Washi — What Awakens Bodily Sense
Washi is a type of paper that has long been used in Japan. It is made from the fibers of plants such as kōzo, mitsumata, and gampi, dispersed in water and lifted into a single sheet with a bamboo screen. Compared with Western paper made from wood pulp, washi has longer fibers and is known for being light and flexible, yet unexpectedly strong. It has been used in many contexts—from writing and printmaking to shoji screens and everyday wrapping—across both daily life and artistic practice.
Looking at how washi is made, one begins to notice that efficiency and perfect uniformity are not its primary goals. The raw plants are harvested in winter, steamed, stripped of their bark, carefully cleaned, and soaked in water. The fibers are not cut short but left long, floating freely, held in suspension with natural additives such as tororo-aoi. As the screen is moved gently back and forth, the fibers overlap and intertwine, gradually forming a surface. Because of this process, the finished paper often retains slight variations in thickness and density. Yet these irregularities are rarely perceived as flaws. They are received, instead, as part of washi’s distinctive character.
When light passes through washi, it softens. When held in the hand, it feels light; when folded, it follows the fold; when it absorbs moisture, it becomes supple and yields. Used in shoji screens, it does not block light but tempers it, allowing brightness to enter a room quietly. Used for wrapping, it protects without insisting on what lies inside. For these reasons, washi is sometimes described as a modest material.
And yet, when one spends time with washi, there are moments when such descriptions feel insufficient. Rather than the paper asserting itself, it is often one’s own movement or pace that becomes noticeable. When a brush touches the surface, ink slowly spreads into the fibers; when the hand pauses, the spreading also comes to rest. Sitting before a shoji screen, one may notice how the quality of light changes with the hour or the weather, altering the room without drawing attention to itself.
Washi appears less like a finished object and more like something that takes shape each time it is used. There is no single, predetermined form that it aims to realize. The process—the fibers moving in water, the hands receiving them, the time required for drying—remains quietly embedded in the paper. When it encounters the person who uses it, that stored process seems to respond again.
What washi offers is not an empty blank. It is a surface in which form emerges only when words, light, or movement make contact. If handled in haste, the paper responds accordingly. If approached with care, it adjusts to that pace as well. Washi does not make strong claims, but it reflects, with remarkable sensitivity, the manner in which it is engaged.
Standing before a single sheet of washi, one may not be trying to understand anything in particular. It may simply be that the hands move a little more slowly, or that the eye lingers on how light settles across the surface. There is no need to explain where this change comes from. What remains is a quiet relationship that has formed, briefly, between paper and body.
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