Washi: A Guide to Japanese Paper, Its History and Craft

Hold a sheet of washi up to the light and you can see the craft in it — long, irregular fibres crossing like the grain of a field. This is paper made to be looked through as much as written on: the material behind shoji screens, paper lanterns, calligraphy, and a thousand years of Japanese daily life. Unlike the wood-pulp paper that fills our printers, good washi can last a millennium without yellowing.

What washi actually is

Washi (和紙) simply means "Japanese paper," but the word carries a whole way of making. Instead of short wood fibres, washi is built from the long inner-bark fibres of a few hardy shrubs. Those long fibres knit together into a sheet that is thin yet remarkably strong — you can crumple it, dampen it, and it holds.

Three plants do most of the work:

Kozo (paper mulberry) — the workhorse, giving strong, slightly textured paper.
Mitsumata — a finer, softer fibre with an ivory surface, long prized for calligraphy and once even for banknotes.
Gampi — the rarest, with a smooth, faintly glossy finish; difficult to farm, so often gathered wild.

A short history

Papermaking arrived from the Asian mainland in the early 7th century, carried with Buddhism. Japan quickly made it its own: rather than import techniques wholesale, craftspeople developed nagashi-zuki, a method that adds a plant mucilage (neri) to the pulp and keeps the slurry moving across the screen. The result was a sheet stronger and more even than anything that came before — and a craft passed hand to hand through generations of family workshops.

How a sheet is made

Washi is winter work. Cold, clean running water slows the bacteria that break fibres down and gives the finished paper its crisp feel. The process is patient and almost entirely by hand:

Bark is stripped from harvested branches and cleaned.
The fibres are boiled to remove starches and softened.
Impurities are picked out by hand — slow, meticulous work.
The fibres are beaten loose, then suspended in a vat with neri.
A bamboo screen is dipped and rocked until the sheet forms.
Sheets are pressed, brushed onto boards, and dried.

Watching this in person is the best way to understand washi. Several workshops in the famous paper towns run short hands-on sessions where you can make a postcard-sized sheet yourself.

The three great paper towns

Washi is made all over Japan, but three regions are its spiritual home:

Echizen (Fukui Prefecture) — fifteen centuries of papermaking and Japan's most storied paper district, known for thick, formal papers.
Mino (Gifu Prefecture) — celebrated for thin, luminous paper perfect for lanterns and screens; Mino's hon-minoshi is recognised by UNESCO.
Tosa (Kōchi Prefecture) — the "kingdom of washi," prized for an enormous range of fine papers.

Why it still matters

Washi nearly faded as industrial paper took over, but it has found a second life — in conservation studios that use it to repair priceless artworks, in interior design, and among travellers who carry home a few sheets as something more meaningful than a souvenir. It's a small, tactile way into a much bigger idea in Japanese craft: that an everyday material, made carefully enough, becomes worth keeping for a thousand years.

FAQ

Is washi expensive? A few decorative sheets are inexpensive and make excellent gifts; large, museum-grade handmade sheets cost much more. You'll find both in the paper towns and in good stationery shops in Kyoto and Tokyo.

Can I make washi as a tourist? Yes — Echizen, Mino and several Kyoto studios run beginner sessions where you make a small sheet in under an hour.

How is washi different from origami paper? Most cheap origami paper is machine-made wood-pulp paper. True washi is made from long bark fibres and is far stronger and longer-lasting.