I A Story of a Small Woodturner
Mitsuo Ikeshita was a woodturner who remained active throughout his life until his death at the age of 86 in Wajima, which is one of the most well known places for producing excellent lacquerware. Born into a family of woodturners dating back to the Edo period, he entered the trade at the age of 15 and continued turning wood there for 71 years. Akito Akagi first met Mr. Ikeshita in 2007. He says he still vividly remembers his first visit to the workshop. Mr. Akagi was deeply moved by the simple beauty of the craftsman’s workshop, where time seemed to have stood still since the early Showa era (1930's). In the dimly lit storehouse, rough cuts of zelkova wood, acquired by Ikeshita's ancestors over generations, were piled high. In present-day Wajima, where vertical cutting has become the mainstream due to the trend towards electric woodturning, Akagi, who prefers using horizontal cuts for their softer feel, found his encounter with Ikeshita, who carries on the traditional methods, to be fateful.
On New Year’s Day 2024, a magnitude 7.6 earthquake struck Wajima. When Mr. Akagi rushed to Mr. Ikeshita’s workshop, Mr. Ikeshita’s residence and storehouse had been completely destroyed, and the workshop building next to them was leaning heavily against the collapsed storehouse, barely holding itself up.
“When I spoke with neighbors, they told me that Mr. Ikeshita had apparently been working since early morning on New Year’s Day, the day of the earthquake. But while everyone else was evacuating to higher ground because of the earthquake and the threat of a tsunami, he said, ‘I’m not moving from here,’ and sat down in front of his workshop. They said he didn’t move at all until he lost consciousness three days later. When I heard that story, I thought Mr. Ikeshita must have despaired, thinking, ‘After 71 years of work, is this how it ends?’ “That’s why I decided to rebuild this place—I couldn’t let Mr. Ikeshita die in despair.”
Mr. Akagi acted quickly after that. He entered the workshop, which looked as if it might collapse at any moment, and carried out all the woodworking materials. He also used social media to solicit support and raise funds. Some questioned the point of rebuilding such an old workshop, but Akagi believed there was meaning in restoring it to a state as close to its original form as possible. Experts from Okayama—Akagi’s hometown—who came to assess the situation initially thought reconstruction was almost impossible. However, moved by Akagi’s determination and the master carpenter’s assurance that “it can be done,” they agreed to take on the high-risk project.
It was an unprecedented construction project. Reinforcement work was carried out to prevent the severely tilted building from collapsing further, and—without the use of heavy machinery—anchors were installed and the structure was pulled upright using wires. Additionally, to prepare for another earthquake, a new foundation was built inside the existing one to support the building from within. Though it was a difficult and dangerous project, the team’s wisdom and strong determination saw it through, and after a construction period of one and a half months, it was successfully completed. How great must Mr. Ikeshita’s joy have been when he saw his rebuilt workshop? He immediately resumed work in the rebuilt workshop, and Mr. Akagi, wanting to ensure Mr. Ikeshita’s skills—which had no heir—would not be lost, invited craftsmen from his own workshop to join him; two of them became Mr. Ikeshita’s apprentices.
Sadly, a few months later, Mr. Ikeshita fell ill and passed away. However, he approached his work with joy until the very end of his life, continuing to teach his newly arrived apprentices. Mr. Akagi recalls Mr. Ikeshita's face, repeatedly saying, "Work is truly enjoyable. Thank you for rebuilding this place." One of his apprentices, Ms. Takeuchi, was Mr. Ikeshita's first and last female apprentice, and the words he spoke to her before his death are etched in her heart.
“You don’t have to work when you don’t feel like it. Do it only when you truly want to. Every piece of wood is different, and your own feelings change too, so enjoy the work and savor every moment when you feel it's right.”
When we visited the rebuilt workshop in December 2025, we sensed hope for Wajima’s future in Ms. Takeuchi's earnest gaze as she silently continued carving wood there, watched over by a photograph of Mr. Ikeshita.
II What Is Craft?
The project to rebuild Mr. Ikeshita's workshop, despite being in the most difficult period immediately following the earthquake, achieved self-reliance without relying on public funds, achieving a light of hope for the people there. Akagi says he feels a sense of crisis that as damaged buildings are being demolished at public expense, and Wajima's unique streetscape is being lost, the spirit of Wajima may also be disappearing. In his 2024 book, "What is Craft?", Akagi attempted to clarify the fundamental principles of craft through dialogue. We asked him about his thoughts as a Wajima craftsman after the earthquake.
“Wajima operates on a system of division of labor. I am a top-coating artisan, but there are woodturners like Mr. Ikeshita, as well as undercoating artisans, joiners, and decorative artisans. By working in collaboration with them, we are able to create something truly exceptional—something that transcends what I could produce on my own. That is the appeal of the division of labor, and it is what has sustained Wajima lacquerware. Mr. Ikeshita’s family has been crafting Wajima wood forms since the Edo period, so the patterns of those forms are ingrained in his very being. Therefore, when I work with Mr. Ikeshita, I have a strong sense that I am also working with his ancestors. I believe that craft is born at the intersection of this diachronic, vertical division of labor and the horizontal division of labor rooted in the local community. Each individual artisan is not merely a part of the larger whole of producing region; rather, each person is a unique entity cultivated through their own history—or, through the unbroken lineage passed down from their ancestors—and is an irreplaceable presence that cannot be exchanged for another. When people talk about what they’re trying to do to revive Wajima lacquerware today, they focus on developing new products or expanding overseas. But I don’t think that’s what’s truly important. I believe the most crucial thing is to properly restore the continuity of craftsmanship—to return to the origins of Wajima lacquerware: vessels for the “divine-human communal meal,” tools dedicated for gods and humans to dine together. Both Wajima lacquerware and my works embody the unique stories and historical context cultivated in this land. I believe it’s not about individual effort, but rather about various artisans collaborating—both horizontally and vertically—to pass this on to our children, apprentices, and future artisans. That, I think, is what it means to be “artisanal.” At the root of this diachronic continuity lie the many departed souls. Muneyoshi Yanagi : the founder of the "mingei (folk craft)" movement, once wrote, “Together with the countless artisans who are no longer with us.” Craft is connected not only to the dead but also to children of the future who have not yet been born. I believe that beyond the horizon of this land lies the world of the gods, and I think we are connected to that as well. I want to position craft within a cosmology where it is connected along both vertical and horizontal axes to the “outside world.”