BINGO(-YA)! FINDING GOLD ON THE INDIGO TRAIL

Working once in Tokyo, on a per diem generous beyond what could be eaten or drunk in a day, I used the excess to feed a vice that always overcomes me in Japan, and which I’m helpless to fight - binge shopping.

The excuses I gave myself as I set out on my retail mission before my shift began that day were that I’d been working hard and anyway needed to stock up on presents - a constant outgoing in my extensive and ever-growing family.

One item that unfailingly works well as a gift, and with which I always cram my suitcase, is the tenugui or cotton towel. Usually of a unfinished piece of fine sturdy muslin, they are infinite in design and fully multi-purpose - from elegant accessory to sweat band, table ornament to wall-hanging. My go-to shop for a mass grab is KAMAWANU in Asakusa, where they always have what seems like at least 500 designs in stock, and usually some really special one-offs.

Indigo-dyed Aizomé cloth is the Japanese textile par excellence, in the sense that it’s not only beautiful, but also that until relatively recently it was almost ubiquitous in clothing and household furnishing. It was woven into kasuri ikat, wax-resist dyed with cranes and family crests, patterned in astounding variety and sophistication with shibori tie-dying. It was worn, sat upon, slept under, hung over doors as noren curtains, patched and recycled into boro cloth. True indigo creates a profound and durable blue, that fades slowly into attractively subtle shades, and seems to last forever.

In Kamawanu that year I found and laid claim to a small pile of very fine indigo tenugui next to the cash register, apparently left over from a recent limited-edition run. Each richly-dyed and simply-designed piece came with a slip of printed brown paper, giving the name of the studio and maker. 

A special birthday was coming up at home and, as often, I’d been thinking of ceramics - mostly as an excuse to call in at another couple of favourite shops, DENGAMA and UTSUWA NO HANADA-YA. Instead, the towels I’d bought sparked off the idea of getting a really good textile and set me thinking about what that could be, and where in Tokyo I might find it.

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My next stop on my sortie was the Ginza, and the KYŪKYODŌ for incense and paper. I’d recently been reading some Yanagi Soetsu essays, and remembered something about its place in the growth of the Japanese Folk Crafts Movement. In fact, in June 1927 Kyūkyodō was the venue for the movement’s first ever exhibition, of author-less works that came under the category of the newly-minted term Mingei, “art of the people” or “folk crafts.”. At the word “Mingei” an idea for a possible source of what I was looking for came into my head, and after filling up with my usual purchases at this 350-year old purveyor of colour, texture and aroma, I took my portable wifi and found a peaceful café to google.

I knew what I didn’t want more than what I did - though indigo, and now folk craft, was on my mind.

As it happened, for the job I was on we’d needed to get hold of a large amount of twill cloth for some studio set builds, and thanks to a Japanese art director friend, I’d discovered the treasure house of haberdashery that is the Okada-ya; spread across multiple premises in Shinjuku, each is piled high with bolts of every conceivable factory woven and printed material. As well as finding the twill of exactly the right colour and weave that we needed, I had even gone back and bought metres of various finely printed cottons with Japanese designs there for one of my sisters.

But I knew that the embodiment of the textile gradually taking shape in my head couldn’t be found at Okada-ya, nor in the massed drapers shops of Nippori. Trying to be economical in my search terms, I typed “Tokyo mingeihinten no rankingu”, “Rankings for Tokyo folk art shops”.

Expecting to be led into a rabbit-hole of “not-quites”, I clicked on the first link that caught my eye, and immediately my heart leaped at the name of the shop and the promise their site seemed to hold out. Scrolling through the Floor Guide and seeing the images of each department, it looked as though unwittingly my prospecting had hit directly on the motherlode. The photographs of the 4 and half storeys filled with a vast and enticing array of ceramics, textiles, paper and more, seemed to conceal as much as they displayed. I knew I would find what I was seeking at the BINGO-YA. and I began to plan my route up to the north of Shinjuku-ku.

But it was getting late, and I had to drop my tenugui and bulky Kyūkyodō bags off and head into work. I would have to defer the excitement, despite itching to walk among those loaded shelves and cabinets. I checked the subway, and worked out a plan for early the next day, then finished my iced latte and headed over to the basement of Mitsukoshi to pick up a bento for dinner.

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Wakamatsu-cho is a slightly down-at-heel but quiet and spacious neighbourhood, and the peeling exterior of the Bingo-ya, designed to resemble a traditional kura warehouse, fits right in to the muted vibe of the high-street. For me it was love at first sight. Even through the dark front windows, it was clear the photos hadn’t lied. My plan of action was to go straight up to the 4th floor, keeping my eyes on the prize, and work my way down to the basement to where I’d already caught a tantalising glimpse of some colourful karakuri lathe-turned toys.

The stairs zigzag up through the building, which is filled with dark wood and retro cabinets reminiscent of the Mingeikan Folk Crafts Museum itself. At each landing objects came into sight worthy of being earmarked for the downward journey. At the top, I found piles of furoshiki carrying cloths in all sizes and designs, and at very affordable prices. I picked up a basket and went to it.

By the time I lugged my haul down the short flight to the 3rd floor, also crammed with textiles, I started to realise that I might have overdone it already, but I set the full basket down anyway and cast my eyes around. Right before me was a large container of indigo-dyed tenugui of the finest stout lawn cotton, crisply decorated with paste-resist designs in pure white against the blue. I picked out what I thought were the best three, and moved on.

The room was filled with one-off pieces, many in glass-fronted cases and old-fashioned shop display cabinets and others piled high in the spaces between. There were narrow bolts of kimono cloth, obi, furoshiki, summer shirts, in almost every kind of traditional weaving and dying technique. Under the glass of one cabinet was a thick bolt of Okinawan banana fibre linen stunningly dyed in the bingata method that was of museum-quality and which had a price tag of several thousand pounds.

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In the corner stood a solid pile about a metre high of indigo textiles, that had the look of being what might be a rich seam. As I peeled back each neatly laid piece, there were dark navy door curtains in rough spun cotton, sashiko-stitched covers, resist-decorated panels perhaps destined as inserts on a kimono or futon, all unique pieces and of varying age. But despite the superlative quality and variety of the things I was seeing, I still felt I hadn’t found the golden nugget.

Ditching the idea of going through them one by one, I carefully grabbed a thick wad of textiles and lifted it aside to randomly reveal a deeper layer - and there it was, the treasure I’d been hunting for: an indigo shibori-dyed square of smooth, tightly woven cotton of the clearest deepest azure. In the gloom of the shop and against the faded boro it lay on, even folded as it was the luminescence of the white patterning and the clarity of the indigo’s tone gave the cloth a fresh look, and it seemed to leap out at me. I gently pulled it out from the pile, and took it into the light.

Unfolded, it measured around a metre and half each side, and given the supple but sturdy material that formed its base had probably been meant as a large furoshiki. As Yanagi had written, folk craft is “the aesthetic result of wholeheartedly fulfilling utilitarian needs” (Yanagi Soetsu, Selected Essays on Japanese Folk Crafts, JPIC 2017, trans. Michael Brase). The cloth I was holding was on that score a perfect exemplar of a mingeihin or crafted object. Someone, perhaps some time between 50 and 100 years ago, had edged a piece of exactly the right size and kind of cloth for carrying a bulky load, and then painstakingly twisted and sewn the pattern of roundels that formed a roughly diagonal design across the surface, before steeping the awkward bundle in a vat of indigo.

In doing so, they created a masterpiece of shibori tie-dye, achieving a cerulean purity of colour that contrasted perfectly with the dazzling white of the medallion-like forms made by the tying. The spacing of the forms aimed at a sort of geometric regularity, but whether from the inexperience of the hand that tied the knots or the dimness of the light they were working under, or simply from devil-may-care, they had slipped the bounds of the intended diagonals, and were dotted around with accidental dynamism.

One reason for indigo’s durability is that it bonds at a molecular level with the fibres of the material. The maker of this furoshiki had dipped the bundle until they were precisely satisfied with the depth of the blue, and must have taken pains to attain a clean uniformity of colour on the dyed surface. The solidity and yet delicacy of the indigo was breathtaking. At times the medallions looked like a shoal of jellyfish drifting across a peaceful sunlit sea, or an unknown constellation set against the firmament.

Despite its obvious age, the cloth seemed unused and still had a just-made quality to it. The cotton was smooth and cool to the touch but seemed to have a downy sheen, like fine buckskin. The threads had taken the dye perfectly, and the edges of the medallions were crisp, the colour transitions so finely graded that they seemed almost like photographic contact-prints. It was the embodiment of honest functionality and beauty of form.

Yanagi had it that beauty of form came naturally from the correct performance of making. Folk art works are created by solo makers of unique works sitting at their looms or firesides, as well as through the concerted effort of a team, mass-producing a particular object to a rigidly fixed protocol and design. Whatever the context of the practice, the passing down of technique and aesthetic approach demands adherence to a strict set of rules. Once the steps have been mastered, through a process of reprimand and repetition, artistic individuality can be given free rein, though only within the constraints of the rules, which should become second nature.

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My shibori precisely fulfilled the definition of Mingei as being perfectly made for its intended purpose.        As well, it was a beautiful object. The only photo of the cloth I have is a slightly blurry one of it hanging in my nephew’s home, it having also perfectly fulfilled the role of wedding present. I’d like to see it again in 50 years and appreciate its finely faded harmony.

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When I finally left Bingo-ya, loaded down with doubled-up paper carrier bags neatly packed with my extensive booty, I was in need of a coffee, and across the street was an old-fashioned, scruffy-looking kissaten, called Free Man, which was just the deal. Until the rise of Starbucks, Excelsior, Dotour, Tully’s and the other corporates, these fast-disappearing independent coffee shops, with their often highly styled interiors redolent of the Shōwa Era (1926-89), were found on every corner in Japan. Designed specifically for hanging out, when you can find them they are still perfect places for business chats, meeting friends, reading a book or just killing time. The tan naugahyde of the booths in Free Man offered slightly grubby but familiar comfort, and the room had the peaceful air of a place resigned to its own decline.

I chatted with the elderly owner as he made me my hotto amerikan, tinkering with filters and glass-globes as the aroma of charcoal-roast coffee slowly began to fill the room. Things were still quiet in the city, he said, and the recent sports had felt like they’d happened in some other, far-away place. It hadn’t done anything for his business. He thought he’d keep the café going. It was the only one on the strip, and he was doing the neighbourhood a service…. He left me alone to savour my steaming black coffee and reflect on the evanescence of things.

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A glass of cold water and a chilled or warm damp flannel are put on the table in almost all places where hospitality is offered in Japan. But here they had a personal touch lacking in the endlessly replicated anonymity of the chainstores. Kissaten usually serve what’s called a Mix-Sando that is also inimitable. It’s a kind of mini-club, made with softest white shokupan bread, with a stacked filling of ham, egg-mayo, lettuce and tomato. Lubricated with kewpie and mustard, it is the perfect stop-gap bite.

Like in mingei, the material base and recognisable structure of a mix-sando are fixed, and the method for preparing and serving them pre-determined. Playing around within the formal code though, the maker can create a ‘house’ style and show off a bit of culinary artistry. Someone might add another slice of bread or two, stuffed with homemade potato salad or tuna. There might be a layer of katsu and sauce, or a red onion ring or two might make it onto the plate.

With the demise of the kissaten, a sandwich in the strict Mix-Sando tradition may become a rarity.

Checking out at the Bingo-ya’s till, I’d also had cause for reflection - a bittersweet sensation, caused not by the slightly stomach-churning total, but by the middled-aged man and woman who were ringing up and wrapping my goods occasionally telling me that something I was buying was the last of its kind, the maker gone and the art un-apprenticed. The carriers were packed with Tetris-like intricacy, and I was reluctant to rifle through and disarrange them before getting home, but sitting in the relaxed tranquility of the kissaten, I took out the shibori piece again.

I thought of the hand that made it, and the hands that now might hold and treasure it into the future. Thanks to the Mingei Movement and to whoever had gathered together the extraordinary collection of mingeihin at Bingo-ya, the piece itself was recognised and saved. Thanks as well as to Mingei Movement-inspired genius dyer Katano Motohiko (1889-1975), and to the many superb contemporary dyers, like the Kuno Studio in Nagoya, shibori-dying is thriving as a craft. As long as the plants can grow from which to ferment the dye, indigo too will always flourish.

As the population ages, and tastes and economics change, many of Japan’s mingei traditions will inevitably vanish, and those that do survive will often go through creative mutations that reflect the times. Any shopping trip around Japan though will reveal how vigorous the country’s creative drive remains. Art, craft and design all flourish. Even as lineages and techniques die out, young Japanese are re-engaging with their artistic heritage. The lesson will be to cherish the old as we celebrate the new.