In Part 1, shakuhachi player Dozan Fujiwara shared why he has stuck with an instrument he couldn't even get a sound out of at first, for nearly 40 years.
In this concluding part, we trace how Fujiwara has navigated his relationship with his shakuhachi—his partner—through the lens of time, repairs, and his connection with his own body.

When the Act of Repair Changes the Sound

The longer you use a tool, the more complex the act of 'fixing' it becomes. The shakuhachi that Dozan Fujiwara calls his partner has created sound in sync with his breath for nearly 40 years.

Natural wear and tear occurs over time, and countless subtle changes have built up in the internal lacquer. This isn't deterioration. To Fujiwara, it's a part of the sound they have crafted together.

The shakuhachi is made from a natural material: bamboo. It is susceptible to humidity and temperature, which can cause the lacquer to wear thin or even crack.

"I usually handle minor repairs myself. But for anything involving lacquer work, I have to rely on a skilled artisan," he says.

When he sends it for repair, Fujiwara always adds the same request.

"Please change it as little as possible."

He's not asking for it to be restored to a pristine, like-new condition. He wants its current state preserved as much as possible. When he breathes into the shakuhachi after it returns from the shop, he sometimes feels a slight sense of 'offness.'

"It's not that it sounds worse. It just feels... a little different."

The attack of the note. The way the sound enters. The subtle feedback to his fingers. The difference is hard to put into words, but his body, so long attuned to the instrument, unfailingly detects it.

The kind of repair Fujiwara seeks is more about careful adjustment. It’s a question of how much of the time they've accumulated can be preserved.

"Finding that perfect balance is the tricky part."

Choosing to Keep That 'Good Worn-In Feel'

With prolonged use, the interior of the instrument gradually changes.

"I feel like the notes now respond more easily, without me having to blow as hard as I used to," he reflects.

This isn't decay; it's an evolution that has molded itself to his body. Fujiwara calls it a 'good worn-in feel.' It's a departure from the sharpness of its early days, but it perfectly matches the rhythm of his breath now.

That's why these days, he doesn't rush to send it for repairs. He handles it with care to prevent damage, embracing the changes etched by time.

But at one point, that process came to a halt. Performance opportunities dried up during the COVID-19 pandemic, and one of his shakuhachi, left unplayed for a while, cracked.

"I was more shocked for myself than for the instrument."

It was a stark reminder: the act of playing, of consistently breathing life into it, was in itself the very thing that sustained his relationship with his partner.

Every Single Instrument Has a Different Personality

Though they may look the same, every shakuhachi is completely unique.

"In technical terms, their overtone structures are different," he explains.

Even at the same pitch, the tone color, or timbre, varies depending on which harmonic components ring out the strongest. The slightest difference in length can give the same note an entirely different expression.

"That's why I select an instrument based on the piece of music."

During a concert, he might even switch between several shakuhachi within a single piece.

"I get a feeling that for this specific part of this particular song, the timbre of this one instrument is the perfect match."

It's not about adapting his playing style to fit the instrument. Instead, from the very beginning, he puts himself in a position to let the instrument's unique voice come alive. A musical score dictates the pitch, but not the timbre. The choice of which instrument to play and what kind of resonance to create is left entirely to the performer.

"There are moments when I just know, 'Today, this is the one.'"

That judgment, too, is intrinsically linked to the state of his breath on any given day.

The Meaning of Having One Constant Companion

With age, the body undeniably changes. The way breath enters the instrument, the speed of his recovery—it's all different from how it used to be.

"More often than trying to force the sound to change, I find myself focusing on steadying my own breath first," he says.

The choice to stick with his partner isn't a rejection of change. On the contrary, it's about maintaining a constant benchmark against which he can measure his own evolution.

It is precisely because he has this one unwavering constant that he can recognize the subtle shifts in himself each day. The sound he produces is simply the outcome of his physical state at that moment.

For Fujiwara, his partner is his anchor—the standard that allows him to fully embrace the flow of time.

On the day of our interview, Dozan Fujiwara arrived in traditional Japanese attire, right down to his setta sandals. The gentle smile he shared during breaks in the photoshoot was a striking contrast to the commanding presence I'd seen at his concerts, and it left a lasting impression.

When we started talking about the shakuhachi and music, he spoke thoughtfully, his eyes lighting up with an almost boyish enthusiasm. While he's known for his overwhelming stage presence, I discovered that he is someone who approaches his instruments and his sound with incredible care and quiet dedication.