Mr. Yokohata follows the rhythms of his artistry
Ninety minutes from the lights and noise of downtown Hiroshima, Japan, a modest, old-fashioned house sits at the foot of an ancient mountain. Behind this home lies a sandy footpath that winds past a family grave and on to a simple workshop. Inside the shop the craftsman sits cross-legged on the floor behind his large wooden working block. His wife, Chihoko, is by his side.
On the entire length of the wall behind him hangs a collection of tools and saws—none of them electrically powered. Also hanging in the workshop are newspaper articles featuring his hand-carved ladles, a large poster illustrating the sixteen steps of his creative process, a chart with Chinese characters organized into something like a family tree, and a black and white photograph of the craftsman’s father.
Mr. Yokohata is eighty-seven years old but does not look it. His hair is still salt and pepper—more pepper than salt. His bushy, high-arched eyebrows cover piercing brown eyes. Full of vigor, he appears restless seated behind his working block without a tool in-hand. He is calmer and more talkative while he works. Step one is selecting his wood, and step two is preparing it. As he peels away the thin layer of bark, he begins to speak more freely.
In 1953 he began studying under the tutelage of his father, a master of the trade. For an entire year, his only job was to hew the basic shape of the ladle out of a chunk of wood thirty centimeters tall and as wide as a watermelon—his father took it from there. In his second year, his duties expanded to shaping the round end of the utensil. In the seventy years since, his life has been dedicated to perfecting this craft.
He moves effortlessly—not hurriedly—through the steps and often transitions to the next without notice. At step seven he begins to form the ladle’s tip. Between mallet blows to the chisel, he speaks of the things his father imparted to him. In addition to their trade, he taught his son to respectfully gather from nature—edible vegetables from the mountains, lumber from the forests. To this day he heeds that guidance as he and Chihoko eat most meals straight from their garden. She proudly remarks that the only food they must buy from the nearest store is meat and fish.
The past—his father’s advice, the family grave, the nineteenth-century techniques—is vital in Mr. Yokohata’s present. Even the list of Chinese characters on the wall, he explains, is not a family tree but a tree listing every master and apprentice in this trade for the last two hundred years. Here, the past is on the walls, in the tools, watching over and guiding the master.
Occasional periods of silence come as he drifts into his work, but his wife of six decades is ever-present and happily talks while he labors. She also assists him. It is not uncommon for her to retrieve a tool for him or to jump in wherever she is needed. Somewhere around step nine, one side of his working block begins to shimmy. Without being asked Chihoko quickly inserts a thick woodchip underneath to steady it.
His process—slow, quiet, deliberate—seems antithetical to life in the modern city. Cities make him feel uncomfortable, he says. The speed, fever, and noise unsettle him. Things are certainly different out here—peaceful and much quieter. In this workshop, the only sound other than the background hum of locusts is the rhythmic tapping of a tool on wood. It is slower out here in the wilds, too. Even the river that flows just meters from his door seems to move more slowly than the rivers that snake their way through Hiroshima on their way to meet the sea.
Before long, the final step is completed and what began as a disc of cherry blossom wood has been totally transformed into an attractive long-handled ladle. It is perfectly smooth and without splinters. The angles are fabulous, the wood fragrant. Chihoko offers to brand it with her husband’s personal mark. This is the only time an electrically powered tool will touch the ladle.
While the brand heats up, she rushes out of the workshop and returns moments later with refreshments in hand. The kindness and thoughtfulness are gratuitous. Locally-made peach jellies, barley tea, and cold coffee are all on offer. The tea is nearly finished when Chihoko happens to mention the fire.
Nine years prior, a faulty space heater sparked a blaze that completely destroyed the shop and every one of his tools. Seventy-nine years old at the time, Mr. Yokohata was not sure he had the motivation to rebuild. That is, until the packages began to arrive. Old customers and friends began mailing him the tools necessary to rebuild his collection. They spurred him to build again. He is thankful he did.
Patrick Boyle formerly lived in Japan and currently writes at Setting Stones.
