From Mariko Mikuni

I love old sarasa — I collect fabric scraps and often pore over illustrated catalogues and photo books. I’d find myself idly wondering, “What is it that I love about this? Why does it draw me in so much?” But if I had to put it into words, one clear reason would be this: the patterns are so incredibly intricate. The size — or rather, the fineness — of the arabesques and treasures woven into the cloth gives you a sense of devotion overflowing from the hands that made them. And the way those intricate patterns were rendered, never quite keeping pace with the maker’s imagination, given the limitations of materials and techniques of the time — I think that’s part of what makes them so endlessly fascinating.



The second reason is how they blend East and West, allowing different cultures to mingle and ferment on the surface of the cloth, transforming into something entirely new. Sarasa originated in India, but its roots trace back even further west. Eventually, it made its way to Japan, the far end of the Silk Road, where it took on a distinctly Japanese sensibility and was reborn into something more suited to Japanese taste. That is wa-sarasa — and yet even in its “wa” (Japanese) form, there remains a trace of something Western at its core. I find that blend utterly captivating. I wanted to see if something like that could work in knitwear too, and that’s how Kyoto came to be.



When I visited Kitano Tenmangu Shrine in Kyoto in early spring, the Baikasai plum blossom festival happened to be underway. The blossoms had barely opened yet, but the image stayed with me long after I returned home. I found myself thinking: plum blossoms — that could be something worth knitting. The way small flowers cluster together, the delicate branching like arabesques — it seemed well suited to an all-over pattern. Fairly early in the design process, I decided it would be two colors rather than many. I wanted to create something that evoked the scent of plum blossoms drifting through a monochrome world. When there’s too much information for the eyes, it becomes harder to take in the other elements. And for flattering the person wearing it, this balance is probably just right.



The knitting itself is simpler than it looks, and if you’ve knitted a yoke sweater before, you’ll find it moves along smoothly. You start by knitting the sleeves first, which also serves as good practice for the pattern stitching. There’s a front-and-back length adjustment in the body just before the yoke, and picking up the stitches there is perhaps the main challenge. And when you’ve finished, don’t forget to wash and block your work.