The Impact of a Japanese Sword, Seen Through the Eyes of a Craftsman

When I was 17 and traveling in France, I came across a Japanese sword at an exhibition in a department store. While most people viewed it as a work of art, as an apprentice at a metalworking shop at the time, I saw it from a completely different perspective.

— How is this beautiful curve created?

— How can you forge steel like this?

I saw it not as a piece of art, but through the eyes of a craftsman. I still clearly remember a wave of pure curiosity welling up from deep inside me.

After returning home, I began to do a deep dive into researching swords. My days were spent reading articles online, visiting libraries, and devouring related books. The more I learned, the more I was moved by the fact that techniques from nearly 1,000 years ago have been passed down to the present day almost unchanged. Above all, I was amazed to discover that swordsmiths still exist today.

"If there are still swordsmiths, then I have to become one." It was only natural for me to start thinking that way.

Through Two "Apprenticeships" in Switzerland and Japan

I had always imagined that an apprenticeship as a Japanese swordsmith would be demanding. However, from the age of 15 to 19, I had already trained for four years at a metalworking shop in Switzerland. It was a daily routine of firm guidance and harsh scoldings. Because I had been forged in an environment that was anything but easy, I had no fear of diving into the world of Japanese swords.

The training for traditional Japanese crafts is unique. There's no systematic curriculum, nor are there clear benchmarks for what you're supposed to master in which year. You gradually acquire skills while assisting your master. The pace of progress differs for each workshop and for each apprentice.

My first and second years were spent cleaning, cutting charcoal, and making small items. It wasn't until my third year that I was allowed to touch a sword directly. The techniques for sword-making are extremely demanding; a single misguided strike at a moment you think you've succeeded can wipe out a week's worth of work. That's why, looking back, those first few years spent building nothing but the fundamentals were an incredibly valuable time.

On the other hand, I also have my questions about the master-apprentice relationship in Japan.

In the world of traditional crafts, the idea of not teaching everything—because "the apprentice will eventually become a rival"—is a sentiment that exists. I've heard of a custom where, even if a master knows 100%, they might only pass on about 70% to their apprentice.

The master-apprentice relationship in Switzerland was the complete opposite. Instructors take pride in their apprentices surpassing them. An apprentice's growth is proof of the master's own teaching ability.

You can't make simple cultural comparisons. However, I feel there's room to rethink the approach to training successors. The number of swordsmiths in Japan has been continuously declining since the postwar period. I can't help but think that the economic downturn isn't the only reason—that there might be an issue with the educational approach as well.

Having experienced the apprenticeship systems of two different countries, I want to one day contribute to the way swordsmiths are trained.

During my apprenticeship, I couldn't freely make my own swords. The days of studying the forms and learning from ancient works without being able to actually give them shape were, frankly, frustrating. That's what fueled my desire to become independent, and after all the hard work, I am truly happy to now be able to forge the swords I envision.

My Life as a Swordsmith: Reflections Before the Forge

What matters most to me is the pure joy of creating something I find beautiful. I want to forge pieces that inspire anyone who holds them to treasure them.

It's only been two years since I went independent.

As a swordsmith, I'm still just a rookie, having only just taken my first real step. I haven't produced a large number of swords by any means, but a few have left an indelible mark on my heart.

Swords are incredibly honest. I can forge blade after blade and still fall short of my ideal, yet sometimes, in a fleeting moment where momentum and resolve perfectly align, a sword will unexpectedly reward my efforts. Every day, I'm reminded of how much experience and skill I still lack. But each time I stand before the fire, I discover something new.

The Impulse That Forged an Award-Winning Blade: A Commitment to My Own Steel

A sword I entered into a competition last year perfectly captured where I am in my journey. The deadline was looming, with only one week left. In any normal situation, I would have hesitated, but an overwhelming desire to pour my entire current self into a blade took over.

Instead of using traditional tamahagane steel, I decided to start from scratch and make my own. I forged it, envisioning the ideal surface texture, shaped the blade, and moved to the quenching process—all in just four days. Despite my uncertainty, I faced the flames with the raw momentum and determination of youth. The resulting temper line (hamon) was far from perfect, but I feel it was an honest expression of what I could achieve at that moment.

Still, I was incredibly encouraged that the judges recognized the quality of the steel grain (jigane) and the blade's overall shape (sugata). The fact that this one sword earned me both the Newcomer's Award and the Effort Award gave me the courage I needed to keep pushing forward.

The Value of Failure: Finding Treasure in the Process

With swordsmithing, sometimes you have a breakthrough with a single blade, and other times, you can try for ages with no results. Last year, many of my swords ended up with flaws. But I feel that this accumulation of failures is precisely what allows me to move forward with certainty.

I remember a phrase a great mentor once taught me:

"There is treasure in what seems wasted."

I'm still inexperienced and far from my ideal. But I believe this very inexperience is my greatest potential for growth—it's where my future lies.

Even when a blade doesn't survive to become a finished product, the time I spent facing the fire, continuing a dialogue with the steel, becomes a permanent part of me. It was a year where, even without tangible results, I can say I achieved a true sense of success within myself.

And I know this accumulation of experience will support every single blade I forge from here on out.

I'm still on my journey, but with the passion I pour into my swords as my weapon, I will turn every failure and struggle into fuel. I hope to grow into a smith who can one day proudly present a blade and say, "This is my masterpiece."

That year was not an ending, but a true beginning.

My style is inspired by the Bizen tradition of the Kamakura period. I'm drawn to its natural yet brilliant temper lines (hamon), the harmony with the steel grain (jigane), and a form that feels full of life. I am constantly researching quenching and forging techniques to get even a little closer to recreating that beauty. My hope is to one day reach a level of mastery that others cannot easily replicate.

Holding Onto the Curiosity of That First Day

To me, Japan's traditional culture is the most beautiful in the world. But I'm also keenly aware of the reality that it is slowly disappearing. If this craft stagnates because knowledge and techniques are hoarded, it will lead to a future none of us want.

That is why I will continue to create. And I will not be afraid to share what I know.

It all started with a single sword I encountered when I was 17. The path that began in that instant has now transformed into a responsibility to connect tradition with the future. Every time I stand before the forge, I remember the pure curiosity I felt that day. I hold onto that feeling as I face the steel today.