Yokohama in Bloom: Hand-Tinted Postcards of Memory
There are objects that outlive their function and become witnesses. A postcard, for instance, once carried a message across oceans; now it carries time itself. These hand-tinted collotype postcards of Yokohama, composed and inscribed by my great-grandfather between 1917 and 1918, are among those witnesses—small rectangles of watercolor and intention that speak of travel, perception, and the quiet seduction of a world in transition.
(For readers unfamiliar with the term, a collotype postcard was an early photographic print made on glass plates and developed in delicate shades of black and sepia. Each image was then colored by hand with mineral pigments and watercolor, using brushes fine enough to tint the reflection in an eye or the blush of a petal. The process, meticulous and artisanal, predates modern printing and gives these postcards their almost painterly depth.)
Theater Street, Isezakichō Dori
Each image holds a fragment of Japan at the cusp of transformation. Along the Theater Street of Isezakichō, banners ripple and lanterns flare above a promenade of playhouses and teahouses. “The Broadway of Yokohama,” he wrote, seeing in its gaiety a kind of shared sensibility between worlds. It was a thoroughfare where East and West performed side by side—Japanese variety theatres (yose) and early cinemas showing Western films, kimonos brushing against tailored suits, rickshaws yielding to carriages. The scene is not spectacle but coexistence—a city rehearsing its future while honoring its traditions.
Jizozaka Street
From there, his postcards trace an ascent to Jizozaka, a narrow street that winds up the hillside through rows of shopfronts and wooden dwellings. “A characteristic street,” he observed, “though most are only half as wide.” In one margin he marked an arrow toward a passing rickshaw—“a two-wheeled carriage pulled by a coolie.” The phrase, now archaic, reflects the language of his time, but his tone is measured and observational. What he recorded was not judgment, but rhythm—the daily choreography of labor and resilience, the human current that carried the city forward long before the hum of engines.
Momijizaka (Cherry-Blossom Hill)
In Momijizaka, spring unfolds in deliberate grace. Cherry blossoms arch overhead, their petals hand-tinted by an artisan’s brush in shades of rose and ash. Beneath them, women in layered silk move with quiet composure. “Very well dressed, high-class,” he noted. The remark, though simple, reveals an ethnographer’s eye—one attuned to textile and posture, to the unspoken language of appearance.
In early twentieth-century Japan, every detail of dress carried meaning: the length of a sleeve might denote youth or marriage, the fold of an obi could signal rank, formality, or season. Clothing was not mere ornament but communication—a visible syntax of belonging, dignity, and refinement. One can almost sense the faint dust of petals settling on a silk sleeve, the soft rustle of fabric answering the wind, as if gesture itself were part of the landscape.
Yokohama Park
The final card, of Yokohama Park, returns to the season in full bloom. Children in patterned kimono wander among trees where pink petals drift like memory made visible. My great-grandfather described the light, the air, and the dignity of those he met. There is no trace of haste or conquest in his tone—only the stillness of someone aware he is standing within another culture’s rhythm. He does not record spectacle, but presence—the pause between seeing and understanding.
Reflections on Craft and Continuity
To read these postcards today is to enter a dialogue between observation and empathy. His handwriting, fine and deliberate, moves not as the tourist’s note but as a field record of feeling. Each line becomes an anthropology of attention, capturing the textures of a city negotiating its future while preserving its soul.
The artisans who tinted these photographs were, in their own right, cultural interpreters. With hair-fine brushes and mineral pigments, they transformed monochrome surfaces into atmospheres of scent and temperature. Their precision anticipates the ethos of Acanthus Home itself—the restoration of what is precious not to perfect it, but to let its history breathe. Color here is not embellishment; it is revelation.
Through their quiet luminosity, these postcards remind us that progress was never rupture but conversation. Telegraph poles and tiled roofs, parasols and tramlines, coexist not in opposition but in graceful continuity. The same sensibility guides our work at Acanthus Home—to see design not as invention, but as inheritance.
To hold one of these postcards is to hold a fragment of that conversation—a delicate treaty between documentation and dream. It is, for me, an inheritance not only of paper but of perception. Within their tinted skies and deliberate handwriting lies the truth of our philosophy: that beauty survives through stewardship, and that true luxury begins where memory is preserved with care.
At Acanthus Home, we continue that dialogue through restoration. Each antique we revive carries its own geography of memory, its own quiet transformation. Like these postcards, every piece is both artifact and witness, linking past craftsmanship to present intention. Explore our current collection to experience how history lives again in form, texture, and grace.
