SOICHIRO SEKIBA

EDO KIRIKO

"Where Light Fractures"

In the hands of a master glass cutter, Soichiro Sekibae, Edo Kiriko becomes more than tradition, it becomes transformation. This article explores the philosophy and practice of a contemporary artist redefining Japan’s centuries-old glasscutting craft. With quiet humility and razor-sharp precision, he breathes new life into historic motifs, merging regional techniques with modern expression. What emerges is not just cut glass, but a meditation on light, patience, and the enduring dialogue between past and present. There is a moment in every Edo Kiriko glass when light stops behaving like itself. It fractures. It dances. It reveals lines that are both ornamental and elemental—etched with a precision that seems almost impossible by hand.

PROLOGUE
Edo Kiriko is a meticulous craft born from centuries of refinement and restraint. Emerging during the Edo period, this art form fuses precision with poetry, transforming utilitarian glass into faceted prisms of light and shadow. Artisans carve intricate patterns by hand, each incision a meditation on impermanence, symmetry, and stillness. Far from decorative excess, Edo Kiriko embraces negative space and tactile subtlety, elevating everyday vessels into quiet expressions of discipline, tradition, and ephemeral beauty.

For one artist working in the storied tradition of Edo Kiriko, that moment of transformation is the beginning of everything.

“We don’t blow the glass ourselves. We begin with the blank vessel. And then, using hand tools and old machinery... we begin to cut.”

“The process is actually quite simple,” he says with modesty that belies the complexity of his work. “We don’t blow the glass ourselves. We begin with the blank vessel. And then, using hand tools and old machinery... we begin to cut.”

Edo Kiriko, a technique born in 19th-century Tokyo, is defined by its intricate geometric patterns cut into colored glass. It is a craft of exactitude, requiring steady hands, trained eyes, and years of repetition. But for this artist, it is not about merely continuing tradition—it’s about bringing it forward.

His approach draws not only from Edo Kiriko, but from other regional styles like Satsuma Kiriko and the lesser-known traditions of Osaka’s Tenma glassmaking. This layered lineage, he says, is essential. “We can’t separate Edo Kiriko from the full history of Japanese glass. The tradition is not static. It evolves through inheritance.”

“We can’t separate Edo Kiriko from the full history of Japanese glass. The tradition is not static. It evolves through inheritance.”

What makes his work distinct is the way he reinterprets hanakiriko—a floral motif popular during the Taishō era—infusing it with contemporary sensibilities. Rather than treating the design as fixed, he uses it as a foundation for invention, rearranging the cuts with a sense of rhythm and individuality. “Design is still where the craftsman can show originality,” he says. “Even when using traditional patterns, the placement, the scale, the balance—those choices are ours.”

And that choice, that subtle rebalancing of past and present, is what keeps the work alive.

The process begins with marking—called wari-dashi—a method of dividing the surface with pencil lines to establish symmetry. From there, the artist cuts vertical and horizontal lines using specialized wheels, each with a different edge, like a calligrapher choosing from a drawer of brushes. The room is filled with the fine hum of machinery and the sound of glass surrendering to edge. Dust settles like mist. Nothing about the work is rushed.

“...even when using traditional patterns, the placement, the scale, the balance—those choices are ours.”

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    “This isn’t innovation for innovation’s sake, it’s about deepening the conversation with tradition.”

    “Precision isn’t about speed,” he says. “It’s about care.”

    That care is evident not only in the pattern, but in the way the finished glass feels in the hand. The weight is deliberate. The edges never too sharp, never too soft. Light finds its way through every groove. The object—whether a tumbler, a bowl, or a vase—becomes a quiet spectacle.

    What’s most striking, though, is the artist’s insistence on humility. He doesn’t frame his work in terms of mastery or genius. “This isn’t innovation for innovation’s sake,” he says. “It’s about deepening the conversation with tradition.”

    In an era when craftsmanship is often marketed as novelty, his approach feels radical in its restraint. His glasses do not scream for attention. They wait. They reward intimacy.

    And in that intimacy, they remind us that the beauty of Edo Kiriko lies not only in its precision, but in its patience. In the way each cut catches light—not to dazzle, but to invite us to look a little closer.

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