THE METEOR shower motif on the noragi, or workers coat (top), was done in a running stitch called sashiko. The futon cover, or futonji (bottom), was made of discarded pieces of fabric. (Photography courtesy of The Museum of Craft & Folk Art.)

Yoshiko Iwamoto Wada, an expert in Japanese textiles, begs to differ. “Textiles lovers are discovering these pieces,” Wada maintains. “Boro is opening them up to a different sensibility, because they are not complete pieces.”

From Trash To Trend
For years, Japanese artist Kousaku Nukata was one of the few boro collectors in his country. Boro textiles were regarded by most Japanese as embarrassing reminders of the rural poverty of old Japan. Minds changed when Nukata put on an exhibition of pieces from his collection in a trendy Osaka store in 2002. Earlier this year, Wada opened many eyes in the United States to the soulful aesthetic of boro when she featured 12 pieces from Nukata’s collection in a show she curated at San Francisco’s Museum of Craft and Folk Art, the theme of which was recycled objects.

Nukata and Wada presented the pieces unabashedly as art, and patrons immediately recognized them as testaments to beauty forged from necessity. Some have since become avid collectors. “A single piece of boro looks great against the cast concrete walls of a contemporary Japanese house,” says Chicago-based tribal art dealer Douglas Dawson. “The work is perfect for minimalist interiors.”

Now that aficionados have discovered boro, the prices are rising, but they remain highly affordable. In the United States, distinctive examples can be found from $600 to $5,000 for mounted versions, depending on the dealer.

High-grade cotton rags were also employed in making quilted working clothes and sleeping kimonos called yogi, so thickly stuffed with castoff bast fibers or cotton batting that they were often difficult to move in. To make yogi and layered work clothes, women would quilt with a running stitch called sashiko. This needlework also served to strengthen and reinforce the garments. The white cotton thread contrasted appealingly with the indigo-colored cloth, and in time what began as a strictly utilitarian and durable form of stitching developed into something highly decorative. The sewing could be quite dense, running vertically and horizontally to create diamond patterns, or it could appear open and curved to form petal shapes. It also varied by region and the use of the garment.

“The complete randomness of the patching, the juxtapositions of patterns and scale, and the meandering stitching is often Dada-like.”

Well-preserved, exquisite examples of sashiko are highly prized. Cynthia Shaver, a dealer in Mingei textiles based in Belvedere, Calif., has priced a late 19th-century indigo cotton hanten, or work vest, in perfect condition, at $6,400. Kahlenberg of Tai Gallery sells a late 19th-century worker’s coat, known as a noragi, with two different forms of sashiko and double kasuri (the Japanese term for ikat) sleeves for $3,800.

Szczepanek has a penchant for more eccentric needlework. The dealer recently sold a heavily patched and mended indigo cotton noragi with thick white sashiko, which he describes as “radiating down and across the coat like a meteor shower in a star-laden sky.” Although stunning, the stitching was less refined, and so the noragi was less valuable: It sold for $1,200. In time, however, Szczepanek believes collectors will come to value such individually expressive sewing as highly as the more traditional examples.

Shredded Treasures
Japanese rustics also demonstrated their frugal artistry in the recycled woven textiles known as sakiori, which date back to the mid-18th century. Since cotton was so precious, families recycled every bit of it, even their own ragged garments and futonji. These materials would be shredded and, along with merchant-bought, low-grade cotton scraps, serve as the weft in the weaving of a warm, tough cloth from which jackets, pants and blankets could be made. Therefore the name sakiori, a combination of the words saku, meaning “to tear,” and oru, meaning “to weave.”

Indigo rags were rarely woven into sakiori rugs; they were reserved instead for work clothes, which tradition dictated be modest in hue. Fishermen especially favored the material for their hanten because it was water-resistant. Szczepanek offers a pristine fisherman’s hanten from the early 20th century for $1,800; Kahlenberg is selling a late 19th-century work kimono with an unusual light indigo, pink and white weave for $5,000. But floor coverings can be even more valuable, owing to their rarity. Colored rags—oranges, pinks, reds, browns and greens—were woven into irregularly striped blankets and rugs, creating designs that possess the vibrant exuberance of an abstract painting. Unblemished sakiori rugs can run from $1,000 to $10,000, depending on the size. Noriko Miyamoto of Miyamoto Japanese Antiques in Sag Harbor, N.Y., is one of the best-known dealers in these pieces. She sells rugs from the early 1900s that are about 5 feet by 5 feet for $1,200.

While some collectors focus on these recycled forms of Mingei textiles, others expand into its elaborately dyed fabrics. These were used to fashion the garments and furnishings of the rural middle and upper classes. There is, for example, shiburi, which refers to a variety of resist-dyeing techniques involving the binding or clamping of fabric, such as tie-dye and kasuri, to create elaborate repeat patterns. Shiburi flourished in the late Edo and Meiji periods. Trading was lively, leading to expanded visual communication within Japan and with the West. Dyeing motifs were copied and adapted. Fabrics sumptuously patterned with katazome, a form of stenciling, even influenced the textile designs of the Weiner Werkstatte.

Collectors also treasure tsutsugaki, “tube drawing,” a freehand style of dyeing that allowed detailed, occasionally multicolored scenes and symbols. A  bride’s trousseau typically included a futonji embellished in this fashion. Szczepanek offers an extraordinary tsutsugaki from the late 19th century, with a rare ceremonial design of cranes, plum blossoms, pines and bamboo, for $4,000.

When Cynthia Shaver first started dealing in Mingei textiles 26 years ago, there were, she says, “about two books on the subject. Now you go into a museum book shop and there is a whole section.” While she is gratified that more people have become aficionados, she complains that it has become increasingly difficult to discover exceptional pieces. Kahlenberg possesses a more philosophical view. Now that prices are rising, she believes early collectors will start selling, sending wonderful pieces back into the market. For the time being, Kahlenberg suggests that we pounce when we find something desirable. But we must always pay attention to quality and authenticity. Fifi White, a trailblazing collector of Mingei textiles—her collection now belongs to the Seattle Museum of Art—is now a dealer through her company, Asiatica, which is based in Kansas City, Mo. White warns: “You have to be careful that the work you buy hasn’t been recently recycled.”