The Memory of Cloth
by Yuzuri Nagai
I felt as if I caught sight of a ghost in the corner of the room.
Tattered, stained, faded, and worn out.
Layers of fabric scraps sewn together with crooked hand stitches, tears showing hemp wastage
stuffed inside.
Sweat, dirt, tears, urine…the cloth has absorbed them all.
I realized I was looking at donjya, a kimono shaped hemp quilt used up until about 120 years ago during brutally cold winter nights in rural areas of Aomori, the northernmost edge of Honshu - Japan’s largest island. During the cold winter nights, a whole family slept under donjya naked, sharing body heat through their skin.
Donjya. Image courtesy of AMUSE MUSEUM
It was hung in a small room at ton-cara, a communal space for dyers, weavers, spinners, and all lovers of fabric related handicrafts.
The cloth seemed to hold a massive accumulation of people’s memory and time. I felt somewhat embarrassed as it felt a little too personal and intimate to be exposed to a stranger’s eyes, yet something begged for my full presence, so I paused and let it tell its story.
Culture of Boro Textile
The term boro, mere rags, comes from a Japanese onomatopoeia boroboro, something tattered. The culture of boro textiles was born in some of the most closed villages of the Tohoku region of Japan. It came into existence out of people’s desperate need. Silk, cotton, and plant-based fiber such as hemp were the three main materials from nature, which people relied on in Japan (and most other countries) long before synthetic fiber was introduced in the textile industry.
During the Edo Period (1603-1868), people of the peasant farming class were prohibited from wearing silk garments as it was strictly reserved for those of the upper class. Could they have worn cotton? No, because it was too cold to grow cotton plants in the freezing north, nor was the trade route from the warmer areas yet established.[1]
Japanese village buried among snow. Photo courtesy of Shutterstock.
“...the fabric was handed over for generations, sometimes more than three or four, creating an astonishing textile culture of boro.”
So the villagers were left with hemp; each family grew and wove it themselves to make their garments. First, it was made into daily wear. It was mended and patched multiple times until it was completely worn out. Then, the fabric was remade into coverlets, thin mattresses, aprons, or other household items, then into diapers or women’s menstrual pads, later into cleaning rags, and finally turned to ash and returned to the soil. In such a way, the fabric was handed over for generations, sometimes more than three or four, creating an astonishing textile culture of boro.[2]
The Weight of Fabric
It was weighed with the memories of the previous owners, never leaving the object even after decades since their passing.
Donjya hung in front of me was not an exception, but a tangible symbol and a proof of the lives of people in the villages of Aomori who lived with strength and dignity in the midst of a harsh reality, economically, socially, politically and geographically. The cloth might have been the only one that offered its presence in silence when women wept alone while preparing threads, weaving, and sewing after the whole house was asleep.
“We would weep in the kitchen only to find our mother in law say, ‘Women are not to cry in the kitchen.” We would weep in bed only to find our husbands tell us, ‘Shut up.’…”[3] (pg.28)
“The cloth might have been the only one that offered its presence in silence when women wept alone while preparing threads, weaving, and sewing after the whole house was asleep. ”
Thousands of stitches carried the women’s tears and prayers for their family that they may be protected and kept warm.
How can it not weigh?
How can it not hold the power that makes a stranger startled and pause?
I could no longer tell if I was perceiving something of a material realm or immaterial.
As my consciousness slowly returned to my body, I tried to feel my clothes through my skin.
My shirt felt like a thin layer of plastic, carrying almost no weight.
I wondered if the fabric remembers it’s connection to the soil it once had.
I wondered if it remembers the human touch they had while being sewn.
I wondered if it was something I wanted to remember as the last contact to the
material realm through my skin if I died that day.
I felt as if being naked would perhaps make me feel less embarrassed about my clothes in the presence of a rugged, mighty donja.
Rugged Beauty (Primordial Beauty)
“True beauty exists in the realm where there is no distinction between the beautiful and ugly, a realm described as ‘prior to beauty and ugliness,’ or as a state where ‘beauty and ugliness are as yet unseparated.”
Soetsu Yanagi, a Japanese art critic, philosopher and the founder of the mingei (folk art) movement in Japan, in his pursuit of beauty, realized that Buddhist spirituality understood the essence of beauty from the ancient times:
“True beauty exists in the realm where there is no distinction between the beautiful and ugly, a realm described as ‘prior to beauty and ugliness,’ or as a state where ‘beauty and ugliness are as yet unseparated.” [4] (pg.130)
True beauty is, at times, provocative.
It demands our full attention.
It looks straight into our eyes, asks us whether we would stay or walk away.
And only when we become attentive, we will soon realize we are standing on holy ground.
There, we may find a pathway to the source of Life.
Works Cited:
1. Yukiko, Koide and Kyoichi, Tsuzuki. BORO: Rags and Tatters from the Far North of Japan. ASPECT Corp., 2008.
2. Nobuhiro, Yasuma. 自然布: 美しい日本の布 [Shizen-fu]. KIRASIENNNE Inc., 2018.
3. Chusaburo, Tanaka. 物には心がある。消えゆく生活道具と作り手の思いに魅せられた人生. Amuse Edutainment Inc., 2017.
4. Soetsu, Yanagi. Unknown Craftsman: A Japanese Insight into Beauty. Kodansha International, 1989.
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