About
Kumamoto, four generations in.
Tatamino began in a workshop on the edge of Kumamoto that has been weaving tatami for close to a hundred years. My great-grandfather opened the shop. My grandfather kept it open through decades when every house in Japan had a tatami room. My father watched those rooms quietly disappear — replaced by hardwood, by carpet, by the way modern homes are built now.
I learned the craft from him. I also learned that a workshop can only survive if it listens to the life happening outside its door.
A quieter answer.
Tatamino is my answer. The idea is simple: take the material I grew up with — the weave, the softness, the faint grass-and-linen scent of a freshly finished mat — and make pieces small enough to live on a desk, a dining table, a bedside. A coaster under a morning coffee. A placemat for a Tuesday dinner. A tray that holds keys and a wallet by the door. A phone case you pick up a hundred times a day.
Tatami, in Japan, has a ceremonial weight — tea rooms, temples, the guest room you kept tidy. I wanted to release it from that. The pieces I make are not for special occasions. They are for ordinary ones. The cup of water at 2 a.m. The lunch eaten alone. The quiet minute before the rest of the house wakes up.
Why modern tatami.
I use a modern tatami weave rather than traditional igusa rush grass. It is washable. It holds its color. It doesn't yellow or fray the way my grandfather's mats did after a few summers. The craft — the tension of the loom, the hand-bound edges, the way each piece is cut and finished in the workshop — is the same as it has always been. The material has simply been asked to do more.
Everything is made by me, in Kumamoto, in small batches. If you write to us, I answer. If a piece wears, send it back and I'll repair it.
Thank you for reading this far. The collection is here whenever you'd like to look.
— Tetsuya, Tatamino
Kumamoto, Japan