Lukrez

I once read that most surviving oshigata attributed to Sadamune carry no mei at all, or alternatively the longer naga-mei style signature “Sagami no Kuni-jūnin Sadamune” often together with a date. Whether that really aligns with this example, I’ll gladly leave to the more experienced trail-hunters here (especially since oshigata themselves are not always beyond question). In any case, it does have horimono :D, - and the presence of horimono is often mentioned as one of the conditions supporting an attribution to Sadamune - even if what we can still vaguely make out today is just a shadow, or perhaps something that was intentionally removed later because the workmanship originally did not live up to the exceptionally high standard one would expect. Like Brett, I’d also be very interested to hear the impressions of those who have actually seen the blade in person, or from the Sadamune aficionados here on the forum. After all, Sadamune is said to have produced the finest hada in the entire history of Japanese swordsmithing, both in beauty and technical quality. And since the mei itself can hardly ever be authenticated anyway, the real question ultimately becomes whether the deki truly supports that level of workmanship. If it does, then the mei abecomes the icing on the cake, doesn’t it? Or am I oversimplifying things a bit?

Thanks Brett, if I’m not mistaken there have already been some good posts on price development depending on tier level. From an orthodox perspective, it already operates on multiple overlapping levels. If anyone is interested, this has definitely helped me better understand the underlying practices in the art world, and more broadly how similar mechanisms appear across different fields of art: the anatomy of the dispute between Russian billionaire Dmitry Rybolovlev and Swiss art dealer Yves Bouvier, the so-called “Monaco affair.” In conclusion, I’d quote an experienced art dealer: “What is the true value of a work? Who the xxxx knows.”

The idea of “epic stories” captures the answer pretty well. Are you more the “Y’all owe me 100 German scalps!” Inglourious Basterds type, or the kind of person who watches Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer twice in theaters just to catch all the Easter eggs?J apanese culture clearly has a deep connection to epic narratives and mythology, but in the end, one can argue the ancient Greek poets are the real GOATs when it comes to storytelling: immoral, strange, childish, bloodlust... — yet they’ve survived and been retold for centuries. From Homer’s Odyssey, to the deity of failure Sugawara no Michizane, the "messia" Kusunoki Masashige, and all the way to The Sopranos, it simply comes down to personal preference in terms of which narratives resonate with us. Or, as Plato already in a reading of the Phaedo: “This venture is indeed beautiful, and in a sense one must enchant oneself with such things (storytelling).”

Thank you for the critical impulses and the many thoughts of others so far. It is only a pity that the continuity of contributions tends to break off so quickly. (I also often hold myself back because I assume my opinion is of little interest. But every time I reconsider, I come to the same conclusion: writing things down primarily sharpens one’s own thinking—and just as importantly, new ideas can only emerge if everyone contributes. Exchange is what this community can continue to draw on in the future, just as we still benefit today from Darcy’s contributions, which so far remain unmatched in both quantity and quality.) I am convinced that most of the points mentioned are valid. If one wanted to add another interpretative layer to the various theses and heuristics, one could invoke the Gaussian normal distribution as a model encompassing the work of a smith, a school, or an entire period: most blades are solid, some are quite poor, and a few surpass all others. In that sense, it is a principle of divergent randomness in time that ultimately gives rise to masterpieces. Ultimately, however, none of us occupies a privileged epistemic position that would allow an unobstructed view of origins or functionality; at best, documented collections of opinions bring us a little closer. In every era, things happen that are beyond imagination—and what had to happen in order for certain developments to unfold often escapes our understanding today. If it were fully comprehensible, it likely would not have occurred in that way. My view is that the paradoxical strategies required to produce the outstanding blades of each period follow principles whose logic we may not even be capable of grasping. It seems highly likely that in every epoch there were only a few individuals searching for and discovering novel, unadulterated materials and unknown techniques for the longevity and robustness of blades. Likewise, it appears plausible that certain schools experienced phases of rapid development and flourishing precisely when they were new and not yet “traditional.” Their gradual traditionalization often became the strongest predictor of their decline. This ongoing search, as a kind of blind reaction, increasingly solidified into tradition and in some cases evolved into something resembling a “corporate” structure—focused on accumulating and displaying markers of prestige. But not exclusively so: in the Edo period, there were undoubtedly sincere individuals striving to produce the finest blades within their means. The Sagami school, for example, gradually developed into a fully rigid structure in which knowledge was strictly passed on to the eldest son, who assumed his place in the hierarchy regardless of his level of talent. Such a hermetic system did not allow for any fresh influx of talent or new influences. The focus was entirely on preserving the knowledge of previous generations. Due to the limited abilities of some successors, however, this knowledge could not always be fully reproduced and was therefore gradually lost. Nevertheless, there may be some agreement that a turning point was reached during the Muromachi and Edo period: with the rise of mass production, mimesis, and the many forms of artistic heritage, a kind of aestheticism emerged that can be understood as the definitive intrusion of market dynamics into the production process—with all its advantages and disadvantages, but arguably with less reactive theory and less genuinely revolutionary practice.

So, there seems to be no real equivalent in Japanese terms? it’s purely a Western collector’s thing ? Thank you, everyone. I might start collecting the more interesting interpretations; could turn into a fun little collection.

I keep coming across sword descriptions where terms such as “nobility,” “refinement,” or “masculinity” are used—often when features like the “width of the motohaba” are treated as indicators. Until now, I have mostly left this aside, but my curiosity has started to outweigh that. I am interested in whether such classifications have ever been critically examined within the community. The idea of evaluating blade characteristics as “noble” or “masculine” seems absurd to me. Can a mountain be more “masculine”? To me, this unnecessarily drags the discussion down to a level comparable to someone trying to appear more masculine by driving a larger SUV or wearing awider Rolex . One might argue that this is subjective, and that by moving to a different level of abstraction it becomes meaningful. But to what end? Are traditional metaphors drawn from nature and landscape no longer sufficient? To me, this often reads like pseudo-sophisticated etiquette that ultimately slips into kitsch. In my view, this is not merely subjective but reflects a collective construction of value systems. As always:A ny system requires its own value framework to affirm itself as meaningful. It seems unlikely to me that capable practitioners, warriors, in a time when both body and sword were heavily worn through use, would have had the time or inclination to engage in such categories. If I had to interpret it, it seems more plausible that such attributions stem from a later Edo-period elite culture that no longer had direct practical experience of weapon use—or perhaps never had. An elite that wore “masculinity as decoration" andennobled itself through terms like “noble” and “masculine” projected onto the sword, constructing such labels because they could not derive them from lived practice, while "masculine virtues" and warrior spirit were observed only from a distance. Japanese history contains numerous examples of political and military figures rising through betrayal, broken oaths, and intrigue (corruption par excellence), and swords increasingly being used as decorative objects. Within the framework of historical aesthetics, such interpretations were also often transmitted or reinforced retrospectively by scholars, collectors, and schools such as the Hon’ami tradition. In other words: “The one sees art as an instrument; the other sees life as an ornament.”

@ Faustus: Gutes Gelingen!

In the forum, it has often been asked which books are truly suitable as introductory reading. One of the books that is surprisingly rarely mentioned is the masterpiece by Dmitry Pechalov: Japanese Swords: Sōshū‑den Masterpieces. Brett and others have already written very good reviews about it, and I have now worked through the book from cover to cover. It is so good that it inspired me to write about it myself. Many of us know the saying, “It is better to buy one great sword than a thousand junk swords.” I would like to add that the same maxim certainly applies to books. For that very reason, I want to praise Japanese Swords: Sōshū‑den Masterpieces — a book I now wish had been my introductory reading. When this work is mentioned, it is usually because of its extraordinary photography. These images are without doubt impressive – but the real substance of the book lies in its content. In terms of content, it differs significantly from classic reference works, which are indispensable when it comes to terminology and the classification of the various schools of Nihontō, but ultimately answer a different kind of question. D. Pechalov, by contrast, brings insight in a light, accessible way — showing not just what you need to know, but especially how that knowledge was generated and how to develop your own opinions and understanding. Individual observations that would otherwise be collected slowly and fragmentarily are brought together here generously and almost playfully into a comprehensive picture. This is precisely what is missing in many other works that remain confined to dry lists or rigid structures. The book makes no secret of the fact that even intensive source work does not guarantee absolute clarity. Attributions change, assessments evolve – and this is not presented as a weakness, but as an integral part of deeper understanding. You are guided to place expert opinions in context, rather than adopt them uncritically. You begin to understand why perspectives shift – for instance, when a blade’s attribution has changed over time. It conveys how swordsmithing traditions developed, how knowledge was passed down, which signatures carry meaning, and why contextual understanding remains crucial. New documents continue to surface, capable of unsettling supposed certainties. Earlier sources are not always reliable – they use different standards, hold to outdated attributions, or simply contain errors. Thus, we learn why there can be unusual attributions – for example, when a blade was originally given one name because kanji in old sources were difficult to interpret and were confused with one another. Not infrequently, oshigata of forgeries or blades with incorrect signatures have been published. This may initially seem sobering, but ultimately it proves liberating. What arises from this is not a dogmatic collection of answers, but a stance — a way of working. Against this backdrop, Pechalov’s approach gains additional weight. It gives the impression of watching over the shoulder of an archaeologist with extraordinary knowledge and keen intuition: knee‑deep in the exposed debris of past libraries, he lifts up fragments here and there and draws his audience’s attention to their significance and function. The only slight drawback remains the absence of photographs of genuine Masamune blades. But even this is understandable and explained by the author, so in the end one is not disappointed. A possible objection might be that the book deals exclusively with the Sōshū‑den school. Yet precisely therein lies a strength: it evokes those few years in which everything that could happen did happen — only more brilliantly than before and after. Conclusion This book does not replace practical experience, but it brings structure to a field that otherwise easily becomes fragmentary and dogmatic. Anyone who wants to learn to recognize connections and develop well‑founded assessments will find an unusually clear approach here. Controversial topics are not left out; instead, the author gives the reader space to form their own opinion and develop their own perspective. This is rare — and of invaluable worth, especially for beginners. Not the easiest introduction — but an honest one. And perhaps exactly the right one for those who are just beginning their search, and for the eternally curious among us. I hope that we all benefit from sharing this information. Thank you, Dmitry, and I hope that others in our community of enthusiasts will be just as kind and generous with their knowledge and follow your example, so that the rest of us can continue to learn and study.

Michael, funny—now that I’ve seen your title image in connection with Ko-Bizen, it immediately rang a bell. I remembered where I must have come across that information before. not a photographic memory, more that I had a few things tucked away that just happened to resurface. This forum is full of hidden gems, and there’s a great deal to learn here ;).

I once caught a similar remark from Kurokawa-san that stuck with me: the more you study swords, the more you start to appreciate the older blades. By the time your “education” is complete, you naturally find yourself drawn to Ko-Bizen. ... But that’s not the whole story. If you look closer, things get more fascinating. The very best Ko-Bizen, when observed carefully, can almost look like Soshu—just a stone’s throw from the Masamune or Sadamune...

The Sanchōmō, with its wild juka-chōji-ba (right?), seems visually striking, combining contradictory qualities: hade – almost tipping into kitsch –, hanayaka slowly unfolding, and shibui, maturing beauty. I’ll leave the finer interpretation to the more experienced forum members. Fire, a mountain bird, etc. – a legendary sword in the literal sense,offering different aesthetic paths depending on the viewer’s perspective and depth of understanding. To my knowledge, very little is firmly known about it. As is often the case, sources from that era are fragmentary and contradictory, making clear attribution difficult. That, however, has never lessened its fascination. @lewis: I’m not quite sure what exactly caught your eye about the nakago shape. On the basic development of form, I’ve heard a range of theories, some fairly wild. I’ll mention one here (not even the most out-there), even if it might permanently change how some people see things Looking at the development of the Japanese sword from a cross-cultural, “evolutionary” perspective, one repeatedly encounters archaic meanings and symbolism – including phallic cults, which played roles in many early cultures (in the Orient broadly, e.g., Mesopotamia or the Vedas). The shift from straight chokutō to the curved forms of the Heian period, such as the kenukigata-tachi, creates a very distinctive silhouette. When worn edge-down in the classical manner, the blade curves strongly upward – and, pointedly put, this overall shape does resemble an erect male organ. In this reading, the curvature is not just functional but symbolically charged – an expression of life force, vitality, and potency. Japanese Hieizan monk warrior outfit from the Heian period (794-1185), photographed in 1916 Interestingly, the effect may have long depended not only on the blade itself, but on the interplay with the koshirae, the way it was worn, and body posture. Only when worn does the “complete image” emerge. The sword becomes less an isolated object than part of a larger symbolic ensemble – a status symbol of the warrior and aristocratic class. Then there are also some intriguing linguistic parallels: the nakago – the “inner” part of the blade – shares the same character as in inkei (“hidden root”), a term for the penis. Whether coincidence or deeper symbolic thinking, of course, cannot be proven, but the parallel has at least been explored theoretically. And it wouldn’t be the first time such ideas – consciously or unconsciously – shaped design choices: life force, fertility, and energy as guiding aesthetic principles. There are plenty more theories where this one came from ;)

Yes, it's a welcome change from the otherwise rather dry, phonebook-like standard works ;). After all, when else do we get the chance to catch a glimpse into this otherwise inaccessible world...

Interesting posts, thanks for sharing. In Mr. Kawase`s words: "...among all antiques, swords were most difficult to judge, and once one truly understands swords, understanding other works of art becomes effortless."

Whenever Gō comes up, I can’t help thinking about something Honma Kunzan wrote. He said that seeing the Tomita-Gō left a huge impression on him—it was the first Gō he’d seen "that really showed the true character of the smith". Does anyone happen to have good pics of the Tomita-Gō, or know where it’s on display these days? Tōken World Museum in Nagoya?

Thank you for the translation and for the carefully compiled overview. In the end, however, a somewhat bitter aftertaste remains: it is regrettable how much knowledge and cultural context was lost in the immediate postwar period, or at least torn from its original context. The American occupation brought about a very rapid and profound reorganization of political and economic structures. While reading, a probably delicate and somewhat broader question came to mind—perhaps out of place here, but not entirely unimportant: How quickly and how thoroughly did Japanese society historically process the trauma of defeat, occupation, and two atomic bombs—if at all? (The older generations certainly did not. The following generations perhaps tend to keep their opinions to themselves, and the current generation may hardly have the time to form an independent view. ) Within just a few years, the relationship with the United States shifted from that of a total wartime enemy to one of the closest strategic partners of the postwar order. Many interpretations exist regarding this development. From my perspective, a rather sober picture emerges: through a combination of control, institutional reforms, and economic dependencies, the United States created a system in which close cooperation became a pragmatic and ultimately “voluntary” strategy for Japan. In my preliminary research, I gained the impression that this aspect of structural dependency—if addressed at all—is often treated rather cautiously in Japanese narratives, even though historically it is difficult to overlook.

Looks like you’ve been under the radar for a while, ignored all the noise, and now back with a vengeance, really laying the hammer down I’ve been enjoying the site for some time, and I haven’t noticed any major issues. Minor points — like the photos initially overlapping with the descriptions — you’ve already corrected on your own. I think it’s a good moment to say that I hope you’ll continue contributing here for a long time

It’s fun following this discussion. I agree with Jussi: some of the theses feel a bit simplified, while others seems romanticized (“Silicon Valley” analogy :)) – though, it could just as easily have been a harsh, Spartan-like environment, separated by hundreds of kilometers of mountains, quite the contrast to the elegance and aesthetic refinement of Kyoto. Some of the counter-theses are also deliberately exaggerated (“whether and which swordsmiths ever even met”), not to make them easier to refute, but to show how the scarcity of reliable sources allows for a huge variety of interpretations – and I think that’s part of the appeal for many of us. These stories feel like little windows into significant folkloric influences, carrying an undeniable charm. Anyway, from this conglomerate, the very pinnacle of the Japanese sword as we know it emerged. I’m especially curious about Gō Yoshihiro. What else is known about him? We seem to know that he tragically died at the young age of 30 – perhaps at the peak of his fame – (which fits the Japanese poetic notion of yo no naka). I’m surprised he’s not better known, given that his life and work seem to embody that quintessential Japanese image of “falling delicate cherry blossoms.” In such a short life, he apparently left some of the finest examples of swordmaking, like the Shinano Gō katana. Do people consider Gō Masamune’s top student because his blades are especially faithful to Masamune’s style? And if he really was a samurai himself, how might that have influenced his standing and recognition as a swordsmith? Historically, samurai were not always considered noble; they were often despised, combative warriors who served the aristocracy for centuries as their "retainers", maintaining order and settling disputes across the provinces and the capital. It’s also fascinating that Gō was younger than Norishige, yet Norishige is said to have studied under him. In a society so focused on ritual, hierarchy, and tradition, that must have seemed pretty unusual. I’d love to hear from anyone who knows more about Gō Yoshihiro – his life, his work, or his influence. I’d be really interested in other perspectives and any sources you can point me to!

I might be mistaken, so please feel free to correct me, but this is how I remember it from what I’ve read over time, even if it’s slightly off-topic. During the Northern and Southern Courts period, Kamakura appears to have lost much of its significance as both the political capital and a center of swordsmithing. This had direct consequences for the Sagami School, as the city’s declining status and growing regional instability likely disrupted the creative environment that had previously supported it. As far as I recall, this was the main reason why many smiths connected to Masamune and other leading figures of the school ended up moving back to their native provinces. For example, Norishige returned to Etchū, and Chōgi went back to Bizen. Among the main-line Sōshū masters, only Hiromitsu and Akihiro seem to have stayed in Kamakura. I’ve also read that the very factors that originally made the Sagami School so strong may have later contributed to its decline.

Thanks to everyone involved. Making these newsletters available and accessible is exactly what makes this forum enjoyable and worthwhile.

This work reflects more than 20 years of dedicated effort and expertise, and it unquestionably deserves recognition and appreciation. The depth of knowledge, skill, and care that went into it is clearly evident. Dmitry Pechaelov is open and friendly in communication, approachable, and a pleasure to interact with. Shipping within Europe is 20 EUR.

Quite by chance, I noticed a recurring pattern over the past weeks while casually browsing several Nihontō listings on Aoi Japan. I thought I’d mention it here simply as an observation and for general discussion — without any accusation intended. The same bidder shows up in a large number of these auctions and is often involved in incremental bids that help move prices upward. There may of course be perfectly legitimate reasons for this, such as a very active collector with broad or overlapping interests. Still, the consistency of the pattern caught my eye. For clarity, I should add that I’ve never purchased anything through Aoi and don’t plan to. I’m sharing this merely as a general point of awareness for potential buyers who are actively considering purchasing through Aoi 😉

Many thanks for the previous contributions. The question of pricing, development, and returns in connection with Nihontō is fascinating. I can well understand why many consider this aspect central, expecting clear guidance from it, only to be disappointed. My preliminary conclusion, however, is that there are at least two main approaches: the quick, seemingly clear answers that promise guidance but are usually misleading, corrupting the true joy of Nihontō by entangling us in political and economic argumentation - the moment one adopts a political approach and starts to calculate, the magic vanishes. And the more complex considerations, which offer no simple solutions but lead us deeper into the intricate reality of human experience. First, my own experiences with dealers and auction houses have been always very unpleasant. Perhaps personal factors played a role, but the situation is simply too steeped in tricks, lies, and deceit. And apparently, I am not alone in thinking this: Darcy, for instance, criticizes in his articles how dealers dismantle Nihontō for the sake of pure profit, selling pieces individually without regard for cultural or historical context. Likewise, the history of certain smiths or works is often exploited through exaggerated storytelling, solely to inflate market value. In Japan, there seems to have been an early aversion to profiting from beauty, which is why dealers in the Edo period held the lowest social status (a position I still hold to this day, though, of course, there were other political reasons). For many, Nihontō are sacred relics; they are bound up with love—and yet, as we know, politics and love rarely mix well. That is fundamental. All of this nearly spoiled my initial interest in Nihontō. Personally, I would be immensely grateful never to have to deal with dealers and auctioneers again, preferring instead, as it was settled in the past, to resolve everything with friends by handshake. At the same time, there is supposedly an informal market that grants access to the finest pieces only to a select few insiders. These developments trouble me from a scholarly-philosophical perspective, as they prevent us from realizing the potential of these art. Additionally, I share Hoshi`s concern, as he writes that new crypto millionaires and their ilk may be infiltrating the market, generating illusions and artificially inflating prices. I had actually assumed this was already happening, but apparently, it does not yet seem to be the case. That said, I still appreciate museum exhibitions, but a blade truly reveals its almost 'totemic' power only when held in one’s hands. What I think would be really nice would be a kind of prayer room in the museum, similar to the ones you find at airports, where you could take a Nihontō and spend a few hours meditating with it. That’s my vision for the Nihontō museum of the future ;). (A brief personal digression): I am familiar with the saying, “Bad swords spoil the eye,” which makes it all the more embarrassing to admit. Yet, perhaps others feel the same: the Nihontō that shape us are, in most cases, called "bad" Nihontō, because most of us never have, and likely never will have, access to the truly exceptional pieces. These "good bad Nihontō," as I like to call them, offer a richness that one loses once a more refined taste or collecting ambition takes hold. When one becomes acquainted with high art, the terrain that was once wild and wondrous begins to narrow—a system with its own pitfalls (ultimately giving rise to sometimes strange, oddly intellectualized judgments of taste). The original joy is partially lost—it is lost with taste. The central question, then, becomes whether—and how—one can recover it. As I’ve mentioned, all of this is intellectually fascinating to me. However, what occupies my thoughts most is the question of why the market remains informal and opaque to this day—a point that has been repeatedly raised in previous forum posts. Nihontō continue to be a niche market, and as such, their pricing potential can hardly be fully realized. The fact that purchases are often conducted in secrecy and that knowledge is guarded with caution, suspicion, or even jealousy is particularly intriguing. Of course, knowledge is hard work, requires a lot of effort, and one must dedicateto it seriously and with humility. Literature is the main path. But fundamentally, it seems to me that this community thrives on the generosity of a few individuals, like Darcy, Hoshi, and some others (I hope there will be more in the future). It’s always a few who carry the pull of one generation to the next, expose the vanity of other secret keepers, and thus push the species forward in certain areas. But secrets are simultaneously the origin and driving force, as they have a long tradition. The dynamic is truly complex and fascinating. I believe one can approach this topic on multiple levels of abstraction. Here is a small selection of reflections I have made: At a higher level of abstraction, the Japanese "culture of secrecy" exists within a historically developed cultural context that can only be understood from within that context. Reading, for example, Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s nostalgic longing for the beauties of old Japan, one encounters an aesthetics of darkness and shadow. While in the West we aim to illuminate every secret with the light of science—a pursuit with its own beauty—the Japanese cultivated an aesthetics of shadows, of veil, of the unspoken. It is at the core concerned with the question of how to preserve the secret, how to protect what can only be sensed. There is a special appeal in this as well: allowing agreements or relationships to arise somewhat in the half-light—a subtle, peculiar pleasure. From another perspective, Japanese cultural history can also be read as a succession of treacherous attacks. The persistent insistence on loyalty among the Samurai and in military contexts sheds a clear light on the frequenct occurrents of plots, lies, and breaches of trust. From this arose a deep cultural inclination toward secrecy. Another interesting aspect is that, although Japan traditionally maintained a naturalistic outlook, its world remained suffused with legend. Their world is full of ghosts. They invented gods and created myths and legends to somehow interact with that which could not be grasped by symbols alone. Observation and myth were not strictly separate, flowing together. Swordsmanship was revered as a sacred craft, and the formulas for making Nihontō were treated like magical spells. Many smiths even withheld knowledge from their own students. This attitude continues into the modern era. Togishi Hayashi captures it beautifully through the words of Satō-Sensei: "During an apprenticeship, you are not taught anything. Your sensei is not obligated to teach you. In a way, you are to ‘steal’ your sensei’s skill and make it your own. It is up to you to observe what he does and emulate him." Of course, there are also Western figures, like Dostoevsky, Zweig or Calasso, who have approached the dark heart of things. Yet the Japanese perspective undoubtedly belongs among the human endeavors that peer most deeply. It is difficult to fully comprehend. Precisely because it remains a mystery, it gives us so much. How can anyone still attempt to express it seriously in numbers?

My heartfelt thanks also go to everyone who has the privileged access to extraordinary works, who capture them in photos and videos, and who make them available to the rest of us. Knowledge always comes at a price, and habituation, can become toxic—it has to do with the way our nervous system functions. In many ways, this is the state we all live in. We are tormented by our ravenous minds; it is both terrible and beautiful at the same time. I believe it is truly a narrow path, and we all try to walk it. That is why we create art. I think each of us knows that a nihonto has power - and the more time we invest, the more meaning they take on for us. For many of us, the photos, videos, and PDFs that some of you have shared this year mean more than you might realize. Most of us will never hold a masterpiece in our hands —perhaps only once a year, during a trip to Japan, when we view it through a glass case in a museum. So we inevitably rely on words and images. But, as good as they are, they remain a poor substitute for direct perception. It’s clear that much will always remain inaccessible to us. We simply have to accept that. Yet the beautiful thing is that this limitation forces us to seek other perspectives; it compels us to look from different angles. This is also how, I believe, some of us experience nihonto: as ancient spirits and deities of beauty, as tools for thinking and seeing, referencing the profound mysteries Japan has to offer.

Interestingly, when I have it right in my mind, it was long considered improper and dishonorable to work for personal profit in Japan, which is why merchants were regarded as possessing the least desirable traits as a class. The samurai had always possessed qualities that were considered desirable and attractive by other classes, both because of their social status and their rank. Through a process of samurai mimicry, merchants sought to elevate their own status by engaging in activities previously confined only to the samurai class. However, the limitations imposed by the hereditary system meant that merchants, no matter how prosperous or affluent, could not attain samurai status, and samurai were legally prohibited from engaging in commercial activities to improve their deteriorating living conditions. @HoshiUnfortunately, the trend continues that speculative value has become the highest value. The marketplaces are the temples, promoting an exchange dominated by profit motives, drawing more and more of their kind into the labyrinths of barren illusions. The ideological influence on the internal perspective only leads to more anxious vanity and habitual "Unter-sich-Seins“. However, this development also brings advantages, in my opinion. It grants us more sensitivity toward other forms of curiosity and intellectual hunger. This reminds me of the work by Ivan Morris, Nobility of Failure: Where I first read about the concept of "Seishinshugi" – a principle that shapes the philosophy of many Japanese heroic figures and offers far richer possibilities than the mere pursuit of desire. The inner work.

Thanks, Tim Evans! What I find intriguing in Paul R. Allmann’s quote might answer your question to some extent, Chris. If we assume that P.A. is a highly competent nihonto expert, the wide range in which he is able to perceive beauty is remarkable. A prerequisite for competence is therefore the ability to view many high-quality blades with a deep, lingering gaze. The Japanese have a natural advantage due to the availability of many great swords. As Tim writes, a master would undoubtedly be of immense value because he would either have had the opportunity to view many fine swords or even own them himself. Without such access, one risks reverting to simplistic, traditional value judgments of art (beautiful/ugly), often focusing instead on monetary or fame-based measures. It’s also fascinating to consider why a sort of standardized taste trajectory emerges in this context, or why a hierarchy forms (e.g., first or only this or that time-period/school, or iron tsuba versus Edo kinko). Is it inevitable that one must limit or constrain their aesthetic view in order to develop "competence"? Allmann’s perspective challenges this tendency by suggesting that one could embrace the unique beauty inherent in each object, as he writes: "In our case, aesthetic seeing means that we do not care who names the fastest or most expensive sword, but that we can truly grasp and enjoy the infinite beauty of each sword. It is often overlooked that great beauty – even the kind that impresses the most experienced collectors – is hidden in many cheap and unremarkable swords. In our hunt for the big names, the oldest sword, the most precious and rare blade, and the most impressive, we often overlook the subtle beauty, grace, and elegance that each sword radiates in its own way."