Why I don't just sell kimonos and haoris
- by MaedaYumiko
- 15 min reading time
Why do I concern myself with old kimono and haori? In this personal post, I talk about my journey to kimono, my work with historical Japanese costumes, and my thoughts on Japanese aesthetics, cultural encounters, and the continued life of old clothing.
Thoughts on Japanese Aesthetics, Encounters, and the Continued Life of Old Clothing
Whenever I search for old kimonos and haoris in Japan, I'm delighted by a special discovery.
Sometimes it's a color I've never seen before. Sometimes an unusual pattern, a delicate embroidery, or a lining whose beauty only reveals itself when the garment is opened. Especially with older pieces, I often feel like I've found something that can't simply be replicated.
At that moment, I usually don't think about how the piece might be sold later. First, I just see the kimono or haori itself.
I examine the fabric, the lines of the patterns, the colors, and the small traces of its history. I wonder what era it might be from, for what occasion it was worn, and why someone chose precisely these motifs.
The longer I engage with a piece, the more familiar it becomes to me.
And that's precisely why I don't just feel joy when selling it.
Of course, I am very happy when a kimono or haori finds a person who discovers its beauty. Especially with a piece that has been waiting for someone for a long time, it feels wonderful when it finally finds its way into a new life.
At the same time, I am sometimes a little sad.
Especially with pieces that I particularly love, saying goodbye is not always easy for me. As I photograph them, examine them, measure them, and describe their history, a personal relationship develops with them.
Perhaps it sounds a little unusual to speak of a "farewell" when it comes to clothing. But for me, old kimonos and haoris are not just mere commodities.
Each piece is unique. It carries within it the decisions, the work, and the aesthetic sense of people who lived long before us.
Encounters at Berlin Markets
I feel this particularly strongly at the markets in Berlin.
Many people initially come to my stall out of curiosity. Some have never worn a haori. Others only know kimonos from books, museums, or films and are initially unsure whether such a garment could even suit them.
Then they try on a haori.
Sometimes their expression changes immediately.
A color they thought wouldn't suit them suddenly looks surprisingly harmonious. A striking pattern that might have appeared very traditional or almost too distinctive on the hanger, integrates naturally with the body.
I really enjoy observing these moments.
I like the moment when a person looks at themselves in the mirror anew and perhaps sees themselves a little differently than before.
Often, conversations arise from this. People ask about the meaning of a motif, about how the fabric was made, about the age of the garment, or about how a haori was originally worn.
I am pleased when initial curiosity develops into genuine interest.
Not everyone needs to know everything about kimonos before wearing a haori. For me, appreciation often begins with such an encounter: you discover something that touches you, and then you want to learn more about it.
Is it appropriate for non-Japanese people to wear kimonos?
This question is asked to me again and again.
Some people cautiously ask whether it is even appropriate for a non-Japanese person to wear a kimono or haori.
I understand where this uncertainty comes from. Cultural clothing has a history and meaning, and many people want to treat it respectfully.
For me, however, nationality is not the decisive point.
Even we Japanese people predominantly wear clothes in everyday life today whose forms did not originally come from Japan. Culture has always moved, changed, and influenced each other.
I personally am happy when people outside Japan find a kimono or haori beautiful, enjoy wearing it, and are interested in its background.
A haori does not necessarily have to be combined in a traditional Japanese way. It can be worn over a dress, with trousers, or quite naturally in everyday life. Precisely therein can a new, personal interplay emerge.
For me, respect does not mean that a garment can only be worn in one single, fixed way.
Respect can also mean not forgetting its origin, remaining curious, and not merely viewing the garment as superficial fancy dress.
Should old kimonos remain in Japan?
Nevertheless, I sometimes ask myself another question:
Should old kimonos and haoris perhaps better remain in Japan?
I am Japanese. These garments are part of the culture in which I grew up. Even though I myself did not wear kimonos daily from childhood, I feel a special responsibility towards the things that originated from this culture.
When I bring old kimonos to Europe, I remove them from their original environment.
This fact concerns me.
At the same time, in Japan I see how many kimonos are no longer worn. They lie in closets for decades, are given away during house clearances, or are eventually discarded. Not every piece finds a new owner within Japan.
Then I wonder whether the location alone really determines whether a garment is preserved.
Is a kimono automatically better off in Japan if no one there looks at it or wears it anymore?
And can a kimono not also continue to live outside Japan if someone discovers its beauty and gives it a new place in their own life?
I don't have a definitive answer to that.
Perhaps there doesn't have to be a simple answer.
However, I believe that culture does not only survive by things remaining in their original place. It can also live on when people encounter them, ask questions, wear them, and retell their stories.
My Path to Kimono
As a child, I wasn't particularly interested in kimonos.
My first deeper connection to Japanese culture came through calligraphy. I enjoyed the concentration, the movement of the brush, and the idea that a single stroke could express both strength and stillness.
Later, during my university years, I learned Nagauta-Shamisen.
Nagauta is a traditional form of Japanese music, closely associated with Kabuki theater. There, too, I was fascinated not only by the music itself, but by the entire aesthetic world surrounding it: sound, rhythm, posture, movement, and the special tension between restraint and expression.
At that time, I started traveling to Kyoto repeatedly to learn how to dress in kimono. The more I learned, the stronger my desire became to delve even deeper into kimono and Japanese clothing culture. Eventually, I decided to move to Kyoto.
There, I began working as a dresser for historical Japanese costumes. In doing so, I not only became acquainted with modern kimonos, but also with garments from various eras and the history they carry within them.
Only in retrospect did I realize that all these experiences had fascinated me for the same reason.
It was never just one single area that attracted me. Rather, it was a specific Japanese aesthetic that manifests itself in very different forms.
In calligraphy, it can lie in an empty space between two lines. In music, in a moment of silence. With a kimono, it might be found in a motif that doesn't loudly stand out, or in a beautiful lining that is barely visible when worn.
This hidden beauty continues to move me particularly to this day.
What I learned from historical costumes
An important experience for me was working with historical Japanese costumes, known as Jidai Ishō.
In this role, I dealt not only with modern kimonos but also with forms of clothing from various eras of Japanese history.
I learned how silhouettes, fabric layers, hairstyles, belt positions, and ideals of beauty have changed over the centuries.
The kimono, as we know it today, did not suddenly appear in a finished form. It is the result of a long development.
Each era had its own proportions, movements, and aesthetic ideals.
This experience has profoundly changed my view of clothing. A garment is not just a form made of fabric. It also tells us how people stood, walked, lived, and perceived themselves at a certain time.
I especially enjoyed dressing other people in these historical costumes.
For me, dressing was never just a technical process. It was a quiet process in which, fabric by fabric and layer by layer, a new silhouette emerged.
I also remember how beautiful I found my teacher's movements when dressing. The way she held, arranged, and guided the fabric around the body had something very elegant about it.
This made me understand that not only the finished appearance can be beautiful.
The act of dressing itself possesses its own aesthetic.
I myself have always enjoyed dressing people in kimonos and historical costumes.
During this process, not only the external form changes. Often, the posture also changes. Movements become calmer, the awareness of one's own body becomes more acute, and sometimes an expression suddenly appears in the mirror that the person did not know themselves to possess before.
I have dressed both Japanese and international guests. The moment someone looked at themselves in the mirror and smiled was always particularly beautiful for me.
In such moments, it became clear to me that clothing does not merely cover the body.
It can also influence how a person perceives themselves.
Kimonos unfold their beauty on the body
A kimono can be very beautiful when folded. One can admire the fabric, colors, patterns, and its craftsmanship.
However, another beauty only reveals itself when it is worn.
Then the patterns connect across the body. The sleeves move. The fabric changes with each step, and a flat surface transforms into a living form.
I experience the same with haoris.
On the hanger, a haori can appear very understated. As soon as someone puts it on, it changes. The width of the shoulders, the height, the movement, and the clothes worn underneath make it appear different each time.
Perhaps that's why I love watching people try them on so much.
For me, a garment is not a finished work of art that can only be viewed from a distance.
Its beauty can unfold anew precisely in an encounter with a person.
Why I find it difficult to unravel a kimono
Many old kimonos are no longer fully wearable.
They may have stains, damaged areas, or small holes. Such fabrics are now often used to create bags, accessories, or new garments.
I understand this idea very well. In this way, a beautiful fabric can be reused instead of being discarded.
Nevertheless, I often find it difficult to unravel a kimono or haori myself.
For me, its beauty does not only consist of the pattern of the outer fabric.
The lining, the seams, the shape of the sleeves, the proportions, and, in the case of a haori, even its connection with the haori-himo, all belong to the complete garment.
Everything was chosen and assembled for this one form.
Even with a damaged piece, therefore, I don't just see usable material. I first see the complete kimono, which was once crafted with great care.
This does not mean that old kimonos should never be altered or repurposed. Sometimes, a new form can be the best way to give a damaged fabric a new lease on life.
But for me, this step is not self-evident.
Before unraveling a kimono, I often feel a hesitation. Perhaps therein lies my desire to first perceive and appreciate the garment's original form.
Between Preserving and Passing On
In my work, I therefore always move between two thoughts.
On the one hand, I want to preserve old kimonos and haoris in their original form.
On the other hand, I don't want them to just be quietly stored away and never encountered by anyone again.
For me, preserving doesn't necessarily mean something must remain unchanged behind glass.
It can also mean giving a garment the opportunity to be seen, touched, and worn again.
Of course, not every old kimono is suitable for daily wear. Particularly delicate or rare pieces require careful handling. But even then, a new owner can develop a personal relationship with them.
Perhaps the continued life of a garment doesn't lie in it remaining exactly as it once was forever.
Perhaps it lies in its beauty continuing to be perceived.
What I want to convey with Uchia Kimono
With Uchia Kimono, I don't simply want to offer as many garments as possible.
I want to select pieces in which I recognize something special.
This could be an unusual color combination, a rare motif, a special weaving structure, or a lining that speaks of the Japanese idea of hidden beauty.
Not every piece has to be striking or precious.
Sometimes I am particularly touched by a quiet haori whose beauty only reveals itself at second glance.
In my descriptions, I try not only to state measurements and condition. I also want to explain what I see in the piece: its probable age, the technique used, or why a particular detail is remarkable.
Of course, I don't know everything.
Even in Japan, there are many questions about old textiles that can no longer be definitively answered. Some origin stories have been lost, and some age estimates remain just that – estimates.
Therefore, I don't want to present anything as grander or more certain than it is.
But I do want to look closely.
Because for me, this precise observation is part of appreciating its value.
A new chapter
When a kimono or haori is sold, its story doesn't end.
While it leaves my inventory and often the country where it originated, perhaps a new chapter begins with it.
Perhaps a haori will be regularly worn over a simple dress.
Perhaps it will accompany someone to a special occasion.
Perhaps a particularly delicate kimono hangs in a room where its colors and patterns can be admired daily.
Or perhaps it is only occasionally brought out – and yet has become a personal, cherished item.
I don't want to dictate to the people who buy from me how they should live with their garment.
They don't have to become experts in Japanese textiles. They also don't have to wear a haori in a single "correct" way.
I'm happy when a kimono or haori finds someone who discovers its beauty and incorporates it into their life in their own way.
I don't just want to pass on a piece of clothing.
I also want to share some of its history, its craftsmanship, and the Japanese aesthetic hidden within it.
Perhaps that's why I don't just simply sell kimonos and haoris.
Perhaps I accompany them a little way on their journey into a new chapter.