Washi Japanese Paper: A Journey Back to My Creative Roots

There’s something about washi that feels familiar, like a friend that’s been with me my whole life. It’s more than just paper; it’s soft yet strong, almost like fabric, akin to a childhood blanket that’s been held onto for years. 

When I first ran my fingers across a finished sheet, I wasn’t just feeling paper. I was feeling something lived-in, something made with care. And in that moment, I understood why I had come here, and that was to reacquaint myself with a more traditional way of making, the way I used to as a child, when paper felt like home.

A Paper That Speaks to My Past: Washi Japanese Paper

As a kid, I spent a lot of time sketching on any scrap of paper I could find. It was the one place I felt safe, where I could build something of my own and get lost in my own thoughts.

Eventually, that love for creating led me to more digital ways of creating, to design and photography, but paper remained constant. Paper was always there, holding my thoughts, my ideas, and my need to make sense of things.

So when I heard about a workshop where I could photograph the traditional washi-making process from scratch at Tesuki Washi Tanino near Shinrin-Koen in Saitama, I knew I had to go. I spent three days learning the craft: two consecutive days in January and then returning the next month to finish the process. It wasn’t just about making paper; it was about rediscovering something I had lost.

Where Tradition Lives: Tesuki Washi Tanino

Washi, which translates to "Japanese paper," is a traditional handmade paper crafted from the inner bark of the Kozo mulberry tree. Unlike modern paper, washi is known for its durability, water resistance, and unique texture. 

Its history spans over 1,300 years, and it has been used in everything from calligraphy and folding screens to repairing ancient documents. The meticulous process involves stripping the bark, boiling, cleaning, and carefully forming each sheet by hand, resulting in a paper that carries the spirit of its maker.

Walking into the workshop, I expected it to feel like a factory, but it didn’t. It was a space filled with history and warmth. Filled with tools worn smooth by generations of hands and the quiet rhythm of people working together. 

Leading us through it all was Hiroko Tanino, who carried an energy that made you want to listen, to absorb everything she had to say. She spoke about how washi, unlike ordinary paper, resists water, lasting through centuries—a quality that made it essential to Japan’s history.

One of my favorite parts was stripping the bark from the Kozo mulberry branches that we did on the second day. Up until that moment, I had assumed the entire wood itself would be used, but I didn’t expect that it was only the bark that mattered. It was strange, peeling away the rough exterior to get to the soft fibers beneath. It reminded me of how sometimes we have to strip things down to their essence to find what’s valuable.

The process was slow and communal. My group was noticeably slower than the others, fumbling through the steps while the experienced participants worked effortlessly. But that was part of the beauty of it: people helping each other, laughing at our mistakes, feeling like we were part of something shared. It was the opposite of how I grew up creating—alone, in silence. This was hands-on, messy, imperfect. It felt alive.

Transforming Fibers into Paper: The Beauty of Becoming

After drying, the fibers were cleaned further and placed into a machine to be turned into a pulp. After came the moment of formation, lifting the screen, and watching the fibers settle, knowing they would dry into something durable, something lasting. Some of my team even strained a sheet for themselves, keeping a piece of their work. I didn’t, but watching them do it felt just as meaningful.

The process of washi-making felt uncannily personal. You start with something rough and unrefined, strip away the unnecessary parts, soften it, reshape it, and let time do the rest. It was impossible not to see the parallel to my own journey, how art had given me a way to make sense of things, how paper had always been a medium for expression, for survival, for holding onto what mattered.

Why I’d Go Back in a Heartbeat

After the drying, I was struck by how much each sheet resembled fabric. They weren’t fragile; they were strong and textured, and you can tell they were meant to last. And standing there, I realized that while this experience was about learning a traditional craft, what I got out of it was much more. It was about something deeper. About memories’ resilience: finding pieces of myself in something as simple as a sheet of paper.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. But next time, I’d want to be even more hands-on. I had spent so much time documenting the process through photography, afraid to miss a moment. But now, I know the real magic is in the making.

Washi isn’t just paper. It’s something to hold and something that holds you in return. It’s a memory, woven together. And for me, it’s a reminder of where I started.

If this experience piqued your interest, begin your washi experience here.