Discover the beauty and tradition of Japanese washi paper — handmade, strong, and unforgettable.

The Paper That Sings

That sound of water swirling over the sugeta — when our sensei showed us the motion, it felt like a quiet symphony. Our first attempts? Not quite there. But with each pass the sound began to shift. We weren’t making music, but we were starting to understand the rhythm that makes washi what it is.

That was the moment we knew we wanted to come back.

Ichihara sensei showing us how Mino washi is made

 

Washi is more than just paper. It’s the sound of tradition, the feel of water-worn fibers, and a memory that sticks long after your hands are dry. It’s why we build it into our journals, and why we someday want to return to Mino with a small group of fellow paper lovers to chase that sound again.

What Even Is Washi?

Traditional Washi is Japanese handmade paper made from plant fibers like kōzo (mulberry), mitsumata, or gampi — and no, it’s not rice paper. That’s a common mix-up.

The process is slow and intentional. The fibers are soaked, pounded, and swirled in cold mountain water until they float like a cloud. Then, using a bamboo screen called a sugeta, the papermaker lifts and layers the pulp into a motion that looks deceptively simple. 

Kōzo fibers in water, waiting to be made into washi

 

That’s what gives traditional washi its strength and texture. It’s soft but sturdy. Thin, but long-lasting. And because it’s made by hand, no two sheets are exactly alike — kind of like people, right?

Washi is so tough and archival, it’s used in book conservation, museum restoration, and fine art repair. In fact, the Louvre and Vatican both rely on it to save fragile documents. The world’s oldest papers? Many are washi. There’s a reason UNESCO listed traditional washi as part of Japan’s Intangible Cultural Heritage.

Why It’s More Than Pretty Paper

Some paper just looks good. Washi looks good and feels right.

It’s not just about texture or the handmade charm. Washi has a kind of quiet presence. It holds ink in a way that makes you slow down. It crinkles in your hands like it remembers being made. It turns something as ordinary as wrapping a gift or jotting a note into a small, thoughtful ritual.

Wedding dress made out of Mino washi

 

It’s not flashy. But it lasts. Not just physically — though it does that too —  but in the way it lingers in your memory after you’ve used it.

And if you’re the kind of person who gets a little thrill from a perfectly aged document or a book that’s been brought back to life, washi might already be part of your story, too.

Washi in Our Work (Even When You Can’t See It)

We use washi all the time — mostly in ways you’d never notice.

In our handmade journals, washi plays a quiet but crucial role. It helps us create our own fabric book cloth. You can’t always see it, but it’s there, holding things together.

Fabric and Washi before lining

Fabric after being lined with washi

 

It shows up even more in our book conservation work. Every tear we repair, every reback, every lined spine — washi makes it possible. We use it because it’s thin enough not to interfere with the form, but strong enough to last for generations. It's the unsung hero of both beauty and utility.

Damaged book before conservation using washi

After conservation

 

Back to the Source: A Future Trip to Mino

We’ve been dreaming about going back to Japan — this time not just as students, but as guides.

Picture this: winter in Mino, the heart of washi country. A small group of fellow paper lovers, and two weeks of full immersion. We’d stay at a local ryokan, wake up early, and spend our days learning traditional papermaking from the ground up.

It’s messy. It’s hard. It’s damn cold. But it’s also fun as hell. You learn with your whole body — your hands, your ears, your breath. You feel the shift when you finally move the sugeta just right.

And when the work is done? We’d wander through studios and stroll down Washi Street. The shops are small, but they’re stacked floor to ceiling with handmade paper — delicate patterns, bold textures, and tools we never knew we needed.

Then we’d head to the city for a very different kind of pilgrimage — raiding Tokyu Hands and Loft like kids in a candy store. Because even after two weeks of making paper, we still wouldn’t get enough.

Why Mino?

There are a lot of places in Japan where you can learn to make washi. But Mino is different. It’s not just where we first learned — it’s where the whole thing clicked.

The cold water, the rhythm of the papermaking, the silence of the workshop except for the swish of the sugeta. The way the paper glowed when it dried. You don’t forget that kind of thing.

Mino isn’t a backdrop. It’s the main character.

Everything in that town breathes paper. The way the shopkeepers fold your purchase with care. The way even the smallest studio has a story to tell. It’s not trying to impress anyone. It just is.

One of us grew up in Gifu Prefecture, just a short drive from Mino. So maybe it’s no surprise we feel a pull. But it’s more than nostalgia. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to slow down, pay attention, and make something with your hands.

Other regions make incredible washi too. We love them for their textures, their colors, and their quirks.

Washi’s Pull: Why Paper Lovers Should Care

This post isn’t just for washi nerds or conservation pros. If you’ve ever:

• Run your fingers over textured paper in a store,
• Bought a notebook just because it felt right,
• Or saved a scrap of wrapping paper because it was too pretty to throw away…

Then you already get it.

Thoughtful creatives fall in love with the subtle differences of each sheet. Legacy keepers appreciate how this kind of paper lasts longer than most heirlooms. Passionate learners want to try it out for themselves. Roll up their sleeves. Splash around. Get it wrong. Then get it right.

Washi isn’t just a product. It’s an experience. It’s the kind of thing that makes you pause mid-project and whisper, “Holy crap, this is paper.”

Paper Isn’t Just Paper

Washi is water, movement, and memory. It’s the sound that pulls you in — the swish of the sugeta, the hush of pulp settling into place. 

It’s paper that’s older than any of us. Stronger than it looks. And somehow still soft enough to carry a whisper from hand to hand.

Now you know what it is.

So the next time you pick up a notebook, smooth out a wrinkle in your favorite page, or see the word washi — you’ll see the story in it. And maybe you’ll want to make some of your own.

And that dream of returning to Mino? Still on the list. Until then, we’ll keep sneaking washi into journals, workshops, and repairs here at home. Because once you’ve worked with washi, regular paper just feels…flat.