It was probably about fifteen years ago.
The very first time I carefully took apart one of my late mother's kimono, I discovered something that completely surprised me.
The body panels, the collar, the sleeves...
As I patiently unstitched each piece, everything eventually returned to a simple rectangular bolt of fabric about 36 to 40 centimeters wide.
"What!? Is this really how a kimono is made?"
I remember being genuinely amazed.
In old Japan, people treasured their kimono as something to be passed down to their children and grandchildren.
When the time came to hand one down, they would carefully take the entire garment apart, return it to its original tanmono (fabric bolt) form, wash it, sometimes re-dye it, and then hand-sew it into a new kimono for the next generation.
What fascinated me even more was that, except for adjusting the length, they hardly cut the fabric with scissors at all.
Even the collar and sleeves were created by folding and shaping the cloth rather than cutting it away, making it possible to remake the garment again and again in the future.
In other words, even after becoming a kimono, the original rectangular shape of the tanmono was still there.
The people who came before us were absolute geniuses, don't you think?
After discovering this little secret hidden inside a kimono (or maybe it wasn't such a secret after all!), I found myself thinking:
"If I ever create something using kimono fabric, I want to make something that preserves this beautiful world of rectangles the old craftsmen left behind, instead of destroying it."
And then there was one more reason.
These days, I live in Hawaii, where summer seems to last all year long.
For me, the kimono my mother left for her daughters have become something I rarely have the chance to wear in everyday life.
I did try, once upon a time.
But honestly... it was just so hot.
I would end up completely drenched in sweat, and it became difficult to simply enjoy wearing them.
So I started thinking...
Rather than letting them sleep quietly inside a wardrobe in a faraway country, wouldn't it be wonderful if they could become something I could hold, touch, and use every single day?
Something that would keep the feeling of my mother alive.
Those two thoughts became the beginning of my journey to create shinai bags from kimono fabric.
A shinai bag is made from long rectangular pieces of cloth.
And as it turns out, the width of a tanmono is almost the perfect size.
Being able to transform a carefully unstitched kimono into something new, while wasting almost none of the fabric, was such a happy discovery for me.
There is one little limitation, though.
The sleeves of a kimono simply are not long enough to make a shinai bag.
That means only the front and back body panels can be used, allowing a maximum of about four bags to be created from a single kimono.
This is why only a very small number of Kimono Collection Shinai Bags can ever be made from one kimono.
And of course, taking apart a kimono is delicate work in itself.
Every stitch must be carefully removed by hand, one by one, with great patience and attention.
That is another reason why these bags can never be mass-produced.
It takes a great deal of time and care before a Kimono Collection Shinai Bag is finally complete.
But to be honest, I absolutely love this part of the process.
Both kimono and kendo are precious traditions that have been passed down through countless generations in Japan.
When someone picks up one of these bags, I hope they can feel, even just a little, the kindness, wisdom, and craftsmanship of the people who came before us.
My mother was never athletic, and she never practiced kendo even once in her life.
Sometimes I imagine her looking down at me and saying,
"Oh my! You've turned my precious kimono into a shinai bag!?"
with complete surprise on her face.
And when that day comes, I think I'll simply smile and answer,
"But you know, Mom...
Every single day, I go off to kendo practice together with the kimono you left behind for me."
And somehow, I think she would smile back... and forgive me.
At least, that's what I like to believe. :)
— Haru, the Sewing Cat