By Ann Wilson
Meriam Library Communications
California State University, Chico
Years ago, I had a favorite pair of jeans that fit exactly the way I wanted them to—comfortable, the right length, no belt needed. I wore them constantly; they were my “dog-walking” pants. All that love took a toll, and soon they were more holes than denim. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, so I began to mend them. Eventually, the jeans became more mending than pants. That effort to keep them alive led me to the Japanese art of boro and to the quiet beauty of imperfection.
Boro (襤褸), meaning “rags” or “tattered cloth,” began in rural Japan centuries ago. In remote farming regions, new fabric was hard to come by, so families patched and re-patched clothing, bedding, and workwear to make them last through long winters. Over generations, these layers of fabric and stitches formed unique textiles that told stories of care, resourcefulness, and endurance.
At its origin, boro wasn’t about fashion but survival. Cotton and indigo dye were valuable, so nothing was wasted. Old scraps were stitched over thin spots using sashiko, a visible running stitch that strengthened cloth while adding geometric beauty. What began as a means to stay warm became an accidental art form of indigo blues and white threads that reflected patience, creativity, and persistence.
When Japan adopted Chinese cotton cultivation techniques, cotton became a prized commodity in the colder northern regions where it could not be grown. A trade network emerged, with used cotton from western Japan sold to poorer rural villages in the north. As hardship deepened, families could no longer afford new fabric, so garments were made to endure years of use. Women carefully patched worn work clothes with scraps of fabric, often repurposing material from old futon covers or other garments. These pieces were dyed anew, restitched, and handed down through generations, each layer preserving the history of those who wore them.
The deep indigo coloring of boro garments became one of their defining features. Indigo plants grew abundantly in rural Japan, making the dye both accessible and affordable. Farmers also believed indigo had healing and antibacterial properties, useful for soothing skin and removing odors. As garments aged, the indigo faded to lighter shades, blending beautifully with new patches to create a rich mosaic of color and texture.
For much of its history, boro was tied to poverty and necessity, embodying the Japanese concept of mottainai, which translates roughly to “waste not, want not.” This principle emphasizes gratitude for what one has and the mindful reuse of materials. However, because boro was associated with hardship, it fell out of favor after World War II. As Japan modernized and embraced consumer culture, boro became a reminder of struggle and was largely forgotten.
Today, the story has come full circle. What was once dismissed as “poor people’s clothing” is now celebrated as a form of folk art. Museums, fashion designers, and sustainability advocates around the world draw inspiration from the philosophy and aesthetics of boro.
In an age of fast fashion and disposable trends, boro offers a meaningful alternative. It honors repair over replacement, care over consumption. Every patch is an act of preservation; every stitch, a reminder that “used” is not the same as “useless.” The look of boro—layered textures, visible mending, and fading indigo—embodies wabi-sabi, the appreciation of imperfection, alongside mottainai, the regret of waste. Together, they invite us to see beauty in wear and to value what endures.
If you have a well-loved piece of clothing or household textile, bring it in for our boro workshop Monday, December 8 from 4 to 6 p.m. in the Innovation Lab Makerspace. We’ll supply needles, thread, remnant fabric and provide some snacks so you too can appreciate mottainai and wabi-sabi through the wonderful and simple art of boro.
