Kintsugi Repair Experience: The Meaning Behind Golden Restoration

Kintsugi is often introduced as a beautiful craft, but in practice, it begins with something very ordinary: a bowl that slipped, a cup that cracked, a broken piece you hesitate to throw away because it still holds a memory. In this repair experience, the goal isn’t to erase the break—it’s to meet it, and to consider what it might become.

This Kintsugi MUSUBI Craft Kit and experience were supervised by Matsumoto Kota, representative of Sanuki Urushi Sinra, a lacquer workshop deeply rooted in the traditions of Japan’s Kagawa Prefecture. Drawing on techniques passed down since the Edo period (1603–1868 CE), Sinra works with locally sourced materials and regional methods, reinterpreting lacquerware in forms that resonate with contemporary life. For more than twenty years, Matsumoto has dedicated himself to the practice of urushi craftsmanship, approaching repair and creation with the same care.

In this article, we look more closely at the way Matsumoto thinks about kintsugi—what he values in the act of repair, and what the practice itself can reveal. By understanding the ideas, we hope the experience of kintsugi becomes more than a matter of technique. Instead, it can unfold as a calmer, more personal process, one that allows each person to engage with repair in a way that feels thoughtful, intentional, and their own.

Before the gold. Before the technique. Before repair. A vessel matters not only because of its price or rarity, but because of the time it carries. It has been lifted by familiar hands, placed on ordinary tables, and filled with everyday meals. It has absorbed the warmth of tea, the weight of rice, and the rhythm of daily life. Over years of use, it gathers memory. What gives a bowl its value is not what it costs, but what it has held.

In Japan, this way of understanding objects runs deep. Cups, plates, and tea bowls are not neutral tools. They participate in life. They age alongside their owners. Scratches and stains become records of shared time. Even the smallest chip can recall a particular morning, a guest who once visited, a season that has already passed. This sensibility stands in sharp contrast to contemporary consumer culture, where usefulness is often measured in novelty and speed. Where we replace rather than repair, upgrade rather than keep. When something breaks, we assume its story has ended. But in traditional Japanese thinking, damage does not automatically signal failure. Rather, wear is evidence of a relationship. A vessel that shows signs of use has, in a sense, fulfilled its role.

This perspective becomes especially visible in the world of tea. For centuries, tea practitioners valued bowls with uneven rims, warped profiles, and irregular glazes. These were not flaws to be corrected, but qualities to be contemplated. The philosophy later articulated as wabi sabi—an appreciation of impermanence, asymmetry, and incompleteness—emerged not as an abstract theory, but through intimate encounters with everyday objects. Beauty was not something imposed from outside. It was discovered through time. It is within this cultural atmosphere that kintsugi took root.

Most historical accounts trace the practice to the late fifteenth century, when broken tea utensils began to be repaired with lacquer and powdered metal rather than being discarded. Cracks were traced, not erased. Loss was acknowledged, not denied. The repair became part of the object’s story. Yet kintsugi was never merely a technical solution. It reflected a deeper attitude toward change. Rather than attempting to return objects to a pristine state, it allowed them to evolve. The break was not treated as a deviation from the original form, but as a new chapter in its life.

Today, kintsugi is often romanticized abroad as a metaphor for resilience or emotional healing. What is easily overlooked is that kintsugi begins with something very ordinary: a broken bowl on a kitchen floor. There is nothing symbolic about that moment.

The cultural and technical supervisor of the Kintsugi MUSUBI Craft Kit, Matsumoto Kota, was officially recognized in 2022 as a master of traditional craft by Kagawa Prefecture. A kintsugi artist whose work moves fluidly between craft and contemporary art, Matsumoto has single-mindedly pursued the art of lacquerware for over two decades. The moment a vessel cracks, Matsumoto explains, we are confronted with a simple binary: discard it, or keep it. To him, that decision is where everything starts. Modern life tends to favor replacement, which is faster, cheaper, and requires no reflection, but kintsugi introduces a third possibility. By allowing the repair to remain visible—by drawing deliberate lines across damage—the vessel becomes something new. It is no longer merely fixed. It carries a transformed landscape.

Matsumoto does not see kintsugi as restoring objects to their former selves. He sees his role as reopening relationships. A repaired vessel does not return to the past; it moves forward. Even when two pieces break in similar ways, the results are never the same. The final form depends entirely on the restorer’s judgment—on how they read the fracture, how they balance restraint with expression, how they decide what should be emphasized and what should recede.

Before a single repair is attempted, there is a long, deliberate period of looking, and Matsumoto approaches this stage without haste. He studies each vessel in silence, tracing the paths of cracks with his eyes rather than his hands, observing how fragments relate to one another, noting where tension accumulates and where the form naturally seeks to settle. What at first appears as random damage gradually reveals its own internal logic, as every break carries a unique rhythm: some fractures move decisively across the surface, while others hesitate and scatter; some feel abrupt, almost violent, while others unfold slowly, like branching veins. These subtle differences are crucial, guiding the direction and character of the eventual repair, and for Matsumoto, this initial reading is not mere preparation—it is already an integral part of the creative process, a stage at which the work itself begins to speak.

It is a common misconception that the cracks themselves dictate the outcome, but in reality, they merely provide the raw material. What transforms a broken vessel is not the damage it has suffered, but how it is interpreted. This is where judgment enters the work. Sometimes Matsumoto follows the fracture precisely, honoring every curve and interruption, while at other times he chooses to simplify a complex break into calmer gestures, reorganizing chaos into coherence, turning a cluster of small shards into a single continuous line or softening a jagged edge into a curve. These choices shape how the vessel is perceived, how it occupies space, and how it meets the observer’s eye. Kintsugi, in his view, is not about restoring what was lost—it is about composing what remains, and each piece demands a response that is unique, deliberate, and intimately connected to the restorer’s sensibility.

Even the decision of whether the repair should assert itself boldly or remain understated, whether the break should become a focal point or dissolve gently into the surface, carries weight. The choice of materials—gold, silver, red lacquer, or black lacquer—is equally significant, as each medium conveys a distinct presence and emotional register: gold asserts itself, black withdraws, red carries warmth, and silver reflects its surroundings, subtly shifting with the light. These decisions are not merely decorative; they contribute to the vessel’s emerging identity. Matsumoto favors restraint and simplicity, not as an aesthetic trend but as a means of allowing the form to breathe, and within the precision of his lines, subtle variations, slight shifts in thickness, and gentle changes in direction introduce movement and remind the viewer that a human hand is present, guiding each decision.

The repaired vessel, in the end, becomes a composition, a testament to patience and presence. Kintsugi cannot be rushed: lacquer cures slowly, layers are built gradually, and between each stage there is waiting; yet even during these pauses, Matsumoto remains attentive, returning repeatedly to reassess, refine, and listen to the vessel. The work evolves through cycles of action and stillness. Moments of deep concentration, when breathing slows, and awareness narrows to the tip of the brush, demand complete presence, a type of attention that is increasingly rare in contemporary life. Every gesture is deliberate, and every decision leaves a permanent trace.