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Discovering Boro At A Shinto Shrine Flea Market
One shop owner, sitting on a tattered, old straw mat, beckoned me closer to rummage through his antique textiles and wearables piled up before him. I’m dazzled by the richness and elegance of his silks, his brocades and some unusual cotton fabrics.
I make a mental note of his scraps of cotton and hemp fabrics, and his old unusual cotton clothing. Surprisingly. I see some Japanese women buyers in the same stall intentionally ignoring the seller’s finer silks. I’m astonished to find out that they are particularly excited about the rather ragged, well-aged garments and random pieces of patched and mended natural indigo cotton and hemp fabrics that possess shades of deepest midnight blue to washed-out sky blue.
I hear these words of awe and excitement from several of these women, “Waaa boro da!” (Look it’s boro). Fascinatingly to me, these women have found the precise textiles they came for. Later I find out, these homely fabrics and garments are indeed a important class of Japanese textiles called“boro” (tattered rags), called such because they are old, well-worn, over-worked, tattered, excessively-stitched, patched, mended and somewhat crudely woven.
What do those women know about those boro rags that I don’t? These frayed fabrics are a far cry from the well-known, sumptuous kimonos made from the finest silk originating from Kyoto, Japan’s ancient textile capital that I'm most familiar with. The greatest of curiosity drove me to search for an answer, or answers as to why these ragged indigo “boro” garments and textiles were so special to these ladies.
And, I wondered… how is it these very old, well-worn clothing and frayed pieces of indigo fabric have managed to make their way to the 21st century? Surely, they should have been discarded into the literal fabric scrap heap years ago.
Mottainai and Shinto
It seems the key to understanding the reasons for the longevity of these textiles is to dig deeper into the particular Japanese traditional concept known as “mottainai”. The word roughly translates as, “This is still very useful and it should not be wasted.” In addition, when applied to old textiles, this same thought is germane to the basic, age-old virtues of textile thriftiness, repurposing and mending; all particularly praiseworthy responses to anyone of us questioning today’s throwaway lifestyle.
I discover that hundreds of years ago “mottainai” held a sacred as well as a practical meaning in the context of the need to prolong the useable life of home textiles, for the impoverished population living in rural Japan. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mottainai)
With additional research I learned that the “mottainai” concept was first documented in 13th century Japan and denotes a state of mind marked by a blending of humility, respect and a sense of gratitude accompanied by profound regret at any wasted resource. And, that penny-wise concept came into being by combining the religious teachings and moral precepts of Japanese indigenous Shinto and externally introduced Buddhism.
Shinto believed that every material object possessed a kami (god) and, as such, deserved individual reverence. And, Buddhism held that wastefulness and a self-indulgent lifestyle were the opposite of Buddha’s teachings. Each of these religions had its particular notion about “mottainai” principles that were early on collected together to make up the complete abstraction behind the word as it is known and applied even today.
Boro’s Rural Beginnings Japanese farmer and fishermen wives spun threads from humble hemp and cotton and lovingly wove the fibers into household fabrics. In that these poverty-stricken people had few resources from which to make more fabrics, they were obliged to repair and mend their worn-out textiles and work garments for continued use by current and subsequent family generations. The Japanese homemaker mended everyday garments and textiles (futon covers, etc) with scraps of cloth salvaged from grandma's old kimonos and uncle's discarded threadbare work clothing.
The Japanese call these types of patched up and mended textiles “boro", the very same kind beloved by the Japanese ladies at the flea market who pushed aside silk kimonos, opting to snap up remnants of ragged rural legacy. Clearly these modern women wanted to connect through these old fabrics with previous generations… those women in the past who resided in simple farmhouses, sat around a paper lantern, putting into practice “mottainai" textile mending and creation in order to clothe their families and furnish their homes.
Japanese homemakers patched and mended garments for their families with any scraps of fabric that they might find. These heavily patched "boro" pieces, made of pure necessity and used over decades, revealed their unintended inherent beauty. The layered patchwork represents layers of historical and social information about family life, giving priceless value to the hitherto non-precious textile.
I came to understand that boro mending textiles and clothing was always a work in progress, forever mending, repairing and adding to the older pieces. Generations of grandmothers, mothers and daughters added fresh patches to their textiles and garments to the point where an unacquainted person wasn’t able to recognize the original base fabric. Today these repaired fabrics and garments have collectively become known as “boro folk textiles” and are considered outstanding examples of the creative ways Japanese rural women found to “Reuse, Repair and Recycle” in what we nowadays call the admired practice of “sustainability”.
It seems these ecologically beneficial concepts were understood long ago by rural Japanese, as demonstrated by the women’s natural, unconscious frugality and methodical re-use of materials.
Lucie du Rocher, economics researcher at the University of Paris, defines the common “mottainai” concept very astutely when she says, “For the Japanese it is a state of mind focused… on respect for nature and the gratitude we should demonstrate for natural resources. It also expresses a sense of regret for wasted opportunities, wasted resources and misused or underused knowledge and skills.”Unintended Works Of Art And Consumerism
As unintended works of art, the real gems of folk textiles, like boro futon covers and farmer/fisherman boro work clothing, whose visible mending with stitches and patches pieced together, tell the quiet story of a Japanese simple and thrifty bucolic lifestyle. And, that their unpretentious life has completely vanished, eternally lost.
I like to consider myself an ethical consumer who desires to reduce my ecological footprint and champion the personally rewarding idea of sustainability. In that connection, I’ve come to believe that repurposing antique and vintage Japanese textiles gives them a second mission by extending their useful life through displaying their beauty in a living room or bedroom wall. These textile art creations introduced a dramatic and decorative focal point to any home as well as bring a truly personal Japanese touch to a living environment.
And, I also like having the opportunity to acquire and wear a one-of-a-kind farmer’s jacket that has been mended over and over again by a thrifty wife or daughter a hundred years ago. I know it’s still possible to own one of these treasures at the present time, but for how much longer?
Rarity
Just a few short years ago, these wonderful textiles were easy to come by since Japanese collectors refused to buy their own “boro” textiles. At the time, they felt embarrassed about these old textiles because of the image of shameful poverty these very old pieces blatantly exposed. But, now, these same people are frantically scooping up all the boros they can locate, and consider them important historical examples of a bygone important cultural era.
These ragged fabric remnants and garments, Japanese women apparently hold so dear, give an extraordinary personal testimony into the deep values and spiritual traditions of Japan's historic rural inhabitants.
I eagerly await my next visit to the Shinto Shrine flea market.
