The doorbell chimed as the carpenter arrived. After removing his shoes, he stepped up from the stone-floored genkan (玄関) to the wooden hallway. I led him through the kitchen to my bedroom, the only remaining tatami room in the house. Once inside, he examined the three sliding screens covering the glass doors that opened from my room to the front of the house. Their light wooden frames, enclosing delicate latticework layered with translucent white paper, softened the pale light as it filtered through the room.
Grasping the first screen with both hands and lifting slightly, the carpenter pulled from the bottom with minimal effort, and the screen slid free. This was my first lesson in shōji (障子): for sliding installations, the only thing holding them in place is the grooves in the top and bottom tracks, rabbeted to form ridges that guide and secure the screens. This method depends on a precise fit to ensure smooth sliding. In no time, the carpenter had detached all three screens, loaded them cheerfully into his compact Daihatsu kei van, and promised to return with them in two days.
A few weeks earlier, I moved into a roku-jō (六畳) room—a six-tatami mat-sized space in a 1960s family residence. The house, combining traditional elements with mid-century prefabrication, had been a family home for years before being converted into a shared house. Despite its location on the ground floor, next to the kitchen, I chose this room over the more modern ones upstairs, drawn by its tatami mats and shōji screens.
After settling in, one of the first things I noticed was the paper on my room’s shōji screens, which seemed to bear the marks of many years of use. It was creased, discoloured, and dotted with small holes and tears. Having wanted to live with shōji screens for some time, I was eager to see them in pristine condition, so I requested a repair through my landlord. While some people tackle shōji paper repair as a DIY project, professional assistance is the safest option in a rental context. Watching a seasoned daiku (大工), or carpenter, remove the screens so effortlessly piqued my interest in the repair process.
The work begins as such: gently place the screen on a flat surface and loosen the two small screws at the top of the frame, detaching the strip of wood that covers the upper edge and removing a pair of tiny stoppers inside. Next, use a mallet to tap the upper rail, known as the kamizan (上桟), positioning a wood block between the mallet and the rail to protect the frame. With firm, controlled taps, the rail will begin to loosen and slide out, allowing access to the shōji's centre—the latticework, called kumiko (組子), stretched with paper.
Kumiko is a traditional woodworking technique that creates intricate lattice patterns assembled without nails or metal fasteners, relying instead on flawlessly cut and interlocking pieces of wood. These structures add minimal embellishments to Japanese interiors, catching light and balancing openness and privacy. If the frame is not warped, a shōji screen's kumiko should slide out smoothly with careful, steady pulls.
To my untrained eye, the shōji screen had initially seemed a tightly sealed unit, but their seamless disassembly reflects the principles of mokuzō kenchiku (木造建築), or timber construction. This approach relies on joinery techniques that allow structures to be assembled and disassembled with surprising ease. Each joint is finely crafted: tsugite (継手) for interlocking components and shiguchi (仕口) for key joining points. These joints form resilient and flexible frameworks built to withstand both the passage of time and the strain of seismic activity.
Kyoto’s Kiyomizu-dera (清水寺), built in the kakezukuri (懸造り) style—a method specifically designed for construction on steep slopes—is an iconic example of this philosophy. Perched on a steep incline, the temple’s expansive wooden platform is assembled solely with wooden wedges to fill the small gaps between beams and pillars, yet it has supported crowds for centuries without any metal reinforcement.
With the screen disassembled, the next step is the paper. Take up a broad brush called a mizubake (水バケ), designed specifically for applying water, distinct from those used for paint. Dip it in water, then glide the brush along the paper's edges where it meets the wooden frame. Using a small metal scraper, score around the edges, allowing the old paper to peel away in a single, fluid motion. Though shōji screens appear to be composed of many small segments at a glance, this effect is created by a single sheet bonded to the back of the kumiko.
On the subject of the paper, Jay van Arsdale, an expert in Japanese woodworking and author of Shoji: How to Design, Build, and Install Japanese Screens—likely the finest English-language book on the topic—shares his insights. He discusses washi (和紙), the paper used in shōji screens, and explains why it is so uniquely suited to their construction.
It is lightweight and translucent (about 50 percent of the light passes through). While soft, it is surprisingly strong and will last a long time on a shoji screen, provided it is not exposed to moisture, roughness, or sharp objects.
Expanding on the strength of the paper, he writes:
Washi's strength comes from several factors: the length of the fibers, the use of a viscous secretion from tororo-aoi (hibiscus family) to keep the fibers suspended in the mold longer, and the continuous motion of the mold during sheet forming. The net result is a sturdy sheet of intricately interwoven long fibers. Over time, most modern-day shoji papers will yellow. In Japan, it is the custom to repaper shoji with fresh white sheets of washi at year-end to purify the home before New Year's begins.
The washi paper on my screens had evidently been exposed to both rough handling and contact with sharp objects and didn't appear to have been replaced for many a new year, likely not since the building transitioned into a shared house.
With the old paper removed, prop the screen up and, using a clean cloth, gently dry each section of the kumiko individually. My screen featured a simple aragumi shōji (荒組障子) design, divided into approximately 24 relatively large, nearly square sections. I could imagine this process being much more time-consuming on a complex kumiko, such as a tateshige shōji (縦繋障子), characterised by tall vertical sections, or a yokoshige (横繋障子), with an equally dense horizontal pattern.
With the kumiko laid flat, you'll need a brush similar in appearance to the mizubake, though slightly narrower and with an especially fine tip. This is a noribake (糊バケ), a brush designed specifically for applying paste to shōji screens. Its shape allows for precise dabbing of kome-nori (米糊), a water-soluble rice glue, which makes it possible to strip away old paper, leaving no marks on the delicate wooden bars, yokoko (横子) running horizontally and tateko (竪子) vertically.
Next, take a roll of washi paper that matches the width of the kumiko and roll it out over the lattice. Aligning the paper with the screen should be straightforward. In Measure and Construction of the Japanese House, German architect and author Dr. Heino Engel, explains why, contextualising within the traditional Japanese home.
It is understood that shōji, like all other components of the Japanese house, has standard measurements. Its width is determined by column distance and its height by distance between upper and lower track, both of which are subject to the horizontal and vertical modular order of the house. Organisation of the wood-strip skeleton of the shōji is, as a rule, determined horizontally by a process of halving the panel width and vertically by the market size of the translucent shōji paper.
Once the paper is spread, use a small roller to secure its bond with the glue. Carefully trim any overhanging paper around the edges with a sharp craft knife. Left overnight, the glue will be fully set. After that, the final steps are simple: reinsert the kumiko in its original position, refasten the kamizan, and slot the screens back into their tracks, returning the room to its intended state.
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A traditional Japanese space is inherently sparse, allowing each element to stand out distinctly. A chashitsu (茶室), or tea room—romantically free from the trappings of modern life—is a strong example of this philosophy in practice. Of all the elements that make up rooms like these, the shōji screen has always drawn my attention most, and in present-day Tokyo, it is the most frequently deployed feature to evoke an air of wafū in contemporary interiors. The term wafū is composed of two kanji with layered meanings: 和 (wa), which conveys harmony and the refinement of Japanese sensibilities, and 風 (fū), the kanji for "wind," which here implies a style or essence. Together, 和風 (wafū) denotes "Japanese style," often contrasted with 洋風 (yōfū), meaning "Western style."
A few Tokyo trips ago, I stayed at Hotel Niwa in Jimbōchō, a property converted from a 1970s business hotel that now positions itself as wa modan (和モダン) or modern Japanese, incorporating touches of wafū design across the premises to elevate the interior and appeal to foreign visitors. The foyer displays a shōji-like pattern on the walls, and in the rooms—which largely retain their business hotel character—shōji screens are nearly the only traditional fitting or furnishing. Indeed, as a selling point in the hotel's literature, they write:
Japanese design elements such as wooden frames, paper shoji screens, and Japanese paper are incorporated throughout the hotel.
Here, the shōji's constituent parts—the screen and paper—are listed separately in an effort to make the list longer. But it is unnecessary; the screens alone were entirely up to the task, comfortably distracting me from the room's business hotel underpinnings. In the mornings, sunlight moved through them gradually and gently, while in the evenings, the room's lamps cast light that softly rebounded off the screens, partly absorbed, partly reflected, and partly passing through.
The term shōji has been in use since around the Nara Period (710–794) and originates from a literal meaning of "obstruction." 障 (shō) translates to "block" or "intercept," while 子 (ji), meaning "child," serves as a diminutive for tools or implements, suggesting "a small device" or "fitting." Together, 障子 (shōji) referred to various household fittings that controlled the flow of light, air, and vision within traditional interiors. Heino Engel expands on the genesis of the word.
The word was first used to designate the portable standing screen, which was the earliest room partition and room enclosure. Then, after being put into tracks, the sliding variety was generally called fusuma-no-shōji, fusuma literally meaning bedquilt because its pattern resembles the latter. Yet, after the evolution of the translucent sliding door, fusuma-no-shōji was applied only to the opaque variety while the new translucent variety was given the name akari-shōji (literally, light interceptor). In the process of simplification, akari-shōji became just shōji while fusuma-no-shōji became fusuma.
In the late Heian period (794–1185), akari-shōji (明り障子) evolved as a distinct style, gaining prominence for its ability to allow soft, diffused light while preserving privacy. Over the centuries, it became a hallmark of Japanese residential architecture, particularly in shoin-zukuri (書院造), a style associated with samurai mansions and the quarters of Zen abbots. The washi paper used in shōji screens is sometimes even referred to as ‘shoin paper’.
During the Edo period (1603–1868), more intricate designs emerged, including features like hipboards, which serve as structural braces on larger screens. These boards add resilience against impacts from low-lying objects and often feature decorative kumiko patterns, or natural woodgrain finishes in addition to their functional role. Some shōji screens also include small sliding panels set into grooves, creating an opening within the screen's surface. This small window allows the screen to frame an exterior view—such as a garden as though it were a living artwork.
The central latticework of shōji can be found in many applications beyond sliding screens: lanterns, valences, skylights, closets, and decorative wall boxes, for example. In addition, freestanding panels, which can be folded, moved, and stored, and stationary panels, which can be mounted directly onto walls and doors, are likely the most practical ways to incorporate a shōji screen into a home outside Japan.
Junichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows (In’ei Raisan, 陰翳礼讃) presents a concise yet incisive meditation on light and darkness, especially within the home. He laments the discord between Japanese and Western cultures, conveying a sense of loss over the Westernisation occurring around the time of the essay's publication in 1933. Although Tanizaki was a novelist, not a designer, In Praise of Shadows frequently appears on recommended reading lists for design and architecture.
Instead of advocating for a halt to progress or a return to the past, Tanizaki presents a melancholy meditation on what is slowly being lost, foremost, in his opinion, at the hands of electric lighting. Shōji screens appear as a recurring motif throughout, especially in the evocative passages where Tanizaki recounts the diminishing beauty of personal, private moments in traditional Japanese interiors. Addressing tsukeshoin (付書院)—study desks typically built into one side of the room beneath a window—he writes:
… for me the most exquisite touch is the pale white glow of the shoji in the study bay; I need only pause before it and I forget the passage of time … there is a cold and desolate tinge to the light by the time it reaches these panels. The little sunlight from the garden that manages to make its way beneath the eaves and through the corridors has by then lost its power to illuminate, seems drained of the complexion of life. It can do no more than accentuate the whiteness of the paper. I sometimes linger before these panels and study the surface of the paper, bright, but giving no impression of brilliance.
True to his word, the carpenter returned within two days and reassembled the shōji screens in my tatami room, refitting them as effortlessly as he had removed them. After he left, I stood back to admire the work. The room received little light, akin to Tanizaki's description, positioned as it was in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by other homes and enshrouded by eaves and greenery. As the bushes outside the window rustled in the breeze, their faint shadows cast a gently undulating pattern behind the screen, resembling an animated ink-and-brush painting on the wall.
I opened the shōji screens and then closed the additional layers behind them: an amido (網戸) for keeping out insects while allowing airflow, and the sturdy sliding glass doors. Maintaining shōji screens in the modern home is indeed a bit complicated, as demonstrated by this triple layering of sliding doors, each on separate tracks. Tanizaki describes his own efforts to install shōji screens in his home:
A few years ago I spent a great deal more money than I could afford to build a house. I fussed over every last fitting and fixture, and in every case encountered difficulty. There was the shoji: for aesthetic reasons I did not want to use glass, and yet paper alone would have posed problems of illumination and security. Much against my will, I decided to cover the inside with paper and the outside with glass. This required a double frame, thus raising the cost. Yet having gone to all this trouble, the effect was far from pleasing. The outside remained no more than a glass door; while within, the mellow softness of the paper was destroyed by the glass that lay behind it. At that point I was sorry I had not just settled for glass to begin with.
While the glass dulled the effect of the bushes outside once closed, I wasn't as dismayed by it as Tanizaki—perhaps due to my lower baseline for shōji appreciation, having never before occupied a room with them. In the evenings, I'd sit on the veranda with the glass doors open, the shōji closed, and a lamp on inside, admiring the glow. It's the one setting in which Tanizaki concedes some credit to electric lighting:
Seen at dusk as one gazes out upon the countryside from the window of a train, the lonely light of a bulb under an old-fashioned shade, shining dimly from behind the white paper shoji of a thatch-roofed farmhouse, can seem positively elegant.
The freshly applied washi restored a sense of tension to my room, making it feel slightly less worn-in and casual than before. I suspect that, at some point, the previous washi had been innocently pierced by accident. The material is brittle—some say intentionally so, to encourage careful movements around the shōji to avoid damage. Inevitably, one unrepaired hole or tear invites others, and the paper begins to lose its command of the room, becoming worn and battered. Seeing the screens anew allowed me to appreciate the rejuvenation they brought to a decades-old tatami room and marked the beginning of a personal resolve to treat all things with a touch more care.
Until we meet in the pale light of a shōji screen,
AJ
A Walking Map
This week, I updated Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring, adding the complete walking route detailed throughout its pages. Each shrine, shop, and quiet moment is marked for you. For those who value the analogue effort of a static map, it provides just that—while also linking to a Google Map via QR code for digital navigation when needed.
This is a somewhat unconventional walking route, one unlikely to appear in any guidebook—as I wandered these neighbourhoods, I hadn’t initially seen it as a repeatable trail. Yet, several readers have offered thoughtful suggestions, and a walking map was high on the list.
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Links
Shoji: How to Design, Build, and Install Japanese Screens
Measure and Construction of the Japanese House
In Praise of Shadows