Nara

We drove through a small village in the mountains of Nara as the rain began to fall.

Bamboo lined the roads, passing homes tucked quietly into the hills. There were no shops, no signs of a town nearby. The closest train station was a 45-minute walk away. It felt removed in a way that was intentional.

At the end of a narrow road, we arrived and climbed a steep driveway to Tanimura-san’s home and workshop.

At the entrance, a small garden sat just beyond the threshold—stone, moss, carefully shaped bonsai trees. We stood there for a moment, taking shelter from the rain.

He came out soon after and welcomed us in.

Shoes off, we stepped into a tatami room lined with chasen. Shelves of them, in different shapes and tones. The windows were open, letting in soft light and the sound of rain. A low table sat in the center.

He disappeared briefly and returned with sencha, served in a white cup so delicate it felt almost weightless—the surface like the spirals of raindrops settling into a still pool.

There was a quiet moment of looking—at the tools, the bamboo, the way everything was arranged. This was where the craft lived. It felt like being allowed into something private, almost sacred.

He spoke openly about his work.

About lineage, and the generations before him. About how the process of making a chasen is divided into stages. Even now, only around twenty are made in a day.

He explained how difficult it has become to source the right bamboo. The difference between what is made in Japan and what is mass produced elsewhere. The handle of a traditional chasen is thinner, more delicate—requiring a specific type of bamboo that is increasingly rare.

At one point, we were invited to take part in the final stage—tying the threads of a chasen.

It was much harder than it looked.

I found myself moving closer to the window, trying to catch the light just enough to see the detail. Watching him, the precision felt effortless. The kind of ease that only comes from years of repetition.

When asked, he described himself more as a craftsman than an artist. Chasen, he said, are meant to be used. Not held onto forever.

Watching him work, it was hard not to feel otherwise.

There was a quiet mastery in it. A kind of attention that felt rare.

At the end, we whisked our own bowls of matcha.

Using one of his chasen felt entirely different. Delicate, but strong. Responsive in a way that’s difficult to describe unless you’ve felt it. The foam rose quickly—soft, even, almost weightless.

There was a moment of hesitation—how it might feel like a waste to use something made with such care, and yet, how much sadder it would be for it to never be used at all.

The chasen we had worked on was carefully placed into a box and signed before we left.

We spoke a bit more before leaving. He mentioned he would be traveling soon—to Los Angeles, among other places—and spoke about how grateful he was to connect with people beyond Nara. How much of his work is usually done alone.

When it was time to go, the rain had lifted.

There was a quiet exchange of thanks, a series of bows at the doorway. The kind of moment that lingers a little longer than expected.

For all its utility, it was hard not to see it as something more.

Not just in the objects themselves, but in the way he moved through the work—his pace, his space, his words. There was something undeniably artful in it.

Some things are meant to be remembered.

A small number of chashaku were brought back from this visit.

— Julia Misaki