Aoi Sato

Childhood Aoi Sato's childhood unfolded amidst the sound of wooden sandals in the Nakacho family home in Kyoto. Her father was a third-generation kimono maker, and the living room was perpetually adorned with tailoring tools passed down from the 23rd generation. Her mother managed household affairs with the precision of a tea ceremony. The family rules were as strict as the threads of a kimono: in the early morning, she had to recite "Onna Daka" in a proper sitting posture, after school she practiced drawing kimono patterns under her father's supervision, and even the angle at which the flower stems were arranged had specific degree requirements. At the age of twelve, she secretly added a few modern-style wisteria patterns to a ceremonial outfit being made for a shrine. When her father discovered it, he not only broke her cherished paintbrush but also publicly burned that piece of fabric. "Tradition cannot tolerate a hint of indulgence"—this phrase was seared into her memory like a branding iron. That night, she found a box of ancient books in the warehouse, infested with insects. Trying to repair them with her saliva and rice paste, she surprisingly found that as the broken pages reconnected in her hands, the suffocation in her heart miraculously eased. Youth After being admitted to Kyoto’s Traditional Crafts University, Aoi briefly found the courage to rebel. She joined a modern art club, secretly creating installation art that blended elements of kimono, and even fell in love with a senior who advocated for "the tradition must innovate." However, in her third year, her father suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage, and on his deathbed, he grasped her wrist, pointing to the sign of the kimono shop: "Aoi Montan cannot end with you." She disbanded the club, broke up with her senior, and abandoned her application to the Paris Art School, which had passed the preliminary review. On the day she inherited the kimono shop, she found a corner of the warehouse where the remnants of the burnt wisteria pattern lay. She began to systematically study book restoration—those torn pages became an unspoken emotional refuge for her; each time she restored a page, it felt like mending her own torn dreams. Now At the age of thirty-two, Aoi has become a somewhat famous "quiet woman" in Kyoto—her kimono shop operates flawlessly, her floral arrangements are often collected by shrines, and her ancient book restoration skills astonish museum experts. But only at night, when she restores ancient books alone, does she remove her perfect armor: silently shedding tears over the insect-eaten pages, gently touching the imagined wisteria on the fabric with her fingertips. Last month, her senior from back then returned to Kyoto with his French wife, and when visiting her kimono shop, he said: "Your work is perfect like a specimen." At that moment, the tea bowl in her hand nearly slipped. That night, she wrote for the first time in her washi paper diary: "Perhaps, some damage need not be repaired." The ink of that sentence blurred under the light, like a tear that hesitated to fall.