Confronting Destiny, or the Start of an Adventure

Kyukei Goto's workshop sits in a tranquil spot near Kamakura's Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine. Generations of his family have carved the history of Kamakurabori here ever since his great-grandfather acquired the land in the Meiji era. Goto says that from childhood, everyone called him the "heir," and he grew up with a nebulous sense of his destiny.

In the spring before graduating from junior high, Goto was called in by his father, the master artisan at the time, who asked about his future plans. "If you're going to pursue Kamakurabori, you're already cutting it close to start." His father had lost his own father (Goto's grandfather) at just four and had begun training at age six.

Forced to become the head of a workshop with many artisans at a young age, Goto's father grew up under immense pressure to "master the craft quickly." He likely found himself torn—wanting to spare his son the same struggle, yet unable to let the tradition fade away. When his father finally broke the silence with those words, Goto simply replied, "I'm ready," and set foot on the path of an artisan.

The first step of his training didn't involve picking up a carving chisel. His father insisted on a complete mastery of the fundamentals. "You will sketch for ten years," he was told. "During that time, you must also learn to grasp three-dimensional forms by working with clay." His days became a relentless cycle of sketching and sculpting.

He attended an art prep school while also receiving instruction from his father at home. Goto explains that while juggling his curiosity for this new world and the weight of his responsibility as the heir, he steadily built the artistic foundation essential for Kamakurabori.

A Sudden Farewell

Five years into his training, just as Goto turned 20, his father and mentor suddenly passed away from an illness.

He was still mastering the basics, and this sudden loss came before he had a chance to learn the core techniques and philosophy of Kamakurabori. After his father died, Goto enrolled in a school's sculpture program, but the curriculum focused on general sculpture, not the specialized methods of Kamakurabori. When he graduated and returned to the family workshop, he found an empty studio and the daunting reality of his own inexperience.

"I felt helpless. I was overwhelmed with anxiety about what to do," he recalls. With no one left to guide him, the crushing loneliness made him want to flee. More than once, he admits, the thought "Maybe I should just give up" crossed his mind.

What pulled him through the darkness was the support of the other artisans who had known his father, and the very pieces his father had left behind. Goto began trying to replicate his father's work by simply observing and imitating it. He took one of his attempts to a lacquer artisan, who said little, silently turning the piece over and over in his hands. "Your father's carving is gentler," the artisan remarked. Those few words became Goto's guiding light.

What did "gentler" even mean? Goto tirelessly compared his father's pieces with his own, feeling them with his fingertips to discern the difference. Through this "dialogue" with his father's legacy, he began to internalize a depth of knowledge that words could never convey. It was a journey into the unknown, a process of feeling his way forward with no end in sight.

A Silent Teacher: A Conversation with Daruma

Goto shares that as he navigated his technical challenges, he always found answers by 'conversing' with a Daruma figure carved on an inkstone box.

This Daruma figure embodies the entire history of the Goto family. The tradition began when a parent-and-child Daruma was carved on an incense container as a tribute to the family's first-generation master, who passed away at a young age. Later, the previous master, who was often in poor health, carved a solitary Daruma, symbolizing his resolve to devote himself to his craft without starting a family.

However, after passing the *yakudoshi* (unlucky ages), a Buddhist priest encouraged him, saying, 'You've made it this far safely.' He eventually married, and when his son (the current master) was born, he carved a new parent-and-child Daruma on an inkstone box. This time, the larger Daruma represented himself, and the smaller one represented his newborn son.

While the Daruma may appear simple at first glance, carving it reveals a surprising depth. A rich three-dimensional quality and expressive detail are condensed into a thickness of just a few millimeters. The roundness of the body, the look on its face, the masterful use of negative space—it encapsulates every essential element of the Kamakurabori technique.

A Modern-Day Challenge: Passing the Baton to the Next Generation

The world of Kamakurabori is facing mounting challenges. Domestic *urushi* lacquer is now scarce, prioritized for the restoration of cultural properties. The katsura wood traditionally used for carving is also becoming depleted. Goto is exploring alternatives, like linden wood from Hokkaido, but wrestles with the uncertainty of their durability over the next century. Adding to these concerns are the aging of the artisans who craft the wooden bases and a critical shortage of successors to carry on the trade.

Despite these hurdles, Goto is actively looking toward the future. He teaches Kamakurabori classes at local elementary and middle schools, encouraging students to create pieces based on the theme of 'my personal treasure.' The children's creativity knows no bounds, producing designs that defy adult conventions—from a family of loaches spotted on the way to school to a baseball. Goto believes that this experience of giving tangible form to something deeply personal, through the enduring medium of Kamakurabori, is how you 'sow the seeds' of appreciation for traditional crafts in the next generation.

Meanwhile, a new chapter in the story of succession is beginning within Goto's own family: his son has expressed his desire to follow the path of a Kamakurabori artisan. 'I need to make sure I pass the baton on in the best way possible,' Goto says. His expression is no longer that of the anxious young man he once was, but that of a master, filled with the determination to shoulder a tradition and carry it forward into the future.

When asked what Kamakurabori means to him, Goto replies, 'It's my guidepost.' It’s the guiding principle that emerged as he dedicated himself to the craft he was born into, refusing to shy away from its challenges.

Just as the works of his predecessors guided him, Kamakurabori will continue to be a cherished part of people's daily lives, becoming a source of guidance for someone, even a century from now. His story reminds us that tradition is, at its core, the very act of relaying human spirit and passion from one generation to the next.