In October, the leaves gradually change color from the mountain tops, descending towards the feet of the mountains.
I feel as though I have been thrown into a piece of colorful brocade, when I am walking amongst the colorful trees.
As I hold red, yellow and orange leaves in my hands, I am fascinated by the symphony of colors that nature has woven together.

I take home the fallen leaves in my hand, and lay them between pieces of paper to make pressed leaves.
I have a stock of pressed leaves from last year and the year before, but I still cannot go home until I have some leaves to take home with me.

A while back, I made prints, such as etchings and lithographs.
I enjoyed going to a printmaking studio, to work on my prints with the artisan printer.
A world-famous artisan for his high skills, he had a full supply of jokes, and I spent the whole time there laughing.
Making prints involves fine detailed work, so I was not supposed to be laughing.
“Please don’t make me laugh,” I would say, struggling to keep my hands from trembling.

This autumn, I decided to make prints for an exhibition.
As I visited the workshop for the first time in a few years, I was welcomed by the familiar smell of chemicals used for the corrosion of copper plates and that of ink.
It was good to be back.

I made my master drawing using the many pressed leaves I kept in my box as motifs.
The pressed leaves that were piling up finally had a purpose.

Looking at my master drawing, the artisan printer asked,
“Are you going to draw only the leaves? No fruit or nuts?”
He showed me a beautiful Japanese horse-chestnut (tochi) that he had found in a nearby park that weekend.
“Oh, this will make a nice design motif, too” I thought, as I took the chestnut in my hand. “These are used for “tochi-mochi” rice cakes, aren’t they?” I said casually.
The artist replied,
“They say it is good to keep tochi.”
“Why?”
“You may become a “tochi (land)-mochi (owner).”

Even in Tokyo, looking out the window of the studio, I can see the leaves changing color.