Adults Flock to Calligraphy Schools

Despite the obvious shift away from daily handwriting, many still want their penmanship to look polished. Interest remains strong enough that in correspondence course rankings, a ballpoint-pen handwriting class now holds the top spot ahead of programs such as medical office administration or real estate licensing. Bookstores, too, have shelves lined with titles promising improved handwriting. I am no exception; even though I regularly write on cue cards for work, my handwriting often feels unsatisfying.

Seeking a solution, I visited a calligraphy classroom in Osaka that overturns the traditional image of ink and tatami mats. Inside the studio known as “pen.”, visitors are met with an interior that resembles a café rather than a classroom, complete with seasonal decorations—in this season, Christmas ornaments—to make the experience more approachable. The relaxed, stylish atmosphere has attracted a growing number of learners who want to practice without the formality of conventional calligraphy lessons.

Teaching me on this day was calligrapher Mito, whose works have been exhibited in many museums. I began with a handwriting assessment by writing my name, but Mito responded with a light laugh as she explained that it resembled a cheerful effort from an elementary school child, a comment that struck surprisingly hard.

According to Mito, neat handwriting comes down to understanding a set of simple visual rules that can be applied to many characters. The first key point is left-right balance: when the left component of a character has fewer strokes, it should be placed closer to the left to leave ample space for the right component. When both sides have many strokes, they should share the space equally. In my own name, the sansui radical is small because it has few strokes, while the left side of the character for “miki” requires a one-to-one balance.

The next rule concerns box-shaped characters. For example, in the character for “mouth”, horizontal and vertical strokes extend outward at the bottom and sides, while in other square-shaped characters, two lines extend downward. Applying this distinction helps stabilize characters like “辺” and “幹” in my name.

But the part that especially concerned Mito was the lower stroke of the character “也”. She pointed out that my version sagged too much, and that the line should extend more lightly and horizontally—almost like a shortcut—without dropping heavily downward.

As I took notes and repeatedly practiced by comparing my strokes against Mito’s samples, the relaxed setting became even more apparent when staff brought tea and cookies, adding to the café-like atmosphere. Enjoying a warm drink, I confided that my mother had long urged me to take penmanship lessons, criticizing my handwriting since childhood. Mito called her a good mother, and I reflected on how my parents chose the character for “mikiya” in hopes I would grow into someone strong and steadfast, like the trunk of a tree.

After 25 years of avoiding the issue, I finally faced my handwriting head-on. Two hours of focused practice later, I managed to write a version of my name that felt genuinely satisfying to me. Mito praised the improved “也”, noting that the shortcut stroke was properly executed. Comparing the before-and-after samples, the difference was striking.

Feeling newly confident, I found myself wanting to show the result to my mother. The “weak, drooping” character I once wrote had transformed into a firm, angular version that reflected the intention behind my name. The experience brought a sense of accomplishment I had never associated with handwriting before, and perhaps this winter is the perfect time for others to rediscover the simple pleasure of writing by hand.

Source: YOMIURI