Sumiko Nakano
I know my back may receive rather more attention than the clothes at the beginning of this film. I can live with that. But I wanted the layers, the fastening and that final gathering of the sleeves to have their own moment. There is something fascinating about watching an outfit become ready to move in, especially when the apparently decorative details begin revealing how useful they are.
The Japanese word for putting on and arranging kimono is kitsuke (着付け). I wanted this sequence to have the deliberate atmosphere of a ceremony, with attention given to each movement. That feeling belongs to my presentation of it. The clothing itself carries a much broader history of everyday life, fashion and practical preparation, which I have drawn into a stylised film sequence.
For the pale first layer, I have taken inspiration from the juban (襦袢), an undergarment worn beneath Japanese clothing. A full-length under-robe is called a nagajuban (長襦袢), while a hadajuban (肌襦袢) is worn directly against the skin. These garments have different functions: in conventional layered dressing, the skin layer helps absorb perspiration, and the nagajuban provides a foundation beneath the outer kimono. There is considerably more engineering beneath an elegant silhouette than a photograph usually admits.
I chose ivory because I liked its contrast with black, although historical under-robes could be wonderfully colourful. A glimpse of patterned fabric at the collar or sleeves could become part of the whole composition. Ginza Motoji’s Japanese history of juban discusses the richly coloured examples popular before the Second World War, and even the name has travelled: juban is traced to Portuguese. I rather enjoy finding an overseas connection tucked inside something people might assume has remained entirely unchanged for centuries.
My black outer garment is the kimono (着物), whose history leads back to the kosode (小袖). Despite the literal suggestion of “small sleeves”, the defining feature was the relatively small opening at the wrist. Kyoto National Museum explains that kosode served as ordinary clothing and were also worn beneath the elaborate dress of court women, before developing into outer garments with increasingly expressive decoration. During the Edo period, published pattern books helped circulate new designs. I like that glimpse of people choosing, borrowing and changing their minds about clothes. Fashion was already perfectly capable of causing trouble without a comments section.
Around my waist is the obi (帯), the sash. The narrower ties used to secure the layers are called koshihimo (腰紐), and their purpose helps explain why dressing involves rather more than wrapping fabric around yourself and hoping for loyalty. The overlap matters too: for ordinary wear, the wearer’s left front panel lies over the right. This is called migi-mae (右前), with the right panel placed closer to the body. I find that explanation considerably kinder to English-speaking readers than leaving them alone with a term that can sound as though it means the opposite.
The detail I especially wanted you to notice is the ivory cord towards the end. That is a tasuki (襷), and securing the sleeves with it is called tasuki-gake (襷掛け). It passes around the shoulders and crosses behind the back, gathering the sleeves so the arms can work more freely. This is the part I find particularly satisfying to watch: the fabric lifts clear, the shoulders settle, and the hands gain room to do something useful.
Tasuki also have an older ceremonial history. Japanese dictionaries record their use in ancient religious service, alongside their later practical function of holding up sleeves. Kyoto’s Costume Museum includes them in its reconstruction of a late Edo-period warrior prepared for a raid, and in its depiction of the Shirakawame, Kyoto’s women flower sellers. That shared detail appeals to me. Carrying flowers and preparing for violence are rather different occupations, but both give a person good reason to keep loose sleeves out of the way.
For this film, I chose the ivory fabric, the small indigo motif and the return to my familiar black kimono as parts of the visual design. What draws me to the sequence is the concentration: fabric settling across my shoulders, the waist secured, the cord tightened, my hands finally coming to rest. I wanted to let you watch that preparation and understand a little of what the movements are doing. Besides, I have fairly demanding expectations of my clothes. Looking elegant is lovely; allowing me to use my arms remains a condition of employment.
