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| Passion Investments: Antiques |
Undiscovered Country
Marisa Bartolucci
11/01/2004
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You get hit in the gut by their humanity,” says Stephen Szczepanek, of Sri
Textiles in Brooklyn. He is speaking of the unexpected allure of Japanese
country textiles, often referred to as Mingei. Many of these are humble pieces:
handwoven and dyed, patched and mended, made of bast fabrics and castoff cotton
clothing and rags. Yet they display a startling visual sophistication and
invention. This poignant paradox of poverty and poetry has made them
sought-after collectibles among trendsetters within the worlds of fashion,
design and contemporary art.
 |  | | 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.) |
“What’s exciting is that it is a market still
being discovered, but it has already been defined,” says Mary Hunt Kahlenberg of
Santa Fe’s Tai Gallery/Textile Arts. “I remember a time when you could buy them
by the pound and then pick and choose what you liked. Now, as good examples are
becoming harder to find, you’re getting more serious collectors.” While prices
are rising, most of these pieces are still highly attractive, ranging from $600
to $10,000 for the finest examples.
Kahlenberg is a noted pioneer in the
field. Since 1980 she has served as a curator to Lloyd Cotsen, the former
chairman of Neutrogena, whose interest in repaired Japanese workers’ garments
began when he was in the United States Navy. His fascination sparked a passion
for folk textiles and objects, which burgeoned into a renowned international
collection. While captivated by the artless beauty of these garments, Cotsen was
also moved by the way each represented “something akin to a timeline of rural
life.”
In fact, the recycled Mingei textiles tell a compelling story of the
privation, fortitude and ingenuity of the Japanese peasantry. Cotton came late
to Japan. It was not until the 18th century that it was widely cultivated in
southwestern regions. During this period, cotton was like silk—a luxury item
worn only by nobility and urban upper classes. Rural people wove their own
linen-like fabrics from bast fibers, which they spun out of hemp, wisteria vine,
ramie, nettles and paper mulberry—plants they either foraged or cultivated. It
was an arduous process, as these fibers do not easily convert into thread. Once
woven, the fabric was sometimes dyed with extracts made from native plants.
Indigo was a favorite because it allegedly warded off mosquitoes and
snakes.
VALUE JUDGMENT
Japanese country fabrics, or Mingei, were once the everyday habiliments of the
nation’s rural classes. But today their simple beauty and unadulterated character are finding favor with fashion, design and art enthusiasts. New demand
is driving prices into the thousands of dollars for textiles that could once be
purchased by the pound. |
While light and durable, these handmade fabrics were harsh to the
skin and provided little warmth. Cotton, by contrast, was soft, durable and,
when quilted, relatively warm; it also absorbed indigo with a ready richness.
When cotton became available in the northwestern hinterlands, it became a
much-prized commodity. However, poor rustic people could only afford the
recycled pieces, often just scraps and rags.
The rags were sorted into
grades. The best were selected to mend kimonos and to sew together as futonji
(futon covers). With wear and tear, they would be patched and mended, evolving
over time into eccentric collages of patterned fabric and stitching. Known as
boro, meaning “ragged,” they are, in their wild varieties of patches, virtual
encyclopedias of cotton indigo from the Edo and Meiji periods.
“Everybody I
show this work to has a mini-epiphany. It’s so complex, so egoless,” Szczepanek
says. “Yet it has such aesthetic appeal. The complete randomness of the
patching, the juxtapositions of patterns and scale and the meandering stitching
is often Dada-like.” Which may explain why, as Alan Marcuson, a London-based
tribal textile dealer, notes: “It’s the collectors of contemporary art who are
buying boro, not the ruggies and textile groupies.”
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