Hello everyone, I'm Gary Tegler, the man behind the voice who has introduced

the wonders of Kyoto to you for over 200 episodes of Core Kyoto.

I've lived in this city for 35 years, and it still amazes me.

On today's special program, we'll visit some artisans

and take a look back at some of the program's highlights.

Enchanting handicrafts.

Refined cuisine.

Captivating buildings.

Core Kyoto spotlights the beauty and skill of Kyoto's artisanal traditions,

interspersed with your feedback from social media networks.

Core Kyoto.

Numerous crafts and customs originated or were perfected in Kyoto,

as it was the capital for over a thousand years.

The exhibits here at the Kyoto Museum of Crafts and Design

showcase 74 of Kyoto's many superb, traditional crafts.

One of the exhibits here features Kyoto "yuzen" dyeing.

It's a technique that was perfected in the late 17th century.

In it, the painter paints directly onto the cloth creating very fine lines in some places

and in others gradations or blending of colors.

It's a very difficult and complex process involving more than 20 stages.

Over the years, Core Kyoto has featured the fine work of many artisans.

A braided cord is used to fasten an obi sash around kimono.

Each one is made by hand.

This craft developed from an aristocratic aesthetic dating over a millennium.

Different weaving stands are used to make different types of braid.

On this classic round stand, the silk yarns are braided in the center.

Patterned cord is produced by skillfully interweaving thirty or so weighted bobbins.

Varying the color, number, and braiding technique can result in an infinite variety of cords.

It takes over 1,000 repetitions to create just one cord.

The hands move automatically as the braiding order is imprinted in the artisan's head.

The yarn shows you the way,
how to manipulate it.

It's so natural. I'm amazed
at the wisdom of our ancestors.

It takes over ten hours to create a single 1.5-meter-long obi cord.

"That is amazing, somehow it's like a snake."

"Beautiful craftsmanship."

In Kyoto's sultry summers, people unfold fans to stir a cooling breeze.

When done, they fold and tuck them away in their sash or pocket.

Fans are commonly used in daily life.

This Kyoto-style fan store dates back some 100 years.

It sells all kinds of folding fans, including ornamental ones.

These are made the traditional way with hand-painted designs.

Nihonga artist, Kono Shinji, also paints kimono designs.

Kono works using traditional Nihonga methods, dissolving mineral pigments in a natural glue.

He wields his brush decisively.

Heavy layers of paint are taboo on fans,

as the paint can peel off when the paper is folded.

The artist's skill lies in using the lightest touch possible.

Kono enjoys painting on an unconventional canvas, such as fan-shaped paper.

Square works are restricted
in four directions.

But I can be more relaxed with a fan.
That's the main difference.

Pictures don't need to be big. I like distilling
the essence in small works.

This refined, Kyoto-style fan depicts plum blossoms set against the full moon.

The silk threads make a crisp sound, as the textile is unfurled.

The fabric was tied into thousands of beads and dyed.

This is the traditional Kyoto craft of "Kyo-kanoko shibori."

The ruffles and peaks throw delicate shadows,

creating a mesmerizing fabric considered to be the highest class of tie-dyeing.

A 36cm-wide, 13m-long bolt of kimono fabric holds more than 150,000 beads.

The work is taxing and is completed solely by hand over a year or more.

Kawamoto Kazuyo binds the textile, according to the stenciled design.

She has been in the trade for seven decades since the age of eight.

I bind each and every dot,
not missing one.

She pinches a dot - millimeters in diameter - folds it in four, and twists.

She then binds the fabric four times with 22 loose, fine silk threads.

The bound area is not dyed and left in the original white.

Only the heads are dyed, creating the spotted fawn pattern.

It is common for novices to have bloody fingers until they master this task.

The process
is laborious.

If I lose concentration, tie them loosely,
or lose strength in my fingers,

the binding is unbalanced.
They're so tiny I must focus.

"So beautiful! Only the Japanese would have this kind of precise, labor intensive and gorgeous technique!"

A flame shapes a glass pen that glimmers like a jewel.

The creator is Kan Seiryu.

He specializes in fashioning hard-glass pens.

The eight narrow, twisted grooves become capillaries that draw up the ink.

Kan's technique produces pens that write as smooth as silk.

The key to shaping the glass is the flame.

Here, Kan is forming the handle design.

With the rod heated to 1200 degrees Celsius,

Kan makes tiny twists to create a spiral pattern.

The next step requires nerves of steel,

as forming the pen tip determines the quality of the lettering it will produce.

As he twists the rod, he pulls it swiftly to create the tip instantaneously.

It becomes as thin as hair, so thin
I could cut it with my own breath.

In fact, it's so intense,
I can hardly breathe.

We're about to visit the workshop of a renowned "kirikane" artisan.

"Konnichi wa."

- "Sumimasen. Ojama shimasu."
- "Irasshaimase."

- May I?
- Please.

Truly stunning.

- Wonderful.
- "Arigato gozaimasu."

"Subarashii."

I am calling on Eri Tomoko, who has been applying "kirikane" for around 30 years.

Gold foil is cut into 1mm-wide strips using a bamboo cutter.

The foil strands are adhered to the wood using two brushes

and a mixture of animal glue and "funori" seaweed.

This is the traditional art of "kirikane."

Applying "kirikane" to the uneven surface of a Buddhist statue requires prowess.

The curved and straight lines of gold foil complement the wood grain.

Deep in concentration, Eri holds her breath as she applies each strand.

The completed statue of Miroku Bodhisattva appears to emit a soft brilliance from within.

For centuries, Buddhist statues and images were only viewed in candlelight;

the gold of "kirikane" accentuated their features and grandeur.

Eri applies "kirikane" to statues her father, Koukei, has carved.

- Absolutely beautiful. Really is.
- "Arigato gozaimasu."

What is the most challenging
in "kirikane?"

"Kirikane" is a decorative art, so it's
important that it enhances the object.

It shouldn't be too obvious
and stand out.

You must think about how it will blend in
with the object to make it more sublime.

Eri also applied "kirikane" to this statue of Jizo Bodhisattva.

It was first coated with paint
mixed with powdered gold.

I then added the "kirikane"
for the clothing.

It adds a heavier finish
to the statue.

With the passage of time, the color of the statue itself darkens

and the "kirikane" embellishment shines more brightly.

Eri also devotes time to broadening the potential of "kirikane" on secular craftwork.

These are incense holders.

They open up and the incense
is stored inside.

The design here is very intricate. This is just wonderful.

And very symmetrical.

It must've taken a long time to do.

This is a, a calyx of a lotus blossom.

It's absolutely wonderful work. Really lovely.

Catches the light in different ways.

The colors are reflected in different patterns.

It's just amazing really. Wonderful.

Eri focuses her full attention on the one strand of gold foil

as she deftly guides the brush to apply it, freehand.

It's pretty amazing amount of concentration and focus that is required.

And, so are there things that you must be very careful about?

You have to think about the overall balance,
so you can't have too many patterns.

A single line can
change the feeling.

If it's overdone, it becomes tacky,
so you must be careful.

That's why it's important that you are aware
of when to stop and be decisive about it.

Eri allows me to try my hand at it.

No, guys, this is...

No, that's glue. Okay. Wow.

I'll hold it for you. Use this brush
to guide it to where you want to paste it.

OK, here we go. "Kore de?"

Apply the glue under the foil.
Yes, like that.

It broke off.

You did a good job.

All of 3 cm.

In Japan, this technique was developed
to boost the appearance of Buddha.

And little by little
that's changed over time.

I look for ways to express
"kirikane" in this era.

And I believe "kirikane" has much more
potential, so I look to expand the art.

I'm standing in Nishiki Market, called "Kyoto's pantry."

It's roots go back over a millennium,

and the thousands of products sold here constitute an illustrated encyclopedia of Japanese food.

As Kyoto was long the capital, fresh food from all over the country was sent here,

creating a unique and multifaceted food culture.

Let's take a look at some of the secrets this culinary universe has to offer.

Miso bean paste, an important Japanese condiment, is made using soybeans.

Kyoto developed its own variety of miso fit for the imperial household.

White miso has a refined sweetness,

and it was regarded a luxury commodity at a time when sweet foods were rare.

One Kyoto-cuisine restaurant, which first opened in the early 1800s,

is famous for a dish that uses white miso.

This restaurant, listed in international gourmand guides,

serves cookery that could be considered art.

The chef's style is outstanding in that he simply lets the intrinsic flavors of the ingredients speak for themselves.

One dish that epitomizes this is his signature dish: white miso "zoni."

The recipe is very simple.

Springwater and white miso are mixed in a saucepan, then heated with no other seasonings added;

not even "dashi," the standard base for Kyoto-style broths.

The fermentation process for white miso is short and is easily influenced by temperature and humidity,

so there is always a slight difference in the taste.

Therefore, the chef adjusts the flavor so the broth has the intense, rich taste of white miso he desires.

If it's too strong,
I add water, like this.

The roasted rice cake placed in the broth is topped with a mustard sauce.

The sweetness of the white miso, the aroma of the roasted rice cake,

and the tangy sauce create a fine balance of rich flavors in harmony with each other.

It comes down to a chef's skills as to how they
reveal the ingredients' intrinsic taste and goodness.

This pickle-maker, established in 1865, specializes in "senmaizuke" -

one of the three major Kyoto pickles with a distinct white, round appearance.

These are Shogoin turnips, a Kyoto heritage vegetable that is especially juicy and sweet in the winter.

It was once a popular ingredient in palace meals.

Yamazaki Mari upholds the traditional flavor handed down over generations.

The process involves three people.

First, the turnips are peeled thickly, because the inside of the skin is hard and fibrous.

The flesh is then carefully cut into 2-millimeter slices

while adjusting the pressure and checking the quality with the palm of the hand.

The turnip slices are then spread like a deck of playing cards.

The turnips can't be
too close together or too far apart.

The slices are layered evenly for the salt to thoroughly permeate the flesh.

Her father taught her to use the palm of her hand

to discern the turnips' condition and the amount of salt.

The rest of the pickling recipe is a guarded secret.

Yamazaki is the only one who inherited it from her father.

I loved my father's "senmaizuke,"
so I took over.

I plan on handing the process
down to my sons,

telling them to make them properly,
without changing the taste.

Kyoto-style sushi is pressed or rolled,

and beautiful presentation is one of its key elements.

Aspidistra leaves are used to adorn sushi, often cut into complex shapes.

Although plastic versions are now in widespread use,

many chefs in Kyoto still use real leaves.

Shirako Nagakazu, proprietor of a 120-year-old sushi shop, is a master aspidistra cutter.

The only tool he uses is a small kitchen knife.

Cutting the fibrous leaf into intricate patterns, without any tearing, requires great skill.

It tears along the fiber,
so cutting the finer parts is difficult.

Aspidistra on top completes
the picture, in terms of color.

The red of the shrimp,
the blue of the mackerel,

and the white of the rice all look better
with the addition of the green leaf.

This is a silent token of appreciation from chef to customer, a way of imparting joy.

"Wow! Amazing! He really has the hand of a creative."

Before sunrise, the day's work is getting started in this more-than-110-year old tofu store.

Hirano Yoshiaki is a veteran tofu-maker with more than 40 years of experience under his belt.

Tofu's main ingredients are soybeans and water.

The soybeans are first soaked overnight in water, then ground.

Water is added to the soybean pulp, then boiled.

The mash is pressed, resulting in soymilk with a concentrated soybean flavor.

Now the coagulant is added and quickly mixed in.

Hirano keeps a close watch and stops stirring when it begins to set.

Get the timing wrong and the tofu could turn out too hard or too soft.

He takes other factors into consideration,

such as the season, the weather, and the soybeans' quality.

His skill was learned from his father and grandfather, and honed over decades.

After about 30 minutes, the curdled tofu is transferred to a cloth-lined mold in order to press out excess water.

The curds must be placed evenly throughout the mold.

The cotton cloth is then folded over the top,

and a weight placed on the tofu to press the water out.

Two hours after work started, the tofu is done.

It is still hot, so it is placed in water to cool.

Kyoto's subterranean water is ideal for making tofu.

With a consistent temperature year-round, the soft water contains a balance of calcium,

magnesium and other minerals that does not interfere with the taste of the soybeans.

Tofu has a lot of water, so if the water's not good,
you can't make good tofu, no matter what.

Myoshin-ji is one of the largest Zen Buddhist temple complexes in Japan,

and I'm here to get a closer look at the vegetarian food their monks enjoy.

- "Hai."
- "Sumimasen."

"Konnnichiwa. Yoroshiku onegai shimasu."

Welcome.
Please come in.

Nishikawa Genbo, the chief priest of Torin-in, is a master chef of "shojin-ryori,"

the Buddhist vegetarian cuisine that uses no meat or fish products.

He holds regular cooking classes, teaching the heart of Zen.

This is Nishikawa's vegetable garden on the temple precincts.

"Kabosu" citrus are ready for picking in the fall.

Go on in. There are
many ripe ones there.

If I cut my finger off—

Harvest enough
to fill this up.

This one looks good.

- This is fun.
- Right?

Harvesting is a joy.
Keep going.

"Kabosu" are now in season.
They're fresh, so they have a nice aroma.

Ah, nice, very nice.

We will use the "kabosu" to make a light salad.

I want you to squeeze them now.

There's a lot of juice.
Keep going.

Now, simply mix in chopped apple, cucumber, and wax gourd.

This dish uses one ingredient going out of season,

one in season, and another coming into season.

As you know, humans cannot
live without taking life.

So, we have to
make the most of that life.

Therefore, we must fully use each ingredient
and use foods that are available around us.

So, I believe it's important to
make the most of the seasons.

We next make a tofu dish, "hirozu," representative of "shojin-ryori."

The ceilings of the Myoshin-ji lecture hall and other
major Kyoto temples bear paintings of dragons.

We're cooking a dish modeled
on a dragon's head.

So we will use gingko nuts for the eyes,
lily bulbs for the scales,

and shredded burdock root
for the whiskers.

Together they resemble the head of a dragon
in flight, which is what "hirozu" means.

The ingredients are mixed into the crushed tofu and formed into head-shaped patties.

The patties are then deep-fried to add flavor and texture.

The chilled patties are served in "dashi" broth.

Please.

"Itadakimasu" is a simple expression, meaning
"we are about to receive" the life of the ingredients.

So we should eat with that in mind.
Please enjoy your meal.

Mm. Very good.

And again this was the dish where some of the things are coming into season

and one that's in season now to balance the taste of the foods,

and again very much a reflection of Kyoto and it's culture.

This is the "hirozu."

You have the dragon's two eyes.
Please.

"Itadakimasu. Gomen."

How is it?

A very light taste.

It's like eating, I don't know, a wafer with air in it, or something.

Very light. Very nice.

Is there anything that you would suggest, recommend, or want to teach or pass on to other people,

maybe future generations about this style of cuisine?

It's a bit much to say
I'm a "shojin-ryori" chef.

But from when I was a novice monk,
I wanted everyone to like my cooking.

So, I devoted myself
to cooking.

At this age, I still like cooking and eating food I like,
which I think is the origins of "shojin-ryori."

The joy of eating corresponds
with spiritual training.

I believe it is nourishment
for the body and soul.

This is a Kyoto-style "machiya" townhouse.

Its design was necessitated by land reforms enacted in the late 16th century.

"Sumimasen. Ojama shimasu."

"Sumimasen."

They're referred to as "eels' nests" because of their slim, elongated architecture.

In the middle or at the back, there is the "tsuboniwa," a small courtyard garden,

which is an ingenious use of limited space, as it lets in light and air.

Features like this enabled people to live more comfortably

in the dense cityscape of the ancient capital.

Kyoto's homes and buildings boast many more aesthetic features created by master craftspeople.

Tiny "tsuboniwa" are designed by landscape artists.

Members of Inoue Katsuhiro's family have been landscape artists since 1820.

He designs "tsuboniwa," as well as other types of gardens.

Inoue is about to start work on a new garden.

This "tsuboniwa" happens to be in his childhood home.

Only 2 meters by 2.5 meters in size, it was first built by his grandfather and father.

This is its first revamp in 40 years.

Put it down!

Hold the stone!

Inoue chose this basin, designed to look like traditional "kiriko" glassware.

A bit more this way.

- The axis?
- Yes.

Inoue chose a tall, lithe maple as his garden's tree.

Positioned behind the basin, the maple acts to enhance the garden's height.

The "tsuboniwa" is an ancient art preserved by generations of landscape artists.

Inoue's revamped garden is a masterpiece of skill and soul.

The maple leaves reflect off the polished paving stones, giving the space further depth.

Of course I strive
to preserve the old ways,

but I wanted to fuse them
with modern elements -

so as to add my own thoughts
to the traditions we have inherited.

The roof of Kiyomizu-dera's Okuno-in was re-thatched in 2014.

"Hinoki" cypress bark strips are first submerged in water to make them pliable and easy to handle.

The strips are layered, to fit the roof's contours.

They are then secured with bamboo pegs.

The thatcher puts 20 to 30 pegs in his mouth at a time

and turns them to point in the same direction.

One at a time, he spits them out and pounds them in, using a special hammer.

This skill requires years to refine.

We can't just measure,
cut and plane like a carpenter.

We use our intuition
and sense of touch.

Of course we want future generations to preserve
the structures and exceed our achievements.

Layer upon layer, the elegantly contoured roof takes shape.

"Nothing but deep respect and awe to these masterclass artisans."

Sheer boulders are deep mountain valleys; and the white gravel, an ocean.

"Karesansui," or dry landscape gardens, embody Zen Buddhist thought.

Each rock and grain of sand talks.

The mountains in Kyoto's northwest.

Landscapers search for stones to use in rock gardens.

Kitayama Yasuo is an eminent architect and artist of "karesansui" gardens.

He uses natural stones, the appearance of which he assesses scrupulously.

How do I want to use this?
What's the best way to use it?

Visualizing this is crucial
for choosing the right rocks.

Cho'ontei at Kennin-ji.

Positioned in the center of this mossy garden is a rock Kitayama discovered in the mountains.

This "sanzonseki" triad cluster represents Buddha flanked by two Bodhisattvas.

The three stones are arranged so that they can all be viewed from any angle.

Buddha, who sits at the center of the world, is omnipresent.

Stones are faithful.

Therefore, a well-arranged cluster
will radiate the right energy -

to invigorate people
who come to admire them.

That's the approach I always take
when arranging stones.

Tanaka Akiyoshi took up plastering, following in his father's footsteps.

Now he is pursuing his ideal of fashioning walls.

The consummate walls Tanaka aspires to are here in Gion.

They're so beautiful
it's hard to believe they're real.

These walls, called Juraku, are made with the best soil available.

Tanaka was astonished on seeing them a decade or more ago,

and was impressed by their color and gentle surface texture.

Now he wants to use the same premium soil in his attempt to recreate the walls of his dreams.

He is on the final step, applying the plaster to the wall.

First, he uses a clay mix with slightly rough straw as the base.

The outer layer is then applied in two stages.

The first coat is a lighter-colored, clay-like mixture.

In painting, this would be the canvas.

If not applied correctly, the final wall will not have the right look.

Once done, Tanaka begins preparing the second coat so he can apply it before the first dries.

On this final coat, he works with great care to ensure the wall surface will have the character he seeks.

Soil, water, and straw -

from these natural materials, a plasterer's hands bring a Kyoto wall to life.

Tanaka's Juraku earthen wall, considered the pinnacle of Kyoto walls, is done.

If you don't keep
working at it,

you can regress from
where you were the day before.

I want to stick at it, and try to get close
to the skill of my predecessors.

I look at their work and am amazed
at the scope of human potential.

The things that stand out for me about Kyoto is the attention paid to detail

and the marvelous way that these supreme artisans share their craft.

In many cases, remarkable levels of skill have been handed down in families for generations.

There are many unassuming walls throughout the city behind which craftspeople are hard at work.

Seeing these artisans in action, you can't help but be in awe

and sense the deep traditions that inform this place.

Above all, becoming a master requires patience.

The word "drudgery" does comes to mind.

The repetition is not something just anyone can do.

But, when it is done by the great-granddaughter or great-grandson of a master weaver, dyer, or painter, it exudes gravitas—

It's genuine. It is the best of what Kyoto presents to the world.