Narrator: Every strand of hair is meticulously inspected in this calligraphy brush. That’s one reason it costs about $1,000. And if you combine it with top-of-the-line ink sticks, stones, and paper, calligraphy tools can set you back $8,000. So why would anyone spend so much just to write? Vincent: That practice has just sort of grown into a brush and ink practice on paper, up into a more modern usage that is really sort of like a refined, high form of art. Narrator: Here are the stories behind some of the priciest calligraphy tools, starting with solid inksticks made in Japan. This is ink. Toshitsugu Okabe is kneading it until it's as soft as a rice cake. It's imperative for him to be as thorough as possible, because a well-kneaded mixture becomes high-quality calligraphy ink. It takes at least four years of aging.

before these solid ink sticks can be sold, and even longer for the most expensive ones. A 200-gram high-grade ink stick from this producer, Kobaien, costs over $1,000. And for some other brands, prices can reach almost $2,000. Meanwhile, almost double the amount of commercial liquid India ink can go for less than $9. So, why are solid ink sticks so sought after? And why are they so expensive? It's January in Japan's Nara Prefecture. Ink producer Kobaien has been making Japanese calligraphy ink for 450 years. This type of ink, also known as sumi, is traditionally sold in the form of handmade solid ink sticks. To use the dry ink stick, calligraphers rub it on an ink stone to mix it with water. Sumi ink is typically black, but it can also be tinted brown or blue. The ingredients are simple: soot, animal glue, and perfume.

But the quality of these materials and the time-intensive techniques required to collect and process them have a large impact on the final price. It starts in this room,
lit by 100 oil lamps. This workshop has four rooms like this, where artisans produce all the soot they require to make ink. Two workers are in charge of this stage, each overseeing two
rooms and 200 oil lamps. They carefully manage the
vegetable oil in the lamps and gradually collect
soot throughout the day. In Japan, this process is
called catching smoke. Every day, artisans light all 400 lamps and cover each with a lid, the underside of which
collects soot as the oil burns. But they can't just leave the lid in the same place for hours, because overheating it will
prevent soot from accumulating. The flame must be off-center, and the artisans must rotate the lid every 20 minutes for two hours. The artisans scrape the
soot off the top of the lid.

They replenish the oil, and the process starts all over, for a total of five times a day for each lamp. These lamps contain rapeseed oil, the most common choice when producing high-grade ink sticks. Ink sticks made of soot from even more expensive oils, like paulownia, camellia, or sesame, can easily cost up to four times as much. But artisans must also consider other details, like the containers that hold the oil and the material of the wick. To ensure the quality of the soot, they use nonporous earthenware containers. Craftspeople in this workshop even weave the wicks themselves to exacting specifications. Narrator: The fineness of the soot grains determines the final price. Then there's the binding agent: animal glue. Unlike most of its modern liquid-ink counterparts, which use shellac, sumi ink typically uses cattle glue. For the most expensive ink sticks,

artisans sometimes mix
in other types of glue, such as donkey, deer, and goat. Kobaien says this improves the ink's glossiness and texture. The company buys glue
specially made for sumi ink, which comes in a dry, board-like form. Artisans dissolve it by mixing it with 70-degree-Celsius water, which takes over an hour and a half. According to Kobaien,
dissolving the glue slowly at a low temperature is key
to producing quality ink. Narrator: But animal glue
can have a bad smell, so sumi-ink makers add fragrance like borneol and musk to counteract it. Narrator: The next step is
to knead the soot, glue, and fragrance into a soft dough. The dough is kneaded every
morning by hand and foot. Toshitsugu takes care
to knead it thoroughly, so the soot and glue
are evenly distributed.

That way, the solid stick
can eventually dissolve into homogenous liquid ink. Once he's properly kneaded the dough, Toshitsugu cuts it into balls and weighs them for consistency. Then he places the balls into molds and uses a machine to
press them into shape. Improperly kneaded dough
results in ink sticks that don't produce rich color. Narrator: Kobaien makes
about 6,000 of its smallest, highest-quality ink sticks a month. It employs a handful of artisans for this, and the ones tasked with kneading require the most experience. It takes five years to train
as a sumi ink craftsperson, but 10 years before they're allowed to make high-quality ink. Kobaien produces almost 40,000 of its smallest sumi ink sticks
between October and April, when the cooler weather of winter ensures the glue can
harden during shaping. But the work isn't done yet. Drying the ink sticks too
quickly will cause them to crack.

making them unsellable. So artisans rely on a
traditional technique, using oak ash to slowly absorb
moisture from the sticks over a long period of time. They start by covering
the sticks in moist ashes. Each day, they swap yesterday's
ashes with drier ones. They repeat this process
for up to 40 days, until the ink sticks are about 70% dry. After, they hang the sticks with straw and air-dry them in-house
for up to six months. Properly drying and maturing an ink stick takes at least four years. The longer the sticks dry and age, the better they perform and
the more expensive they become. Kobaien itself has ink sticks that are hundreds of years old. Narrator: Finally, artisans polish them and apply the finishing touches. Now, they're ready to be sold to calligraphers like Sho Azakami. Calligraphers like Sho traditionally prefer ink
sticks to liquid ink.

But in order to write with a sumi ink stick, he must first transform it into a liquid. This requires an inkstone and water. Sho adds a small amount of water and rubs the ink stick on the stone, breaking it apart. He mixes the two to make the liquid ink, adding more water or more dry ink until he gets the consistency he needs. Narrator: But not all sumi inks provide him with the same writing experience. Narrator: 95% of Japan's sumi ink is made here, in Nara Prefecture. Sumi ink production in Japan is said to have begun in the seventh century, when Chinese ink-making methods were introduced by monks. By the 14th century, sumi ink use was flourishing in Japan. Though its primary use is for calligraphy, it's also often used for ink paintings, known as sumi-e. And because Kobaien must age its ink sticks

for several years before it can sell them. Consistent production is necessary, or else its supply won't meet the demand. But that doesn't mean the company wants to ramp up its production. Narrator: Kobaien strives to continue making calligraphy ink using the same techniques and of the same quality as its founders, a tool that translates the inkstick maker's skill onto the paper. Narrator: Next, we explore the perfectly crafted calligraphy brush. A high-quality brush gives a calligrapher greater control over the ink, allowing them to showcase their mastery through precise lines and strokes. Narrator: If a single hair is out of place on a high-end calligraphy brush, it must be removed. This intense attention to detail is part of why these brushes can cost over $1,000. You can find a beginner brush for less than $15, but for handmade brushes custom-designed for a master calligrapher, artisans spend months turning raw hair into a perfect brush tip.

But what makes these brushes unique? And why are they so expensive? Calligraphy is a respected
art form in Japan and has been practiced for centuries. But today, there aren't many
skilled brushmakers left. Yoshiyuki Hata is a
third-generation brushmaker and has been making calligraphy brushes since he was a teenager. Narrator: His family's
workshop in Kawajiri focuses on what they call no-compromise
craftsmanship. Each brush tip is handmade
by a single artisan. But making these brushes isn't easy. Narrator: For a master
calligrapher, like Daizo Kaneko, small differences in a brush's
hardness or ink retention can drastically affect
the lines it can produce. Narrator: The dozens of
steps involved in brushmaking start with selecting the hair. Different types of hair have a big impact on the price of a brush. Yoshiyuki's specialty
is one of the priciest:

goat hair. This hair was collected 50 years ago from the chest of Yangtze
River Delta white goats. Hair from this specific breed of goat is classified as Type III hair, based on its size, luster, and elasticity. It's a highly sought-after
hair for brushmaking because it's soft, yet durable and retains ink well. Narrator: But today, this type of hair is hard to find in large quantities and can cost thousands
of dollars per kilogram. Selecting high-quality hair
is done entirely by eye, and it's one of the hardest skills for a new brushmaker to learn. Narrator: But this long
process is just beginning. Once the hairs are chosen, they're boiled and combed
to remove any fluff. This process separates
straight, long hairs, which are ideal for brushmaking. One of the most time-consuming steps is aligning all of these hairs. This delicate work is key
to making a uniform brush.

but it's largely based on experience and instinct. Narrator: Throughout the process, brushmakers patiently remove any imperfect or damaged hairs. Narrator: At this stage, Yoshiyuki's vision for a brush starts to take shape. After trimming, he wets the hair and combines different bundles to create a brush that is dense and durable. Then he dips the hair in funori, an adhesive liquid made from seaweed, to hold the hairs together. Narrator: The finished brush tip is almost unrecognizable from the raw hair. But the precise work isn't over yet. Once the hair dries, Yoshiyuki ties up the ends and burns each one with a hot iron, binding the hairs together. Any mistake here could ruin a month of work. Finally, it's time to assemble the brush. Like the brush tip, each handle is custom-made. Narrator: This time-consuming process, along with the materials used, means these brushes can cost 100 times more

than a mass-produced brush. The price varies based on
the size and type of brush. A larger brush requires more hair, which naturally increases the price. Hata Bunshindou brushes
often cost around $1,300, but some brushes can cost a lot more. Narrator: Despite the high price, these brushes are essential tools for calligraphers like Daizo. He followed in the footsteps
of his father and grandfather and has been practicing
calligraphy for 20 years. Narrator: Some brushmakers
mix natural and synthetic hair to make brushes more affordable. But Yoshiyuki remains committed to using only the
highest-quality materials. Koso, Yoshiyuki's son,
will be the workshop's fourth-generation brushmaker. Narrator: But like many
traditional crafts, the future of brushmaking is unclear. Demand for handmade brushes is in decline. Some brushmakers have started
selling makeup brushes to bring in new customers. But the main concern for
Yoshiyuki and his family

is the lack of raw materials. Narrator: Koso Hata is less optimistic 
about the future of calligraphy,  but contemporary calligraphers like Vincent 
prefer to keep things traditional.  The process of putting a handmade brush to hand-ground ink is a part of the meditative calligraphy experience.  Vincent: That sort of experience of having this relationship 
with this beautiful inkstick, beautiful inkstone, in turn will affect that artist's energy as they're writing calligraphy.  So I think all of these things play into one another 
in a way that's completely interconnected,  and just shares a really important and 
beautiful relationship through history. Narrator: Kwon Hyuk-su will spend hours sawing this natural red rock into the perfectly sized
calligraphy inkstone. Narrator: He sells his
smaller inkstones for $750, but larger ones can cost more than $2,200. Some professional calligraphers prefer grinding their ink on an inkstone.

even though they could use
more affordable liquid ink. So, what makes these
inkstones so expensive? And why would calligraphers
still use this ancient method? Narrator: The process of creating
these expensive inkstones starts here, just 12 kilometers away from Hyuk-su's workshop
in Jincheon, South Korea. This is where he collects the red stone for his prized calligraphy inkstones. Narrator: Hyuk-su avoids
stones that have been exposed to air, as they
make for poor inkstones. It's important that
the stone isn't cracked, and the surface is as uniform as possible. The type of stone Hyuk-su
uses, Sangsan jaseok, is only available here. When he finds a stone that
meets all of his qualifications and is easy enough to lift, he heads back to his workshop in Jincheon. Now, he can start the
slow and grueling process of transforming it into
a sellable inkstone.

Hyuk-su must first saw the stone into the size he desires. He does this the traditional way — no chain saws or power tools, just physical force and a handsaw. To avoid injuring himself or damaging the stone, he secures it tightly. Narrator: It's too hard to do alone, so Hyuk-su's friend assists. Narrator: They push and pull the saw until it's a little over an inch deep, where Hyuk-su can begin to chip away at the parts he doesn't need. Narrator: But manipulating this rock doesn't get any easier. Hyuk-su's only tools are chisels, grinding stones, and brushes for dusting debris. Narrator: He does every part of the process with his hands and shoulders. A beautiful inkstone is more valuable, so Hyuk-su micromanages every step to make sure no flaws show up in the finished product. He flattens the bottom so it's perfectly level.

Trying to fix it later will risk damaging the design he'll engrave
into the other side. Most inkstones have three basic elements: a flat surface to rub the ink stick, a groove where the ink accumulates, and a border where
artisans create designs. The flat grinding surface
slopes into the collection pool, so the water and ground
ink can flow easily. This shape is vital to the
inkstone's functionality and value, so it must be perfected. Narrator: After countless
hours of chiseling and scraping millimeter by millimeter, the surface is complete. Now it's time for the border. Today, Hyuk-su is working on
a relatively simple design: plum blossoms. Narrator: He engraves every
minute detail along the border. More intricate designs
require more labor and time, so they're more expensive. But while the hardest part is done, Hyuk-su says the inkstone
is not yet worthy

of a high price. That happens during polishing, which gives the inkstone
its most important property: being smooth, yet sharp. Hyuk-su uses an abrasive stone and sandpaper to polish the inkstone. This creates an overall smooth look. But Hyuk-su says the process also sharpens the outer layer of stone particles. That way, the stone
can grind the ink stick into a fine powder. Narrator: The sharpness
of the stone particles directly impacts how well
the inkstone performs and, in turn, its final value. Narrator: Once he's
satisfied with the result, Hyuk-su applies lacquer for
protection and longevity. The inkstone is now ready for
sale and use by calligraphers. Vincent Chong is a contemporary
calligraphy artist. They use inkstones and ink
sticks for some of their work, even though liquid ink is popular with modern calligraphers
due to its ease of use.

The first thing that I think of is either the sound or the smell of grinding ink. Narrator: Vincent says inkstones allow for a level of control that bottled ink can't offer. Vincent: So, using an inkstone allows you to really tailor the quality of the ink to exactly what you want to do, and it also just seems to work out better always. And whatever additional stuff is in a bottle of ink just isn't quite as nice on the paper. I think at this point you can sort of see that the laborious quality of this process creates some energetic or psychological feeling of preciousness with this little bead of ink that you've worked so diligently to produce, which I guess just makes the experience feel more special. Narrator: While Vincent isn't in the position to buy a multi-thousand-dollar inkstone at the moment, it's something they aspire to. Vincent: Yeah, I feel like it would give you

this sort of energetic connection to another craftsperson, another artist. And in that regard, I think
it just makes the experience a little more special. Because so much care has been taken on the part of that artisan just so that you can have this really special experience of your
own in your own art practice, of your own sort of creative,
generative kind of practice. I guess that's a little bit scary to use something that's so precious. But, I mean, it's funny because we're talking so
specifically about rocks, and stones have been just
around for such a long time, and humans have had this
sort of fascination with them for such a long time that treating them preciously
feels really natural. But at the same time, they have this life, and you should sort of
allow them to engage with other parts of the
physical world in a way that, I don't know, gives them the
generosity that they deserve.

having been around so long. Narrator: Hyuk-su similarly admires the preciousness of the stones. He appreciates the properties of Sangsan jaseok that make it invaluable to his work and craft. Narrator: Sangsan jaseok inkstones were considered a luxury product during the Joseon Dynasty, which began around 1400. But production died down during the Japanese colonization of Korea in the 1910s. But Hyuk-su, a third-generation master and one of four remaining inkstone artisans in Korea, is putting it back on the map. Narrator: While much of the inkstone industry has been mechanized, Hyuk-su believes the only way to keep Sangsan jaseok inkstones alive is by making them by hand. And for contemporary calligraphers like Vincent, this tradition is a constant source of inspiration as they make their own space in the long and continuing history of calligraphy. Being able to reconnect with the brush marks and thus

sort of, the bodily gestures
of artists of the past. I think was restorative in
a way that helped me feel connected to this artistic
lineage and culture. Especially as queer
and trans people, we — I feel like it feels so clear that our communities have been at the heart of artistic communities for
all of human history, whether or not we've been erased, whether or not our stories
have been passed down. So being able to sort
of access those artists who maybe were queer or trans. But we just don't have
those stories today. I think being able to access their work through calligraphy was
sort of one of the things that drew me to the practice. Narrator: Finally, calligraphers can't expect a flawless 
final piece without quality paper.  China's Xuan paper, Japan's washi paper, and Korea's Hanji paper  are all designed to control ink absorption and 
withstand the test of time.

Narrator: This swampy mush is about to become some of the world's most expensive paper. At first, hanji is barely visible, and once it emerges from this bath, it's delicate. But after it dries, Korean paper can last thousands of years. The most expensive version of a single sheet this size costs over $22. So, what makes hanji so long-lasting? And why is it so expensive? Kang Gapseok has been making hanji for 45 years. The fibers he's washing were once the bark of a paper-mulberry tree. Narrator: Hanji is a versatile material that's prized within Korea. Today, it's used for everything from calligraphy to clothing. And because of its strength, institutions like the Library of Congress and the Louvre have used hanji to restore centuries-old books. The secret to its strength are these long, weblike fibers and the traditional method of sheet forming.

After boiling, bleaching, and painstakingly cleaning each fiber, it's time to head inside. Kang uses this machine to transform the tough fibers into a mushy pulp. Narrator: Now it's time to turn pulp into paper. Fibers flow across the bamboo frame and settle into transparent layers, almost invisible to the naked eye. But Kang sees what we can't. He knows the exact moment when a sheet is fully formed. After decades of papermaking, he's able to produce 350 sheets per day. Narrator: The amount of fibers on a sheet and their direction determines the strength of the paper. Moving the frame in one direction aligns the grain. But the most expensive paper is made by agitating the fibers in multiple directions. This is slower, but it evenly distributes the fibers, yielding stronger paper. Each weight of paper requires a different amount of pulp, and Kang's experience is the key to getting good results.

Narrator: Careful sheet forming is important because the fiber structure determines how a paper holds up over time, especially if it's being folded. Kang says this process can take four years to learn. And he has to be careful, because at this stage, hanji is still delicate. Narrator: He uses an automated pump to speed up the process, but it still requires close attention. Narrator: Despite hanji's versatility, the ingredients are simple: water, fiber, and glue. Premium, conservation-grade hanji uses a natural glue made from hibiscus root, which disperses the fibers across a sheet. This type of hanji has a neutral pH, which is one of the requirements to be classified as permanent paper, and it's ideal for restoring old documents. In fact, one study found that hanji aged two to three times slower than paper from medieval Europe. For less expensive hanji, Kang uses a chemical glue.

While Kang immerses himself in flowing water, the other side of the workshop is dedicated to drying the freshly formed sheets. Yoon Jungae tears the crisp, clean hanji off a hot plate set to 88 degrees Celsius. She's been working with hanji for 40 years. Narrator: She dries paper used for conservation at a lower temperature, around 40 to 50 degrees. Narrator: After a lifetime of working with hanji, this process has become muscle memory. Her horsehair brush is an extension of her hand, used to smooth out hanji without scratching it. This workshop used to be bustling with dozens of employees, but Kang says he's had to downsize as demand has decreased. Narrator: Artisans sell the most expensive hanji to institutions and museums that use it for conservation, like repairing pages in books or even fixing sculptures. But Kang says demand for this type of hanji

isn't that high. It's also more expensive
and labor-intensive to make, since he must beat the fibers by hand instead of pulverizing
them in this machine. In Korea, hanji has been
used for over 1,000 years. But in the West,
conservationists often train on washi paper from Japan. And while some Western institutions have recognized hanji's quality, widespread use abroad isn't common. Kang says he's stopped exporting hanji and only sells domestically. In recent years, the
South Korean government has started initiatives to
increase demand for hanji, but it will take time before artisans feel the
benefits of these programs. Narrator: Despite
hanji's uncertain future, artisans like Kang continue to
maintain this ancient craft. And many are working tirelessly to bring new uses and awareness, hopeful that the hanji industry can last as long as the paper itself.

Why High-End Calligraphy Is So Expensive | So Expensive | Business Insider

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