ABOUT

Things with a quiet, distinct presence.

Tokuhiko Kise

The stool the old man at the town’s small bike shop uses when he works; the tools stored in the toolbox used to repair a flat tire – I am fascinated by the things that someone makes to fulfill some need. Especially by the fact that after years of use, they somehow look even better.

Back in junior high, I used to carry my bike up the mountain and race down. In the woods, I’d boil water, make instant coffee, and eat cookies, soaking in the moment. I admired that kind of “outdoor life”. When I got to high school and started thinking about what I was going to do with my life, I looked in a magazine – my only source of information at the time – and saw an article about furniture making at Matsumoto Technical School in Nagano. “Make furniture in the fresh air of Shinshu.” It sounded great; I visited right away. And that’s when I decided what I was going to do after graduation.

After a year of life at the school, I started to miss Osaka and went back. I started working at a sawmill about ten minutes away by bicycle from my house that produced tables and chairs. I worked there for three and a half years and then at age 23, I decided to work on my own. My skills were not yet refined and I had no money, but I had my own workshop and I was happy to be able to make the things that I wanted to. I wanted to use Japanese oak but it was too expensive, so I made chairs out of more affordable maple wood. I took the chairs to a store called Umeda Loft to see if I could sell them there, and to my surprise I was offered a display area in the store for two weeks. In a rush, I created a collection of furniture with the chairs at the center, took photos of them in front of the workshop, and made pamphlets at the print shop that just happened to be next door. The two weeks were a success; the collection was so well received that the display ended up lasting five years and became like a proper job.

In 1997 with Hiromi Karatsu, I opened TRUCK as a dual workshop and furniture shop.
Since then, almost thirty years have passed, and the same desire I had to create things I would want for myself lives on.

I draw out my ideas and visions over and over in a notebook. Poring over their measurements, materials, method, and refinements, I create prototypes. When I think an idea is about ready, I take it home and test it out, especially if it’s a sofa or chair. I try to read a book on one, maybe feel some discomfort I didn’t notice when it was in the workshop, and become unable to concentrate anymore. I make all the necessary improvements, and only then does it become a new product.

Over the years I’ve made a lot of furniture. I’ve been able to make whatever I want whenever I want. In retrospect, I begin to think that the details and finer elements have been accumulating. Of course it’s been fun and what I wanted, but somewhere in the back of my mind there’s been this urge to return to the simplicity of the early days.

But that same simplicity – I don’t think I’d be able to recreate today. Still, I’d like to try to capture that same purity, which is a huge challenge in itself. To create something that has a quiet yet distinct presence without adding too many different elements. To silently incorporate thirty years of experience while adding finesse. To create furniture with the same appeal as the soft, inimitable comfort of a plain knit that doesn’t say much but feels so good you want to wear it every day.

S.T,N.E. began with all of that in mind.

If TRUCK were a band, S.T,N.E. is the band member that went off and made a solo album. As if Kuwata-san of the Southern All Stars released an album under the name KUWATA BAND. So the band activities of “TRUCK” continue as before, and I’ll keep writing better songs.

In the end, both TRUCK and S.T,N.E. are fundamentally the same – furniture that I want people to use for a lifetime as their everyday “tools”. Indeed, I catch myself creating pieces in hopes that they will look better and feel more familiar in my hands as they age, just like the stool and toolbox in that little bicycle shop.