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 look at 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 these particular motifs.
The longer I spend with a piece, the more familiar it becomes to me.
And that's precisely why I don't only 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 long waited for someone, 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, it's not always easy for me to say goodbye. As I photograph them, examine them, measure them, and describe their history, a personal relationship develops with them.
Perhaps it sounds a bit unusual to speak of "saying goodbye" to clothes. But old kimonos and haoris are not simply commodities to me.
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 approach my stall out of curiosity. Some have never worn a haori. Others only know kimonos from books, museums, or films and are initially unsure if such a garment would suit them at all.
Then they try on a haori.
Sometimes their facial expression changes immediately.
A color they thought wouldn't suit them suddenly looks surprisingly harmonious. A striking pattern, which perhaps looked very traditional or almost too special on the hanger, integrates quite naturally on the body.
I really enjoy observing these moments.
I like the moment when a person looks at themselves anew in the mirror and perhaps sees themselves a little differently than before.
Often, conversations arise from this. People ask about the meaning of a motif, the making of the fabric, the age of the garment, or how a haori was originally worn.
It makes me happy when initial curiosity turns into genuine interest.
Not everyone needs to know everything about kimonos before wearing a haori. For me, appreciation often begins with such an encounter: one discovers something that touches them, and then wants to learn more about it.
Can I wear kimonos as a non-Japanese person?
This question is asked to me again and again.
Some people cautiously ask if 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 factor.
Even we Japanese today predominantly wear clothing in everyday life whose forms did not originally come from Japan. Culture has always moved, changed, and influenced each other.
Personally, I 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 in this way, a new, personal interplay can emerge.
For me, respect does not mean that a garment can only be worn in a single, predetermined way.
Respect can also mean not forgetting its origin, remaining curious, and not merely viewing the garment as a superficial costume.
Should old kimonos stay in Japan?
Nevertheless, I sometimes ask myself another question:
Should old kimonos and haoris perhaps better remain in Japan?
I am Japanese. These garments belong to the culture I grew up in. Even if I haven't worn kimonos daily since childhood, I feel a special responsibility towards the things that have emerged from this culture.
When I bring old kimonos to Europe, I remove them from their original environment.
This fact preoccupies me.
At the same time, I see in Japan how many kimonos are no longer worn. They remain in wardrobes for decades, are given away during house clearings, or are eventually disposed of. Not every piece finds a new owner within Japan.
Then I wonder if the location alone truly 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 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 continue to live 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 liked 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 began to travel to Kyoto repeatedly to learn how to dress kimonos. The more I learned, the stronger my desire became to delve even deeper into kimonos and Japanese clothing culture. Finally, 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.
I was never attracted to just one single area. 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. In kimono, it might be found in a motif that doesn't loudly take center stage, or in a beautiful lining that is hardly visible when worn.
This hidden beauty continues to particularly touch me.
What I learned from historical costumes
An important experience for me was working with historical Japanese costumes, the so-called Jidai Ishō.
In doing so, I not only dealt with the contemporary kimono but also with forms of clothing from various periods of Japanese history.
I learned how silhouettes, fabric layers, hairstyles, belt positions, and ideas of beauty changed over the centuries.
The kimono, as we know it today, did not suddenly emerge in a finished form. It is the result of a long evolution.
Every era had its own proportions, movements, and aesthetic ideals.
This experience profoundly changed my view of clothing. A garment is not just a shape made of fabric. It also tells of how people stood, walked, lived, and perceived themselves at a certain time.
I particularly enjoyed dressing other people in these historical costumes.
For me, dressing was never just a technical process. It was a calm 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 also possesses its own aesthetic.
I myself have always enjoyed dressing people in kimonos and historical costumes.
During this process, not only the outer form changes. Often, the posture also changes. Movements become calmer, the perception of one's own body becomes more conscious, and sometimes an expression suddenly appears in the mirror that the person did not know about themselves 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.
But a different kind of beauty only reveals itself when it is worn.
Then the patterns connect across the body. The sleeves move. The fabric changes with every step, and a flat surface transforms into a living form.
I experience the same with haoris.
On the hanger, a haori can appear very restrained. As soon as someone puts it on, it transforms. The width of the shoulders, the body height, the movement, and the clothing worn underneath make it appear different every time.
Perhaps that's why I love watching people try them on so much.
For me, a garment is not a closed work of art that can only be admired from a distance.
Its beauty can unfold anew precisely in the encounter with a person.
Why I find it difficult to take apart a kimono
Many old kimonos are no longer fully wearable.
They may have stains, damaged areas, or small holes. From such fabrics, bags, accessories, or new garments are often made today.
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 take apart a kimono or haori myself.
For me, its beauty is not just about the pattern of the outer fabric.
The lining, the seams, the shape of the sleeves, the proportions, and for a haori, even the connection with the haori-himo, all contribute to the complete garment.
Everything was chosen and put together for this one form.
Even with a damaged piece, I therefore don't just see usable material. I first see the complete kimono, which was once made with great care.
This does not mean that old kimonos should never be altered or reused. Sometimes, a new form can be the best way to allow a damaged fabric to live on.
But for me, this step is not self-evident.
Before I take apart a kimono, I often feel a hesitation. Perhaps therein lies my desire to first perceive and appreciate the original form of the garment.
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 be merely quietly stored away and no longer encountered by anyone.
For me, preserving does not necessarily mean that 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 use. 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 does not lie in it remaining exactly as it once was forever.
Perhaps it lies in its beauty continuing to be perceived.
What I want to pass on 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 can be an unusual color combination, a rare motif, a special weave structure, or a lining that tells of the Japanese concept of hidden beauty.
Not every piece has to be striking or precious.
Sometimes, a quiet haori whose beauty only reveals itself at second glance touches me particularly.
When describing an item, I try not only to provide 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 clearly answered. Some origins have been lost, and some age estimations remain just that: estimations.
Therefore, I don't want to present anything as grander or more certain than it is.
But I want to look closely.
Because for me, precisely this close observation is part of appreciation.
A new chapter
When a kimono or haori is sold, its story doesn't end.
It leaves my inventory and often the country where it was made. But 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 has still become a personal, beloved 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 only one "correct" way.
I am happy when a kimono or haori finds a person who discovers its beauty and incorporates it into their life in their own way.
I don't just want to pass on a garment.
I also want to pass on something of its history, its craftsmanship, and the Japanese aesthetic hidden within it.
Perhaps that's why I don't just sell kimonos and haoris.
Perhaps I accompany them a little way on their journey into a new chapter.
You can find more about me and the history of Uchia Kimono on my About Me page.