I love the feel of japanese rice papers. The silky strands of fibre imperfectly pressed and knobbly yet smooth and lustrous. I love how ink saturates them, spreading in slow motion like red wine knocked over white linen. The texture and elusive tactility of all things hand-wrought is inimitably sublime. Refined tactility thus becomes almost a holy art, a sort of mountain to scale in fait main and to achieve it, I can only imagine, pleasure.