woven baskets. They came in large, medium, and small varieties; the larger ones were naturally for travel purposes while even the smallest served as lunchboxes. In the small ones，they often wove in bamboo dyed black to create various patterns. The highest quality ones were not only finely woven but also double-layered so that both surfaces showed. They possessed dignity and beauty. Because they split thin bamboo into pliant strands，the rims could be shaped as freely as rattan.

Observing revealed this to be a household handicraft where every family member helped and labored diligently.
To witness it was to behold a peaceful scene.
These were goods born unnoticed in a tranquil village.
Remarkably, not a single piece bore an ugly form.

When did such an industry arise, and why in this land of all places?
The village elder told us this story.
A monk had fallen ill during his travels but recovered after being nursed devotedly by the villagers.
In gratitude—so it was said—the monk taught them how to weave baskets from bamboo.
That marked the beginning of what would quietly spread throughout the village as its defining craft.
Though practiced alongside farming at first, this handicraft had by then become indispensable work sustaining their economy.
More significantly still, these baskets were essential items in every Nanbu household.

“This village is a mysterious place,” said a villager. “We sent many soldiers to both the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars, yet not a single one fell in battle. This time too, surely none shall perish.”

This occurred in the thirteenth year of Shōwa [1938]. The villager addressed us with these words, his voice carrying an air of unshakable conviction about destiny.

“Might we be permitted to worship Oshira-sama?” one of our companions inquired.

Yanagi noted that Oshira-sama was a mysterious folk deity still fervently revered in certain villages of Rikuchū—a primal force governing human fates that all both feared and venerated.

“It is not something we ought to show others, but for your sake, we shall make a special exception.”
With those words, the master went into the back.
After some time, what he brought out was a new straw mat.
I thought he had brought it out for us to sit on the edge.
But that was not the case.
Tentatively carrying a mysterious object, he made it sit upon the mat.
It stood about one shaku tall, with thinly torn strips of cloth hanging down from above like tassels, swelling into an almost perfectly round shape.
Upon hearing that they dress it with one strip each year, it must surely be over a hundred years old by now.
Though darkened by smoke, the cloths indeed displayed a variety of colors.
If permitted to touch it, over a hundred years of textile history would have become clear at a glance.
But no one held any intention of doing such a thing.
Something of an overwhelmingly terrifying and eerie form pressed vividly upon the mind.
It remained unclear what lay hidden within the cloth.
But it was often a stick, on whose head human faces or horse necks were occasionally carved.
Among those known to date, those bearing Tenshō-era inscriptions were likely the oldest.
If one committed even the slightest disrespect, the divine retribution was said to be swift and severe.
Therefore, everyone both feared and revered it.

Where did such a folk deity originate?
I could not help but recall the guardian deities (shamans) of the Oroks and Ainu.
The sight of the sacred object buried within wood shavings inevitably compels one to sense a karmic connection between them.
But it was not my intention here to address such questions of folkloric scholarship.
There exists a tendency to dismiss such faith as primitive superstition, but can rural life truly be understood through such simplistic perspectives?
That was precisely what concerned me.
How earnestly does the fear of divine prohibition make humans comport themselves!
Could it be that their devotion operates behind their skilled craftsmanship?
Why does Tohoku harbor so many noteworthy crafts?
Would it be mistaken to trace this to lives steeped in faith?
Superstition may be discarded.
But ought we discard even that mysterious essence lying deep within superstition?
Is it not precisely because our lives lack this mystery that we drift into false ways of living?
I found myself compelled to consider why urban crafts had grown so unsightly.
Observing both life and handiwork in this Torigoe village, we arrived at these questions.

Kinugawa's Lacquerware

When one speaks of Kinugawa, all recall its history.
Nearby Hiraizumi recounts through its Golden Hall’s fame the vestiges of three generations of Fujiwara splendor.
The haiku Basho was said to have composed upon passing through this land—“Summer grasses—all that remains of warriors’ dreams”—may yet endure longest of all.

However，what I would discuss here was not those celebrated historical facts，but rather the modest work being carried out in a small，remote village.

The village shared the name Kinugawa, making it a place resonant with history.
But the Kinugawa I spoke of lay deep within the village of Kinugawa itself—a place where following that road would bring one to the Akita border.
The proper name remains Rikuchū Province, Isawa District, Kinugawa Village, Masuzawa.
Nowadays a bus service ran from Mizusawa to Atago; from there one needed only cross a single mountain and walk a little over one ri.
Yet consulting a map would have revealed how deeply nestled within Kinugawa Village’s valley this tiny hamlet lay.
This Masuzawa consisted of no more than about fifty households—even gathered together, its people would not have reached four hundred.
The reason I chronicled this small village was that it deserved wider recognition as a lacquerware village.
The work amounted to no more than that undertaken by twelve households and thirty-odd people, yet contained elements worthy of record.
As none had yet provided detailed documentation, I resolved to take up the pen in their stead.

How much history did it have as a lacquerware village?
There was now no one who remembered precisely.
Because it had collapsed multiple times due to famines only to rise again each time, no records from distant eras remained.
What was known at the time appeared to go back no further than fifty or sixty years.
Moreover, even those things preserved in the village as old artifacts did not appear to date back very far.

However, Rikuchu was long renowned for its lacquerware, and to think that Hiraizumi’s culture persisted there in some form was not necessarily a reckless fantasy.
Therefore, the history of Masuzawa as a lacquerware village could be considered quite old.
In the vicinity, lacquer trees were by no means scarce.

The annual output of goods from this village was said to be within approximately 30,000 yen, so as a lacquerware production area, it was by no means large. However, there appeared a curiously intriguing aspect to its production organization. They had now formed a cooperative structured to distribute work as fairly as possible, but according to the villagers, they had never once sold completed lacquerware to merchants. They said they had never even accepted orders from department stores or undertaken work for wholesalers. It was a rare phenomenon in this day and age, they said, that all work came from individual orders. They mostly received orders for complete lacquerware sets in units of twenty-person portions. Orders for forty-person sets were not uncommon. The clients came not only from the vicinity but throughout Rikuchu, and their reach was said to extend somewhat into Rikuzen as well.

With this, I suddenly realized something.
Suppose we were to visit the countryside of Rikuchu and have them show us their storehouse.
The majority of utensils stored there were lacquerware.
Since ancient times there had been names such as Hidehira bowls and Nambu bowls, demonstrating that this region shared an inseparable relationship with lacquerware.
Generally speaking, until pottery began to be produced in large quantities during the early Tokugawa period, nearly all Japanese tableware had consisted of lacquerware.
However, the emergence of pottery swept through the tableware world like a storm.
Places that strictly preserved old customs like temples and old households such as village headmen’s were exceptions, but most tableware was replaced with ceramics.

However, in the northern regions far from Imari and Seto, pottery did not appear to have spread readily.
Moreover, people of the northern regions were conservative and rarely broke with traditional customs.
Even now in Rikuchu, the custom of employing lacquerware remains firmly entrenched.
Moreover, unlike in cities, rural areas had a custom where the entire village would gather during weddings, funerals, roof-raisings, and other occasions to share meals in large groups.
Therefore, if tableware for twenty or thirty place settings wasn’t prepared, it became inconvenient.
To lack this was a kind of shame.
When they accumulated some wealth, they built a storehouse, and it was lacquerware that they first stored there.
Particularly, this region may well be considered the foremost in Japan as an area that employs lacquerware.
It was indeed these circumstances that kept the small village of Kinugawa so busy.
People could obtain items that were both cheaper and more reliable by placing orders directly rather than purchasing from merchants.
The villagers also continued traveling to go around taking orders.
Thus, the work continued solely through individual orders.
“Even I myself am amazed that such orders have continued for so many years,” remarked a villager.

This could indeed be called a truly rare phenomenon in the realm of handicraft work.
In ancient times, work was likely carried out naturally in this form, but in the modern age of rampant commercialism, such a thing had become nearly impossible.
They ended up subjugated by wholesalers and merchants, persisting in their arduous industry.
Yet Masuzawa remained untouched by such misfortune.
This might rightly be termed a marvelous industrial system.
Through its workings, no stark disparity between rich and poor arose among the villagers.

So what exactly were they making?
When I first visited this village and was shown their goods, I felt somewhat disappointed.
This was because many pieces followed new Aizu-style forms rather than the classical Nambu bowl shapes I knew.
When I asked the reason, they told me they had recently invited instructors from Aizu to teach them.
The simple rural people had convinced themselves their own goods were backward and inferior.
Putting aside such misconceptions, I was astonished by the sturdiness of the lacquer application.
They put considerable effort into even quite inexpensive bowls.
They never cut corners.
“Kinugawa’s lacquerware has a reputation for sturdiness,”
the villagers would say.
The truly sturdy lacquer application was the lifeblood of this Kinugawa lacquerware.
When compared to Araya Shimmachi’s products, this presented an exact contrast.
While Kinugawa’s pieces boasted superior lacquer work, their foreign-influenced shapes put them at a disadvantage.
Araya Shimmachi’s wares conversely preserved good old-fashioned forms even in their inexpensive items,
though their lacquer’s tendency to peel considerably remained a drawback.
Were one village to perfect the forms and another refine the lacquer application, Rikuchu could once again reign supreme as Japan’s land of lacquerware.
Precisely because the village was small, proper management would undoubtedly yield remarkable creations.
In contrast, large production areas like Wajima and Aizu found meaningful improvement nearly impossible.

Why was Kinugawa's lacquerware so sturdy? It was not merely due to reasons like the thorough drying of base materials, meticulous lacquer application, or superior quality materials. I concluded it stemmed from an inherent sincerity in the villagers' way of life. The greatest contributing factor was likely their practice of "Hidden Buddhism." This Nenbutsu sect now belonged to the Higashi Honganji lineage yet maintained no formal clergy. True to its name, it remained a secretive group of devout practitioners. While historical oppression might explain this concealment, it equally derived from an unshakable belief—comparable to Shingon Buddhism's esotericism and primitive religions' taboos—that careless disclosure invited divine punishment. This prohibition carried such supreme authority that it instilled genuine fear. Precisely this dread compelled naturally lax human hearts toward solemnity. Thus the practice itself became the moral compass guiding villagers' conduct. "We owe it all to Hidden Buddhism," they would say. As long as these devotions continued, Masuzawa's lacquerware would never decline in quality. The village knew no crime—constables merely made monthly patrols through the area. No police station stood there. None was needed.

This village was inconveniently situated—the elementary school lay over one ri away, the post office nearly three ri distant, and there was no doctor.
People from other prefectures were extremely few; they said all were locals.
It was a journey of five or six ri to Mizusawa and Ichinoseki.

To backtrack, the lacquer used in this village also consisted of 70% local urushi, which could indeed be called a blessing.
This too had to be counted as a major element of Kinugawa’s sturdy lacquer application.
When I thought of such villages, I was seized by the ardent wish to somehow cultivate authentic lacquerware there.
The people were in place, the techniques in place, and materials fully prepared.
And what remained above all was the artisan spirit.
All that remained was to establish the correct forms and patterns; creating pieces that rivaled the historic Hidehira bowls would not have been a difficult task at all.
While it remained unharmed, I wished to nurture its proper growth.
Because the results appeared vividly before my eyes, hope for this village ignited within me.
There was probably no place with greater potential to easily produce outstanding goods in the future than there.
This was the great and joyful responsibility imposed upon those who protected this village.