Since I started working in fashion design—that is, since I began working at Yohji Yamamoto and up until now, when I've launched FF and am engaged in creative work—it goes without saying that I no longer have opportunities to seek instruction from others regarding design or making pattern. Occasionally, I regret not taking my classes more seriously as a student and learning more.

The Yohji Yamamoto company at that time was like a symbol of the Showa era, much like the world of old-school chefs: a world where “work isn't taught to you; you must steal it with your own eyes, absorb it through your own efforts, and seize it for yourself.”
At Y's, technical skills were never taught by anyone. Newcomers and veterans alike were placed on the same playing field, competing in a world where the superiority of designs created on three-dimensional toile and the perfection of making pattern were judged. It was an extremely harsh environment for newcomers.

But amidst this, I don't know if the president (Yohji-san) couldn't bear to see the harshness, but there was actually one time when the president himself gave a pattern lecture exclusively for the newcomers.
When I asked my seniors, they said there was no precedent for holding such an event (and probably none since either), so I believe it was highly unusual.
(As an aside, perhaps a year or two later, the president must have decided that such a harsh environment was too much for new hires. Yohji company hired a retired former teacher from Bunka Fashion College as Y’s dedicated instructor. This marked the transition to an era where new pattern-makers joining the company were required to attend her pattern-making lectures for several months every morning.)

The pattern lectures were held in the president's cramped, 10-square-meter office on the fifth floor, gathering only the newcomers (about seven of us, I think?) around a table. The content focused less on technical details and more on concepts and ways of thinking.
Broadly, there were two main points: one was the concept of creating asymmetry at Y’s company, and the other was the importance of the kinetic energy inherent in pattern lines.

The key point was that asymmetrical designs expressed in sketches differ from the designs actually translated into patterns. Asymmetry design often prioritizes form over function, neglecting fabric properties. To avoid this, the technique involves creating as natural an asymmetry as possible—essentially a reversal of conventional thinking. It was a concept I'd never heard before, and I remember being profoundly impacted by it.

And the importance of the kinetic energy generated by the lines of the pattern.
One might assume that since Yohji's clothes aren't body-conscious—in fact, they're quite the opposite, featuring big silhouettes—the cutting lines wouldn't have much surface-level impact. But Yohji-san insisted that wasn't the case.
Even within big silhouettes, Yohji's pattern lines are actually highly curved. The kinetic energy created where these curves meet and join together is what makes the fabric move lightly and beautifully, ultimately forming the silhouette.

Back when we were still newbies, we rarely had the chance to speak with Yohji-san up close like that, so I remember everyone sitting across from him with nervous expressions, listening to his lecture.
At the time, I was so consumed by new design concepts that I paid little attention to the lines of the patterns, so it truly became a valuable period.
Though the lecture lasted only about ten minutes, it remains the only time, before or since, that I've been taught technical skills by someone else in my career as a fashion designer.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder: Was that particular mindset—common in the Showa era, especially among creative artisans—that “work isn't something you're taught, but something you grasp through your own efforts” really wrong? Were there truly no benefits to that approach?

In today's climate, where cost-effectiveness and efficiency are prioritized above all else, is there truly no difference between two individuals? One who mastered a skill entirely through instruction from others, step by step, and another who acquired it through their own unique method, albeit taking more time.
Is the time spent taking the long, winding road truly nothing but wasted effort?
Standing atop Everest, one climber arrives by helicopter, another summits on foot. The view from the peak is identical for both. But if the result is achieved, is it truly acceptable to disregard the process?
I was the last generation within the company to be exempted from attending that pattern lecture assigned to new hires (because I was transferred to the U.S. at the time it was introduced). I feel truly fortunate to have experienced that transitional period between eras.

As the president's lecture ended and the new hires nervously prepared to leave his office, Yohji-san—who had maintained a serious expression until then—suddenly smiled for the first time. “But what's more important than all that,” he murmured gently with a laugh, “is the human charm of the creators themselves.”

At the time, those words didn't strike me as particularly jarring or resonant. But as I've continued working in fashion design for so long, they've gradually, gradually begun to carry more weight. Now, I consider them incredibly important words. Because once we’ve mastered a certain level of skill and feel we’ve become competent, what lies beyond is a world where that alone won't cut it.

Even decades later, those final words from the lecture and Yohji's smile at that moment remain vividly etched within me.

Isshi KANAMARU 2026.3