A Tribute To My Father

Part 1: The Call

There are very few life events which feel truly life changing. Last month, I experienced one of them.

I’ve been debating with myself whether or not I wanted to keep things private or share a more personal side of my life for those who might find themselves here. The internet is forever after all and once the cat is out of the bag, I suppose there’s no going back. As much as I value my privacy, I realized it would be impossible to move forward, let alone heal, without sharing this moment in my life. To not do so would be to live in denial and ignore the reality that my life is never going to be the same.

On January 13, during an unusually sunny morning in Paris, I got the call that changed my life forever: my father passed away.

It was sudden. I screamed in denial, completely heartbroken that I wasn’t there by his side. My whole world flashed before my eyes. My past, present, and future, then it shattered.

Originally, I was planning on flying home to see my dad at the end of the month since during previous conversations with my family he was making strides and getting better in the hospital. He Facetimed me only a few days prior and he was in good spirits. He was calm and determined to make life in a hospitalized body work. He had no indication of collapse or worsening, just the physical toll that comes with trying to survive a deadly infection. I thought the worst of it was over and I’d be there to help him on his long road to recovery. I was planning on cooking for him, passing the time watching Anthony Bourdain reruns together on the couch, and showing him the latest pictures from my life abroad in Paris.

Instead, I found myself on a one-way flight back to LA. For fourteen long, painful hours, I held back my tears forming deep brims along my eyes and simply prayed for the moment I would be reunited with my family.

Part 2: The Roots

Third-Generation Japanese American, my dad grew up in Seattle, Washington. As a teenager, he was a ski-bum, a mediocre student, and car fanatic with dreams of being a Formula 1 Driver. With my grandparents working hard to build a post-internment camp middle class life, my dad moved to LA with lofty dreams of starting his own fine jewelry business.

My dad would always say that he hated calling himself a designer or an artist. He thought these job titles were too overused and as a result, meaningless. In truth, he was a designer but he was also a goldsmith, a business owner, a metalsmith, an artisan, a wax carver, a mold maker, and a creative director of his own life’s work. You could say my dad, like many fine jewelry designers from his generation, are the last of his kind.

In general, my dad tried as much as he could to keep his business world separate. He didn’t want me lured in by the superficial glamour that the luxury jewelry world could convey (it didn’t work but he tried). Instead, he wanted me to have a business mindset rather than a creative one. He wanted to instill traits that would optimize my brother and I's survival in the real world: ambition, curiosity, resourcefulness, strategic thinking, and confident execution. Like many Asian households, there’s at least one strict parent and that was always my dad. My mom and dad were often yin and yang. Softness and strength. Emotions and rationality. Fire and water. I could always depend on my mom for emotional support and reassurance while my dad provided guidance, wisdom, and occasionally, criticism. With my dad, I learned at a young age that sarcasm would get me in trouble and fishing for compliments would only be met with brutal honesty. Mom and dad were always my biggest fans. But unlike my mom who would be proud simply because I tried, my dad would be even prouder if I simply challenged myself. If there’s any singularity to my life it’s that my parents were devoted and present for every milestone.

Part 3: The Designer

Throughout the years, my dad’s world in design, intentional or not, shaped me. The world of fine jewelry is a fascinating eco-system of diamond dealers, gemstone setters, casters, polishers, and suppliers. My dad always said the most fascinating people in the world are those who mine and sell rare colored gemstones. Tanzanite from the mines of Tanzania and sapphires from Madagascar are just some of the few treasures held and worn by only the world’s richest.

It wasn’t until later in life that I started to understand the depth of my dad’s work, the artistry of his process, and his influence on the industry. As a little girl, I’d sit on his wax molding bench making figurines and sculptures from hot wax. Probably not the most child-friendly way to pass the time but there were no iPhones back then. Fake diamonds, known as Cubic Zirconia or “CZ’s” were often strewn across little black trays shifting through his small shop which were used for samples casted from bronze. He always wore a chunky pair of magnifying glasses over his head which turned greasy and dirty from working with chemicals, metals, and wax. Ultimately, a lot of chaos, sourcing, and painstaking labor would go into making a single piece of jewelry look flawless. Each piece was meant to be an heirloom, something to be intimately treasured, worn, and enjoyed forever.

In addition to saying that he didn’t want to be called a designer, he especially didn’t want to be known as an inherently Japanese designer. Though his designs are minimal by nature and often sculptural. He didn’t want any design to look like a cultural gimmick or novelty. He simply wanted the wearer to appreciate it for the same reasons he designed it: for its balance, weight, and unspoken expression. His designs are not for everyone and that’s the point. To have a point of view is to have an expression and appreciation for someone else’s point of view.

As a jeweler’s daughter, I’ve had the unique life experience of learning about the emotions behind not just jewelry but design itself. Intentional design, timelessness are all lessons rooted in patience and perseverance that I’ve observed by watching my dad pour his soul into his work. 

I intend on sharing and expanding more into the depths of my dad’s body of work to honor his memory. I hope you enjoy experiencing his work as much as I do. 

Part 4: The Grief

As much as I’d like to think I’m an empathetic person, I know now that absolutely no one can understand the depths of this level of loss without having gone through it themselves. Loss and grief can all be felt at different levels but the intensity of the shock, trauma, and unbearable pain felt all at once is deeper than I can even describe.

There are many sides to grieving but I identify it as two parts: the internal and the external.

The internal are all my feelings, emotions, thoughts, and levels of processing. It’s my moods, my habits, my comforts, and my level or lack of functioning. For example, lately my sleep schedule has been teetering depressive with a lack of appetite and loss of interest most days.

Then there’s the external. It’s the community that surrounds us. My family, my neighbors, my friends, colleagues my dad worked with, and those that knew him. The external support has been overwhelming. Though I often feel stuck and lost in my sorrow, I know my community of loved ones are ready and able to support me.

Beyond that, it’s dawned on me that I must build my life from scratch again. The weekly calls with my dad, family group chats, and go-to person for advice on adulting is no longer there and my worst nightmare has become my reality. 

I’m not really sure what I want these days or where I want to go. All I know is that I could not continue without acknowledging my loss and honoring one of the most important people in my life, my dad.

Until we meet again. Love you dad.

Kiana