I recently enjoyed attending WiK’s Writers Afternoon organized by Rebecca Otowa and held at David Duff’s home. One of the writing prompts was “Kyoto fabric and kimono.” While the exercise suggested writing a few sentences on several prompts, I decided to just keep on going with that theme. 

Over the years, I’ve written a lot about my husband’s mother, but very little about his father — a Kyoto native who worked in the traditional textile industry. Rebecca encouraged me to share what I wrote on the WiK website, so here it is (edited to remove a few personal details — and fix my typos):

My husband’s father was born into a family with deep connections to Kyoto’s traditional kimono industry. 

Ojiichan’s father was a fabric dyer. He bought some land just south of the Nishijin garment district in the late years of Meiji and built a large house there, to accommodate his business and his growing family. 

The house still stands amid the city’s urban sprawl, and it’s difficult to imagine that it was surrounded by fields at the time it was built. Apparently, the dyes he used were highly flammable, and neighbors in his previous locations were constantly worried about the fire risk.

Ojiichan was the seventh and final child. He was physically born in the house, and he always insisted that someday, he would also pass away within its walls. Sadly, he suffered from dementia in his later years, and he died in a nearby memory care facility.

He spent most of his life working for his older brother’s wholesale company, which purchased kimono and obi from craftspeople and sold them to retailers across Japan. When the older brother retired and passed the business to his son, Ojiichan decided to retire early.

This turned out to be a good move for him, because the company eventually folded. Despite the traditional textile industry’ thousands of years of history and tradition, Ojiichan said the average company lasts just three generations — and his brother’s lasted only two.

He was not yet 60, and not ready to fully retire. Ojiichan surprised all of us by going into business for himself, designing and painting obi. With his many connections, he had no trouble getting commissions. He also joined a craft guild which sent him all over Japan to demonstrate obi dyeing techniques.

Some of his custom orders were interesting. A woman whose husband was a fisherman wanted an obi with fish and fishing poles. Someone else wanted him to depict her pet kitten, and another person wanted an image of Audrey Hepburn. He even made a beautiful obi embellished with characters from the Lion King — fortunately, he never heard from Disney’s copyright lawyers.

I once said to Obaachan that it was great that Ojiichan was getting so much work. She agreed that yes, she was happy he stayed busy with something he clearly enjoyed, but apparently he barely broke even after buying all of his specialty supplies.

One year, Ojiichan suddenly lost interest, and gave away not only his paints and silks, but all of his samples, too. Nothing remained — he even gave away the exquisite obi he had made for my daughter to someday wear for her Coming of Age ceremony. We knew that his mind was closing in on itself.

All that remained from the creative phase of his life was a single set of paint brushes. When Ojiichan died, we placed them in his casket, to be cremated along with him. So now nothing remains at all, except for what we remember.