God is in the details.

As I began to make work of my own, I grew particular about my tools.
Reading the old texts of Japanese leathercraft, I learned about tools — and came to understand how much the awl and the leather knife matter.
A blade is useless unless it is sharpened. I felt I had to learn to prepare a tool before I could use one, so I walked from forge to forge in my region, looking for someone who would teach me to sharpen. Only one would.
Later I learned that those who make blades and those who use them sharpen differently.
I listened to temple carpenters and traditional craftsmen speak of sharpening, and from what they shared, I found my own way and refined it.
I grew particular about my whetstones, deepened my understanding of the blade, and raised the precision of my sharpening, step by step.
Every tool I use, I prepare with my own hands.
A day in my workshop begins not by touching leather, but by sharpening.
Leather knife, awl, needle.
Every blade I work with is reground to suit the task of that particular day.
Even the same task asks for a different angle and a different pressure from one day to the next — so the tool must be chosen to answer it.
From a tool treated with care, careful work is born. That is the belief I keep, and the way I keep making.

It all begins with seeing the material clearly.
First, I build a prototype in split leather.
Looking at what comes of it, I think: this kind of leather would suit it; this texture would bring out more of its character. And I search among leathers from around the world.
Then I make the piece, use it myself, and use only what convinces me.
Every hide has its own character, and every part its own nature.
This leather for this work.
And within a single hide, this part for this place.
I never choose a leather simply because it is renowned.
The right material in the right place — leathers, too, have what suits them and what does not.
That discernment is the foundation of something made to stay close to you.

I source thread from around the world, and twist each one from scratch by hand.
The under-twist alone runs to more than two thousand turns.
If the thread I wanted for hand-stitching did not exist, then I would simply have to make it myself.
Twisting from scratch makes the twist finer, so less of its surface meets the leather — it resists friction, and lasts far longer.
At first I made right-twist thread, and worked with it for my pieces.
I was right-handed. Yet once I began hand-stitching, I switched to my left.
The reason was simple: I came to see that the one who stitches must yield to the thread.
I make my own thread and my own needles. I even changed my dominant hand. I go this far because I am reaching for a way of stitching that is wholly my own.

Left-Twisted Thread

Right-Twisted Thread

Every stitch, every step — entirely by hand.
There is a finish that no machine can give.
Leather is not like cloth; the density of its fibres is never uniform.
Some parts are soft, others firm. Where to stitch, and where the tension will fall — I have studied the very act of hand-stitching, over and over.
I have tried hundreds of different ways of stitching.
A way to stitch a flat surface, a way to stitch in three dimensions, a way to draw out strength, a way to draw out beauty.
Even within hand-stitching, the right technique differs entirely with its purpose.
The method for stitching in three dimensions, above all, is one I devised myself.
The smooth, flowing curves of Pomme de Popotan could never have existed without it.
A stitching method of my own, and thread made with care. Where the two meet, a seam of rare beauty is born.