A box fashioned from two types of wood.

Paulownia chests with a glossy silver grain.

Wooden shelves, lacquered and embellished.

These handcrafted wooden items are created without the use of metal nails, in the traditional craft known as "Kyoto-style joinery."

Kyoto is home to many artisans known for their intricate woodworking skills.

Kyoto joinery is all about delicacy.

There's nothing to say you can't use machines. It's just the result lacks character.

Handcrafted objects have character.

In recent years, local joiners have gained attention for leveraging their skills, beyond tradition,

to create decorative interiors and ornate lighting fixtures.

When human skill is magnified in scale, it makes an impact.

It surprises and generates an emotional reaction.

Core Kyoto explores how local artisans transpose the vitality of trees into beautiful, wooden artwork.

Kyoto is bordered by mountains to the north, east, and west.

From ancient times, people relied on the nearby forests for materials to construct their towns.

Their woodworking skills not only contributed to the dwellings and religious structures,

but also the fixtures and furnishings within.

The Sugisaka area lies north of the city center.

This region tucked deep in the mountains is known for its quality cedar.

A small workshop is nestled in the valley.

It is run by renowned joiner Shimizu Takashi.

He primarily handcrafts boxes.

He focuses on traditional works, including containers for utensils used in tea gatherings.

Shimizu specializes in hexagonal containers for sweets, used during the gatherings.

By integrating two types of wood with different coloring, he joins mirror images to create "twin" pieces.

I chiefly use paulownia.

It's rich in tannin, so it'll quickly discolor if you don't remove the lye.

We repeatedly dry and expose it to the rain, which turns it black.

We then scrape it to reveal the white wood underneath.

He also favors Jindai Japanese cedar.

This exceedingly valuable lumber had been buried underground for hundreds or thousands of years, before being found.

Jindai cedar is the most rewarding to use.

It's difficult to handle as it has decayed, but it has texture.

Shimizu is currently creating a hexagonal container from paulownia and Jindai cedar.

With the final design in his mind, he begins by drafting lines on the material.

He aspires to evoke the mountains surrounding Kyoto.

He cuts the stacked paulownia and cedar boards with a fretsaw.

Slowly easing the wood forward, he takes care to work the saw uniformly.

The blade is about half the width of a normal woodworking blade.

This helps achieve a delicate curve.

This is the best tool for the job.

It's not very durable, but I work slowly so it won't snap in two.

Applying too much force results in uneven surfaces, which leave gaps when pieces are joined.

Perfect. Very snug.

The paulownia and Jindai cedar slide together in a flawless fit, displaying the ridgeline Shimizu envisioned.

As a base for the adhesive, he uses a wooden spatula to mash steamed rice into a paste—

the same way it has been done for generations.

This is all they had before commercial glues.

He also adds chemical adhesive.

Then you blend it well to yield a level of stickiness commercial adhesives don't offer.

The stickiness of the rice starch and the strength of the chemical woodworking glue together yield a strong adhesive bond.

The two glued wooden pieces are dried overnight, or for a full day, in a vise.

The boards are then cut into six pieces.

They are joined at 60-degree angles to form a perfect hexagon.

Shimizu uses a homemade planer table.

The board is set on the table, which is adjusted to a 60-degree angle.

The protruding area is shaved off.

He aligns the angles of all six boards to 60 degrees.

The planer is a vital tool for joiners.

The shavings, measuring less than 0.1 millimeter, are testament to the artisan's subtle technique.

One particular tool Shimizu received as a child inspired him to become a joiner.

This is the planer my father gave me on my tenth birthday.

It's a top-notch tool.

Upon receiving this gift Shimizu vowed to become a joiner, like his father, who excelled at making tea utensils.

He remembers his father was strict in his guidance.

He never taught me how to prepare or sharpen tools.

He warned me that our father-son relationship would disappear in the workshop.

You were expected to master skills by observing. It was a tough learning curve.

I picked up everything through trial and error.

That's how I learned.

Shimizu makes a small groove on the edges, to help the boards adhere.

The glue goes here, increasing the surface contact area.

Now I add the adhesive.

He applies glue to the 60-degree surfaces, and the boards are joined.

He wraps string to hold them in place, and leaves them to dry overnight.

Once dried, Shimizu makes a slit at each corner.

He applies a bit of glue to small pine tabs, and wedges one into each slit.

The little tabs prevent the sides from popping loose,

as the glue might weaken after 20 years or so.

The tabs are first pounded with a hammer, to make them thinner.

The moisture in the adhesive makes the tabs expand and gives them a tighter fit.

After they have dried, he saws off the extraneous bits.

Then he files and smooths the overall surface.

The last step is oiling for a glossy finish.

The container, depicting Kyoto's mountains, took three days to complete.

The visible growth rings are a reminder of the trees' longevity.

Conjoining two varieties of wood into a harmonious unit is a source of joy for Shimizu.

I find it liberating, knowing that nobody else is doing this.

Furniture stores are huddled along Ebisugawa-dori, in the city center.

One shop opened in 1856.

The business makes and sells furniture and items made using Kyoto joinery.

Paulownia chests are treasured for the wood's pesticidal properties in this town, where kimono remains part of the culture.

Paulownia's most striking characteristic is its moisture resistance.

Moisture allows mold to grow, damaging kimono more than anything else.

They say paulownia trees continue to breathe, even after they are cut down.

The wood expands and absorbs moisture during the humid season.

Creating a chest requires different techniques to those used to make boxes.

On closer inspection, the frame is comprised of assembled wood.

The artisan makes trapezoidal protrusions on one end of the wood.

He creates corresponding grooves in the other plank before joining the two.

This creates a strength which will resist even forceful pulling.

We use no adhesives, nails or anything else.

It doesn't matter how hard you pull, you can't separate them.

Kyoto joinery's forte is the ability to show off its beautiful seams.

The finish is stunning.

The absence of metal nails in joinery means no rust, thus minimizing deterioration.

Repair is simplified, since the item can be easily disassembled.

Paulownia chests were once part of a bride's trousseau.

We sometimes hear that a piece we made was used by three generations,

or that Grandma's chest was handed down to a child or grandchild.

It makes us proud.

The store also houses a furniture museum on its premises.

It offers insight into the culture of joinery.

The roots of Kyoto joinery lie in traditional wooden architecture.

In the 6th century, Buddhist architecture was introduced from the Asian mainland along with Buddhism itself.

Built using joinery and no nails whatsoever, these structures survived earthquakes and other natural disasters occurring over time.

Some are still standing.

Various joinery techniques were devised to enhance structural durability.

Some builders decided to broaden their skills, to produce home furnishings and fixtures,

in the process establishing the joinery profession.

These joiners developed skills unique to Kyoto.

Kyoto was the capital for 1,000 years.

The first-rate joiners and artisans producing gold and other lacquerware joined forces,

giving birth to Kyoto joinery.

After the capital moved to Kyoto in the late 8th century,

court culture cultivated the use of lacquer, mother-of-pearl, gold dust, and other decorative styles.

This melding of elegance with tradition produced a more sophisticated joinery.

As tea gatherings evolved and spread in the 16th century,

a spirit and sense of rustic beauty engendered a purer form of Kyoto joinery, expanding the craft's expressive horizons.

In the latter half of the 19th century, when Western culture was freely allowed to enter Japan,

the art form absorbed new elements and further expanded.

Chochikukyo, to Kyoto's southwest, was built in 1928 by architect Fujii Koji, as his private residence.

While his family lived in the house, he conducted numerous experiments and improvements, in his quest to create the ideal Japanese residence.

He aimed to create a house suited to Japan's climate and Japanese sensibilities.

The parlor reflects wooden modernism.

The sofa and furnishings merge with the traditional alcove beyond,

creating a space that integrates both Japanese and Western aesthetics.

Fujii designed the furniture, which was crafted in the Ebisugawa-dori shop.

The pieces are perfectly integrated with no nails, indicating the use of joinery.

Western and Japanese furniture-making skills coalesced beautifully.

Fujii was able to create the slender, even delicate, furniture he intended.

While incorporating Western culture, Fujii relied on joinery techniques to create his ideal residence.

Japanese skills and traditional techniques were used—

to elevate Japanese residences to a world-class level.

Joinery looks simple at first glance, but it's secretly replete with unique artistry.

The art form has continued to turn out finely detailed work.

Fujii incorporated Kyoto joinery knowing that it could hold its own against Western techniques.

Like all traditions in the ancient capital, the craft developed with the changing times, and incorporated new elements.

Light spills out from intricate patterns within the wood, enveloping the space in a soft warmth.

This woodworking technique, known as "kumiko," involves fitting slender lengths of wood into a wooden frame, to create geometric patterns.

It is usually used in the paper screens and transoms of wooden structures.

"Kumiko" was devised as a two-dimensional form.

Murayama Shinichi was the first to transform it into three-dimensional art.

We are not only creating the usual flat, two-dimensional "kumiko,"

but also three-dimensional and other unique forms not found elsewhere.

I think that is part of its appeal.

Keihoku, an area in northwestern Kyoto, is known for its thriving lumber industry.

Murayama's workshop is located here.

The lampshade he is working on will be part of a hotel's interior decor.

The shade is made from Japanese cypress, a pale wood with just the right firmness to facilitate processing.

The individual parts are made first, with the wood cut into small pieces.

The pieces are 26 millimeters in length.

Each tip is cut to form a point.

Each part is snapped and bent, before being wedged in, to create a groove.

A second part is fitted into this groove.

The three sections, each measuring just over one centimeter, together form a geometric pattern.

We've been making these mind-bogglingly small parts by hand for what seems like forever.

An electric saw is used to cut the wood and shape a projection.

A special square drill is used to create the hole for the projection.

Joinery techniques are used in every step along the way.

It took about a week to create the lampshade.

It's perfect. This is ready to show the world.

When Murayama first become a joiner, he created tea utensils and doll accoutrements.

The drawers and shelves are also made from joinery,

so you can disassemble them.

They may be miniatures, but they demand the same skills required of their full-sized counterparts.

This item is a compilation of multiple techniques.

This one side incorporates about five parts, all done with joinery, fitting together.

This process is particularly difficult.

In the early 2000s, affordable products took over the market, and the demand for handcrafted doll accoutrements dropped sharply.

In 2009, amidst hard times, Murayama experienced a turning point.

A friend asked him to create "kumiko" decor for a wedding hall.

So he went from working in miniature, to creating a "kumiko" panel of unprecedented size.

He completed the project after a year and a half of trial and error.

A gentle ambience is created by the light spilling from the "kumiko" pattern.

The inventive "kumiko" wedding hall interior became a hit, sparking orders from hotels and businesses.

I was fortunate to have worked with doll furnishings.

I had a shallow but broad range of skills,

all of which came in handy with the new interior project,

allowing me to create a completely new type of handicraft.

Murayama's next initiative was a three-dimensional work.

His workshop has an adjacent café, that doubles as a showroom.

Cylindrical chandeliers with shades featuring "kumiko" artistry descend from the ceiling.

Creating a cylindrical form using "kumiko" required special insight.

The contours of small wooden tubs offered helpful clues.

With so many "kumiko" designs, it looks confusing.

If you pretend the designs are boards, you can cut them at angles and join them.

Like making a tub, you can join the pieces together to form a round shape.

Murayama successfully adapted traditional methods for something new.

Visitors to the café are captivated by the chandeliers.

The sensitivity and the light filtering through -

from the moment I entered, I was mesmerized by the beauty.

The workshop is mainly staffed by young members from around Japan, who were allured by Murayama's creations.

Murayama forms them into teams, and leaves them to their work.

He checks on them regularly, encouraging them to use their initiative.

Working together, we can accomplish things we can't do alone.

It's fascinating in "kumiko" how the small details together translate into large works.

I want young people to find the appeal in this work,

refine their skills, and pool their self-confidence.

I want them to build a future with a comfortable lifestyle.

Murayama is committed to using lumber from Keihoku, where he is situated, to support the future of Kyoto joinery.

He is heading not far from his workshop to a lumber center, where lumber from the Keihoku region is up for auction.

Murayama purchases much of his lumber locally, to support the industry.

Using wood that was fostered here for decades—

we must create new things and new traditions.

When people through the ages look back,

they'll see unbroken tradition linking generations. It's all about repetition.

Over a millennium, Kyotoites have harnessed the vital force of trees,

to create exquisite works of interlocking art, in what is known as Kyoto joinery.