The photo above features Sue.

Sue is very nice. Sue is also blissfully unaware of what Japanese armour actually is. If you asked her what a kohaze was, there is every chance she would blink twice, look for the nearest exit, and begin breathing into a paper bag.

And that is precisely why I do not employ Sue, or anyone like her.

I also do not have a grand posh London gallery with polished floors, dramatic lighting, someone offering mineral water, and a mysterious woman in black pretending to know what she is talking about.

Why? Because in the end, you pay for all of that nonsense.

The photo above is my own private gallery, which is probably the best kept secret in the town where I live.

I do not invite people to visit, partly because it is private, and partly because the whole thing is really just an excuse for me to fill a room with armour and stare at it.

I rotate the displays when I remember, which is not on any fixed schedule and depends entirely on whether I happen to walk in, move something, and think, “That looks better there.” There is no reception desk, no gift shop, no lady in black offering sparkling water, and absolutely no talk of “an immersive curatorial experience”. It is just me, some very good armour, and a room that periodically gets rearranged for no reason other than I felt like it.

So without the overheads and the money required to keep Sue happily in lipstick I am at times able to wow you guys.

MOVIE
I’ve just wrapped work on the new H********r film, where both of these armours were used as set dressing in one of the main sets. The move is so Blockbuster kick-arse it’s killing me now having to wait for the IMAX to screen it. And it’s From the makers of John Wick and that Mission Impossible stuff.

As the hire went exceptionally well, I’ve decided to pass some of that on and offer both suits at a level I would not normally consider.

Each armour is normally listed at £25,000, but for this month only I am reducing them to just £15,000 each. Yup!

Both armours are in near mint condition, and opportunities like this are rare. To miss pieces of this quality at this price would be criminal.

I am also happy to accept payment by instalments: £1,000 deposit, followed by three payments of £4,666.67-ish. Term to be agreed between each party.

This reduced price will be honoured for this month only. After that, both armours return to their full listed price, put back in my gallery and will never be discounted again.

These are museum grade, but have never been in a museum.

UPDATE: Both armours are now sold.

Recently I saw a European dealer list a menpō as “Circle of Zesai”. It was not a bad description in the sense that the mask clearly shared certain recognisable traits. It is misdescribed as a ryubu men, when ititss clearly a ressei menpo. But it prompted a deeper question.

What do we actually mean when we say “Zesai”?

Over the past decade Noguchi Tōemon Zesai has become something of a badge of honour among serious collectors in the west. A mask associated with his name is now a highly desirable acquisition. Prices have risen accordingly. Unsurprisingly, masks that display even one or two of the so-called Zesai characteristics are often pulled into that orbit.

Before we follow the market, it is worth following the evidence.

Who Was Zesai?

Noguchi Tōemon Zesai lived in the later seventeenth century, active roughly between 1690 and 1705. He appears not in armour maker lineages, but in martial genealogies. He was a strategist and an iai master connected to established schools of military thought, and he served within the orbit of the Torii family.

One eighteenth century manuscript, the Meikō zukan of 1732, records something crucial. It states that Zesai had armour made by the armourer Mitagami Genjū.

Not that he made it. Not that he signed it. Not that he ran a workshop.

He commissioned it. He was the client.

Helmets associated with him were made by Saotome craftsmen. Cuirasses were signed by Mitagami Genjū. Masks were likely produced in established Nara workshops. Zesai emerges not as a katchūshi, but as a directing intelligence selecting and specifying from the best specialists available. There is no evidence thats puts him as a urushi-artist either.

That distinction matters.

The Zesai Mask Programme

There is a recognisable group of menpō that form what we might properly call a Zesai design programme. These masks sit within a narrow historical window at the end of the seventeenth century and display a cohesive integration of features.

Common characteristics include:

• A third otayori no kugi beneath the lower lip
• Controlled, deliberate tengu modelling
• Assertive but balanced dental treatment
• Moustache and beard execution that feels integrated, not theatrical

What defines these masks is not one detail, but coherence. The features work together. The construction feels intentional. There is discipline in the design.

That coherence reflects commissioning vision.

Fig 1. This is a superb example of a Zesai programme mask.

Formed as a tengu, it displays the defining elongated beak and the extended chin peg beneath the lower lip. The dental treatment is non standard, adding to the forceful expression.

The painted moustache and beard are also unconventional. Rather than being simply attached hair, they appear to be part of a deliberate embellishment programme executed by a skilled urushi artist.

Certain areas have been built up with ground layers to create relief, and the surface “hair” is rendered in shibo-urushi nuri, incorporating silver. The silver content has now tarnished, producing a subdued metallic tone consistent with age. Traces of maki-e decoration remain visible within the lacquer surface, confirming that this is not merely a functional mask, but one conceived with aesthetic intention.

Another example, note the silvered teeth and use of shibo urushi nuri to simulate the facial hair. also with raised lines. I photographed these examples in France during a museum exhibition. At the time I recognised them immediately as Zesai related masks, but that label quickly became secondary. What interested me far more was not attribution, but aesthetic language.

Once you move beyond the metalwork construction, the true embellishment lies in the lacquer.

The underlying iron structure shows the expected confidence of late seventeenth century work, and we can reasonably assume that Zesai had input at the commissioning stage. Yet the real artistry, the element that transforms these pieces from armour into statement objects, is surface treatment.

Most of the bases appear to be either shu-urushi vermillion based red or employ a form of tetsu-sabiji urushi nuri, creating a russet red, or dark brown iron effect. This is achieved by incorporating clay and mineral components into the lacquer, producing a textured, oxidised appearance that imitates worked iron while retaining the stability of urushi.

There is also clear use of shibo urushi. A protein additive, such as egg white or tofu extract, is introduced into the lacquer, producing a controlled stippling when cured. In some cases this has been combined with pigments to create subtle tonal variation across the surface, almost painterly in effect.

The moustaches and beards are particularly revealing. Rather than relying solely on applied hair, some examples show painted linear work used to create the illusion of facial hair. These lines are deliberate, expressive and clearly artistic rather than functional. They suggest the hand of a lacquer artist working in relief and line, not merely coating armour components.

Taken together, these techniques demonstrate something important. The aesthetic programme is as much about texture and surface illusion as it is about metal form. These masks were conceived visually. They engage light. They reward close inspection.

It is difficult to imagine such pieces being subjected to the abrasion of active service. They feel composed, deliberate and theatrical in the most refined sense. They were not battlefield equipment in the older Sengoku spirit. Therefore when we see damaged versions that is simply what it is, damage.

They are art objects wearing the language of armour.

How Influence Spreads

When a high ranking retainer commissions a distinctive mask and appears publicly in it, others notice. Workshops notice as well. Armourers are craftsmen, but they are also practical. If a particular configuration attracts admiration, elements of it will reappear in later commissions.

Over time, individual features circulate.

This is not evidence of a workshop “circle”. It is evidence of influence and fashion. Late seventeenth century Japan was at peace. Armour had become part protection and part identity theatre. Successful design ideas spread naturally through elite circles.
Zesai Masks and Zesai Features

It is helpful to separate two things.

A true Zesai programme mask displays a cohesive integration of multiple defining traits within the appropriate historical window.

A mask with Zesai features may display one or two of those traits without forming the complete programme.

There is nothing inferior about the latter. In many ways they are fascinating objects, showing how a design philosophy radiated outward. But precision helps us understand what we are looking at.

Looking at the mask above, the question immediately presents itself: is it Zesai?

It certainly carries what we now recognise as Zesai features. The tengu form is unmistakable, with its pronounced beak and extended lower profile. The elongated chin peg beneath the lip is present. The moustache and beard are not applied hair but rendered in lacquer, creating the illusion of facial hair through painted line and subtle surface build-up. The base surface appears to use a sabiji-type treatment, producing that controlled russet iron effect so characteristic of late seventeenth century aesthetic armour.

On first encounter, many would confidently say, “Yes, Zesai.”

But this is precisely where the issue lies.

At what point does a mask move from having Zesai features to being a Zesai mask?

Is it the presence of the third otayori?
The extended chin peg?
The lacquer illusion of hair?
The tengu expression?
The use of textured urushi?

Individually, none of these elements are exclusive. Workshops borrow. Artists repeat successful ideas. Patrons request what they admire. A single feature proves nothing. Even two or three may simply indicate influence.

A true Zesai programme mask displays cohesion. The metalwork, the surface treatment, the proportions and the decorative language work together as a unified aesthetic statement within a narrow historical window. It is not the presence of traits that defines it, but the integration of them.

This mask sits firmly within the Zesai aesthetic orbit. It demonstrates clear influence. It speaks the same visual language. But whether it crosses the threshold into being labelled “Zesai” depends on how strictly we are prepared to define that term.

And that is the heart of the matter.

The danger is not in recognising influence. The danger is in allowing a handful of fashionable features to become a shortcut for attribution. If every mask with an elongated chin peg and lacquered moustache becomes Zesai, then the term loses meaning.

The real question is not whether a mask resembles Zesai.

The real question is whether it embodies the complete programme.

Fig.2 This mask is, technically speaking, a Zesai.

But only just.

Without the small metal pins fixed at the ears, it could very easily be dismissed as merely “in the style of”. Those pins are the critical link.

At first glance we see all the familiar surface traits. The deep bengara urushi produces that rich russet iron effect. Black pigmented lacquer has been used to paint the moustache and goatee, creating the illusion of facial hair rather than relying on applied hair. The overall tone and finish sit comfortably within the Zesai aesthetic language.

Yet the teeth are entirely standard. The modelling of the mouth does not display the more assertive non-standard dental treatment seen on stronger programme examples. Structurally, this is a conventional Nara ressei menpō.

What we are looking at is, in essence, a standard Nara mask that has received an elevated lacquer treatment and had two additional ear pins affixed. Those pins alter the reading. They pull the object into the Zesai creation.

And this is precisely the point.

Remove the pins and we have a beautifully finished Nara menpō with Zesai-like decoration. Add the pins and it crosses the threshold into being catalogued as Zesai.

The attribution hinges on small structural interventions layered over an otherwise standard base form. The pins are the link here. And they remind us how fine the line can be between influence and programme.

Fig.3 Now let us compare this to the mask listed by Piva.

At first glance they are almost identical. The same red bengara ground. The same russet iron illusion. The same painted black moustache, goatee or beard. The same disciplined Nara ressei base form.

The crucial difference?

The pins.

The Piva example does not have them.

Structurally, the two masks are so close that one could easily argue they emerged from the same workshop environment. Remove the pins from the first mask and we would likely catalogue it as a well-finished Nara menpō with Zesai features. Leave them in place and it crosses into Zesai territory.

So how are we to know that the Piva mask could not be Zesai?

What if it represents an earlier phase? A concept before the additional ear pins became part of the programme? We see this kind of development elsewhere. Early Saotome helmets, for example, often lack the fully developed traits that later become diagnostic. Design programmes evolve. Key identifiers harden over time. What begins as an experiment becomes a signature.

If that logic applies to helmet schools, why should it not apply here?

The difficulty is that we are working retrospectively. We identify “key indicators” because they survive on a group of known examples. But those indicators may represent a mature phase rather than the beginning. Earlier iterations may have been simpler, less codified, still forming.

This is where attribution becomes uncomfortable.

If a mask aligns in almost every respect but lacks one later structural addition, is it excluded? Or does it sit at the edge of the programme, perhaps representing development rather than imitation?

The comparison forces us to confront something important. The line between Zesai and “in the Zesai style” is not always structural. Sometimes it is chronological. Sometimes it is developmental. And sometimes it may simply be incomplete evidence.

Which brings us back to the central issue: how rigidly do we define the term Zesai? I hurts my brain some days.

Why This Makes Zesai More Interesting

Stripping away the mythology does not diminish Zesai. It clarifies him.

He was not an armourer surrounded by apprentices. He was a samurai whose aesthetic decisions were compelling enough to shape a distinctive group of masks and gusoku during a brief period around 1690 to 1705. Established workshops executed those commissions. The resulting design language proved memorable and influential.

What survives is not a school in the workshop sense.

It is the afterlife of a successful idea.

Understanding that distinction allows us to look more carefully, collect more intelligently, and appreciate these masks not simply as prestige labels, but as expressions of late seventeenth century martial identity. And that, in the end, is far more interesting than any fashionable phrase.

Now let me turn to the two masks I currently have for sale. They are not Zesai.

At least, not in the strict programme sense we have discussed. They lack the full structural cohesion. They do not present the complete integration of traits within that narrow late seventeenth century window. To label them definitively would be irresponsible.

And yet.

They retain that feeling.

The same disciplined red bengara surface. The same measured tengu modelling. The same quiet theatricality that sits somewhere between armour and art.

They belong to the aesthetic orbit. This, in many ways, is the uncomfortable truth. We can attempt to define what solidly constitutes a Zesai mask. We can identify structural markers. We can debate pins, otayori configuration, lacquer stratigraphy and workshop lineage. We can compare examples and argue developmental phases.

But we do not possess dated signatures. We do not have a documented workshop ledger. We do not have a complete evolutionary sequence.We are working with surviving objects and patterns.

And patterns are rarely absolute.

What we do know, with certainty, is this: Zesai masks have a feel to them. A composure. A balance between restraint and expression. A surface language that engages light and rewards close inspection. That feeling is what collectors respond to. That is what drives desirability.

I hope this has opened the subject a little wider for you. More importantly, I hope it has sharpened the way you look at these masks. The nuances matter. Construction matters. Surface matters. Context matters.

Masks will continue to appear on the market, some confidently labelled, others more cautiously described. Ultimately it falls to the individual to look carefully, to draw upon experience, and to recognise when something genuinely stands out. Not because of a fashionable name, but because of its coherence, its atmosphere and its presence.

That discernment is what turns interest into understanding.

Both of the masks discussed here are currently available. If you are interested in acquiring one of them, you are very welcome to contact me directly before they appear on the website.

As ever, I genuinely appreciate your engagement, your questions and your thoughtful responses to the pieces I write. It is that shared curiosity and discussion that keeps this subject alive and evolving.

Quality in the Age of Peace

Following the Siege of Osaka, which marked the final destruction of the Toyotomi house and the consolidation of Tokugawa authority, armour production gradually ceased to be driven by urgent battlefield necessity. By the 1620s and 1630s, as the Edo period entered its settled phase, the conditions that had sustained large scale wartime manufacture had fundamentally changed.

During the Sengoku era, from the mid fifteenth century until 1615, even the finest armour had to balance durability with speed of production. Commanders required equipment in quantity, repairs were constant, and workshops operated under pressure. In the decades after 1615 those pressures eased. Time constraints diminished, materials could be selected with greater care, decorative refinement could be pursued without compromise, and construction became increasingly deliberate.

Under the patronage of powerful domains such as the Maeda clan, whose Kaga fief was established in the early seventeenth century, armourers worked within stable, salaried structures. During the tenure of Maeda Toshitsune, who ruled from 1616 until 1639, skilled craftsmen were consolidated within the domain. This early Edo framework encouraged continuity of technique and the preservation of specialist knowledge. Through the seventeenth century and into the eighteenth and nineteenth, Kaga workshops developed a recognisable coherence of style in which refinement became a hallmark of production.

By the mid to late Edo period, approximately 1700 to 1868, armour had assumed a new role. It remained a formal requirement within the samurai class, yet it also functioned as a statement of lineage, authority and domain sophistication. Freed from the demands of mass wartime output, leading armourers could refine plate curvature, rivet alignment, lacquer finish and surface treatment to a level rarely achievable under campaign conditions.

Refinement Without Excess

By the eighteenth century many regions saw armour become progressively larger in silhouette and more heavily embellished. High crests, exaggerated kuwagata and lavish fittings transformed some suits into overt displays of wealth. Earlier martial forms were revived with heightened ornamentation, and in certain cases spectacle overtook mobility.

This trajectory, however, was not universal.

Within disciplined traditions fostered under the Maeda, a parallel standard endured. Certain armours retained structural integrity and coherent proportion. Decoration enhanced rather than overwhelmed construction.

The present armour belongs to that lineage. It reflects rank and resources through quality and finish, yet it does not lapse into theatrical excess. Plate curvature remains purposeful, weight distribution is considered, and the configuration preserves defensive logic. It is both a status object and a fully realised suit of armour.

Material Authority: The Language of Iron

One of the most striking characteristics of this suit is the confident use of russet iron in a rich chocolate brown tone. Iron is not concealed beneath heavy lacquer but deliberately displayed. The kabuto is of momonari form, rising with controlled curvature. The dō is a byō tōji okegawa ni mai type, its riveted plates clearly expressed. The sangu follow an Oda influenced configuration, formed from iron plates joined with mail, favouring structural clarity over disguise.

In the Sengoku period iron was often scarce and recycled. Armour could be dismantled, re riveted and concealed beneath lacquer, reinforcing the adage that one never truly knows what lies under the surface. Large, uninterrupted iron plates offered no such concealment. Their quality was exposed to scrutiny. For this reason such construction was inherently expensive.

Even in the Edo period, when iron imports increased, solid plate construction retained its association with authenticity and wealth. Within regulated domain workshops the exposure of russet iron became a declaration of confidence. There was nowhere to hide inferior workmanship.

Refined Detail and Surface Sophistication

Structural integrity is matched by cultivated detailing. Egawa stencilled deer hide appears consistently across the suit, on the fukigaeshi turn backs of the kabuto, the upper plates of the dō, the tops of the sode shoulder guards, the armoured apron haidate and even the sasa hire edging of the sangu. This repetition creates cohesion and subtle textural contrast against the iron.

Shakudō, the copper and gold alloy that develops a deep black patina, forms the fukurin of the kabuto and frames the clan mon on the fukigaeshi. Its restrained use provides depth without ostentation.

The upper dō plates are cut in the yamamichi style, forming a rising mountain profile across the cuirass, both. Decorative iron byō punctuate the surface with measured rhythm. The lacquer of the ita mono plates demonstrates advanced shibo urushi nuri using a tataki technique. The textured surface has been refined almost flat, allowing gloss to sit on raised areas while deeper purple tones settle in the recesses. The effect is subtle and easily overlooked, yet technically outstanding.

These aesthetics do not announce themselves loudly. They reward careful observation.

A True Gusoku

The term gusoku denotes more than completeness. In its strict sense it describes a coherent ensemble conceived as a unified commission. This armour qualifies fully.

It was constructed as a single undertaking rather than assembled later from disparate elements. The iron matches in tone and texture throughout. Imported silks on the sangu echo the egawa used on the dō and kabuto. Kikko elements align with the tate age of the suneate (those padded armoured hexagons) and correspond with the armoured collar of the dō. Lacquered sode plates attached very high over kohire winglets. Each component interacts with the next in a continuous visual language.

This is not simply a matching suit. It is a unified conception from inception to completion.

What Makes This Armour Kaga?

Not every armour produced in Kaga remained within the province. Many were commissioned by clients in other domains. Attribution therefore rests not on later ownership but on workmanship.

Kaga identification lies in accumulation rather than singular markers. The iron is left visible and assured. The rivets are disciplined. Proportion is composed. Two boldly placed inome appear at the rear of the hachi, integrated rather than flamboyant. The yamamichi shaping of the dō introduces rhythm without excess. The tataki urushi nuri surface demonstrates lacquer mastery long associated with Kaga workshops.

When iron, lacquer, textile and decorative vocabulary align in this manner, the case strengthens. The armour does not declare its origin dramatically. It secures it through consistency and restraint.

Condition and Preservation

The rarity of this armour lies equally in its preservation. It has not been subjected to prolonged display or environmental stress. Stored carefully for many years, it remains in outstanding condition.

The odoshi retain strength and tension. Silks are unbroken. The textile of the sangu remains vibrant. The egawa is clean and pale. The russet iron is stable and free from the fatigue and corrosion often seen in repeatedly displayed examples. There has been no restoration on this armour.

We are accustomed to viewing armours altered by time, improper storage or surface contamination. Such degradation reshapes expectations. This suit restores perspective. It reveals what Edo period armour looked like when preserved correctly.

In the truest sense, this is ubu. Complete, untouched and honest. It allows us to see not merely an historical object, but the original presence and authority its owner once embodied.

I hope you have enjoyed this deeper dive into a really cool armour. As usual if you have any questions please feel relaxed to ask.

Some years ago (2016), I attended a Japanese armour convention in Italy. One of the guest speakers was Dr F. Grazzi, who presented early results from a series of neutron diffraction tests conducted on Japanese armour plates. It was highly technical material. Phase mapping. Carbon distribution. Microstructure analysis. The sort of subject that most collectors politely endure and fall asleep.

Years later, a helmet appeared at a London auction misdescribed simply as a zunari kabuto with an incorrect translation of the mei. The catalogue entry was brief and there was no mention of testing. No mention of publication. No mention of previous ownership beyond the surface level, it just appeared as a sales lot. The in-house expert reenforced that it was a zunari, I guess he can’t add up as zunari minus the koshimaki only have three pates, so I just smiled at the idiot.

But I recognised it immediately and started dribbling.

It was not as a zunari. It was the Haruta helmet from that presentation in Italy.

I was in bit of a twist, I really wanted to own this but the room was open to international bidders via the internet, so I thought that I would never be able to acquire it. However I bid, and I won at £950. I left the auction with the hachi inside a plastic Tesco’s bag and went into the first pub I found and had a whisky.

Only later did the deeper background re-emerge: the helmet had previously been owned by H. Russell Robinson, former curator of the Royal Armouries at the Tower of London. It was Robinson’s editorial work on Sakakibara’s writings that first opened my eyes, years ago as a teenager, to the sophistication of Japanese armour plate construction. To own a helmet from his collection, and one that had since been scientifically analysed at the highest level, was something close to surreal.

This is the story of what was found inside the steel.

Why Neutron Diffraction?

Traditional metallography requires cutting a sample. That is not an option for a signed Haruta helmet of circa 1600.

Instead, researchers used Time-of-Flight neutron diffraction at the ISIS facility (not that ISIS with the fleet of Hilux and .50cals) in the UK. Neutrons penetrate deeply into metal. They allow measurement of internal structure without damaging the object.

What can this tell us?

• The phases present in the steel

• Carbon content

• Grain size

• Residual stress

• Variation through the thickness of the plate

Earlier studies had averaged results across entire plates. This later investigation used a tightly focused beam, scanning through the thickness in half-millimetre increments. That is what changed everything. from a nerdy point of view it’s really valuable to understand iron and steel used in construction.

The Helmet Itself

So the bowl is a 8-plate construction Haruta school, signed by Yoshihisa 1580 who lived in Nara. He was actually well known for making zunari during the momoyama period. This example has large plates, approximately 5 mm thick, riveted flush, without raised ridges. Built for strength, not ornament, and it’s really heavy at nearly 5kg.

This is not a parade piece. It is a helmet born of the late Sengoku world, in the aftermath of firearms entering Japan in 1543 and is intended for war.

What the Tests Revealed

1. High Carbon Steel

The helmet contains regions of steel reaching roughly 0.4 percent carbon.

Carbon content determines hardness. Higher carbon allows the formation of cementite, which increases resistance to penetration. In simple terms, parts of this helmet were deliberately made harder than ordinary iron plate. But the real discovery was not the carbon level itself.

It was how that carbon was distributed.

2. A Layered Internal Structure

The plates are not uniform.

When researchers mapped carbon levels from the outer surface inward, they discovered variation across the thickness.

One of the front plates showed:

• A relatively lower carbon outer layer

• A high-carbon core

• A thinner lower-carbon inner layer

Another plate showed two distinct layers, with the higher carbon concentrated toward one side. This was not accidental carburisation. The distribution is too controlled and too consistent.

The implication is deliberate composite construction.

Imagine a cross section of the plate:

Outer face
Moderate carbon
Hard but not brittle

Middle core
Higher carbon
Maximum resistance to penetration

Inner face
Lower carbon
Greater ability to absorb shock

Rather than a single homogenous sheet, the plate behaves more like engineered laminate, like we would expect to see in modern ballistic proof metal.

3. Forge Welding at High Temperature

The microstructural data revealed:

• Very large grain size

• Minimal residual strain

• No strong directional texture

This tells us something crucial.

The plates were heated to high temperatures and forge welded together. During this process, earlier deformation patterns are erased. The metal recrystallises. Grains grow. Internal stresses relax.

This is consistent with layered construction produced through repeated heating and hammering.

4. Evidence of Traditional Tatara Steel

Small quantities of oxide phases were detected, consistent with bloomery production rather than modern steelmaking.

There was evidence suggesting incomplete reduction of iron sand in the original smelting stage. At the same time, slag refinement was relatively clean, indicating experienced workmanship, just like swords.

This aligns precisely with high-quality tatara-derived material selected and refined for armour use.

Does This Match Sakakibara?

Sakakibara’s 18th century description of armour plate manufacture refers to layered construction methods and cross-oriented forging.

Interestingly, not every plate in this helmet perfectly matches the textbook description. Some plates correspond closely to an outer steel face with a softer inner layer. Others show more complex layering.

This suggests that armour manufacture was not rigidly formulaic. Skilled smiths selected and arranged materials according to availability and intended performance.

The helmet becomes not merely an illustration of theory, but physical proof of technological adaptation. Basically they knew what they were doing, but then again they didn’t and each pate was made slightly differently depending on who made it.

Firearms and Technological Change

The introduction of matchlock firearms into Japan altered warfare dramatically. Large, sturdy plates replaced earlier lamellar constructions. Armourers had to respond.

• Harder outer surfaces resist projectile penetration.

• Composite structures can prevent catastrophic cracking.

• Thicker plates absorb more energy.

This Haruta kabuto sits directly in that moment of transition, after we see this as the basis of Owari armours made for the Tokugawa.

Personal Reflections

There is something deeply satisfying about seeing traditional scholarship and modern science converge. Russell Robinson helped bring Sakakibara’s descriptions to an English-speaking audience. That work shaped my own early understanding of Japanese armour construction.

Decades later, neutron diffraction testing confirms that these methods were not romantic exaggerations. They were technically real.

And now, the very helmet that underwent this analysis sits in my collection.

For an armour specialist, that is not just ownership.

It is continuity.

From Edo period workshop
To Sakakibara’s manuscript
To Robinson’s editorial desk
To a neutron beam in Oxfordshire
To my armour room

The steel holds all of that! in the future it will leave my care and become the property of another custodian and this becomes its legacy.

Why This Matters for Collectors

Too often, armour is discussed purely in aesthetic terms. But Japanese armour is technological art.

This Haruta kabuto demonstrates:

• Deliberate material selection

• Controlled carbon distribution

• Composite forge welding

• Adaptation to firearms warfare

• High-level metallurgical skill circa 1600

What most will see is a boring iron helmet bowl, but to the trained eye its simply beautiful. Function and form, it basically does what it says on the tin.

I think you can now see what I was attracted to the example in the recent Dreweatts auction.

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It dates to the early Edo period and would have seen service within the Ii clan, you pronounce this as Ee and not Li as most people misread. At this time, armour like this was not usually made as a personal statement by an individual warrior. Instead, it was issued as part of a larger system, created to equip men who served directly under a powerful lord.

The wearer would have been a hatamoto. In simple terms, hatamoto were trusted retainers who stood close to the centre of power (Blackthorn in Shōgun). They were professional samurai, often acting as officers, guards, or administrators, responsible for maintaining order and representing their lord’s authority. They were not the highest ranking figures in samurai society, but they were among the most relied upon.

Hatamoto means literally “Under the banner.”

Because of this role, their equipment needed to do more than just function. It had to project confidence, discipline, and loyalty at a glance. Strong colour combinations, such as the russet iron set against bold red elements, were part of that visual language. They signalled affiliation and authority long before any words were exchanged.

Hatamoto armour was made to a standardised specification, not individual preference. As direct retainers of the lord, the troop was intended to appear uniform, with armour, colour and silhouette closely matched. When assembled, a hatamoto unit would have looked largely identical, reinforcing discipline, hierarchy and collective identity.

Armours of this type are not especially common today. Issued equipment was used hard, repaired as needed, and often altered or dismantled when it was no longer required. Complete examples that still communicate their original purpose are increasingly rare.

What first drew my attention to this armour was its overall form. Even before examining individual components, there is a sense that everything belongs where it is. The proportions feel settled, and the structure reads clearly from a distance. That underlying logic, how the armour is built to look and behave as a unified whole, is where the real interest lies, and it will be explored in more detail as we move forward.

Let us take a closer look at this armour and observe some of its defining characteristics. The Ii are well known for their association with red armour. While there are exceptions, the general rule of thumb was the use of red shu-urushi-nuri, often mixed with cinnabar to produce a warm orange red tone. This was typically combined with light blue odoshi lacing, although restored examples in the Hikone Castle Museum have been re-laced using leather. Dark blue hemp was used for the kote, haidate and suneate, together with a distinctive gold device on the kabuto, most often horns set in either the mae-date or waki-date position.

Importantly, these armours were required to differ from those of the great lords and higher ranking samurai they served. They could not be the most expensive, nor could they outshine their daimyo. As a result, we see a deliberate move away from fully red armour. Instead, red is paired with brown (test-sabiji-urushi-nuri), creating a strong visual contrast. The red speaks loudly, while the brown tempers it by design.

One embellishment of particular interest is the use of decorative byō. Gold gilded studs are applied to the dō, with a number of round examples arranged to reference the Ii clan mon. These appear on the upper section of the mae dō and around the koshimaki of the kabuto. They are highly effective, lifting what is otherwise slim, functional iron. The contrast of gold against dark surfaces elevates the armour, balancing practicality with visual authority.

The next break from the norm is the suneate. Ii armour is generally characterised by dark blue as the base material (ire-ji) with red plates, chainmail and fittings. In this case, however, we see the use of imported Chinese silk brocade, an unusual and notable deviation and the plates of the set continue with brown.

It is also clear that this armour is, and always has been, a matched set. The strongest indicator is the construction of the sode shoulder guards in the Bishamon style, where the sode are integral to the kote themselves. These plates match exactly the colour of the gesan, tare and shikoro. In addition, the tate-ate knee protectors of the suneate correspond precisely with the kohire of the dō, using the same material and distinctive hexagonal kikkō gane plates

The Restoration Path

When I acquired this armour it was in a lifeless condition. The outer surfaces were heavily caked with resin from prolonged exposure to a hibachi, compounded by many years of nicotine deposits. This had significantly subdued the reds, which appeared as a dark brown. The original odoshi lacing had deteriorated to the point of rot, and the armour was beginning to fail structurally.

The armour therefore underwent several months of careful restoration. The surfaces were methodically cleaned to recover the original colour while preserving the underlying patina. The lacing was colour matched through a specialist laboratory in Japan, and all odoshi was replaced using appropriate materials and techniques.

Each armour section was then treated with a protective coating of Renaissance Wax. This is a microcrystalline wax developed in the 1950s for the British Museum as a conservation grade material for metal, wood and lacquer. Unlike natural waxes, it does not yellow, harden or attract dust, and it forms a stable, moisture resistant barrier. Its application protects both the iron and urushi surfaces from humidity while remaining fully reversible, making it standard practice in museum conservation.

The result is an armour that has been brought back from an extremely poor state to one that is now stable, visually coherent and capable of standing the test of time.

For those wishing to study the armour in greater detail, a full photographic record is available on my website (4th Feb), including high resolution images that allow the construction, materials and restoration work to be examined closely. These additional images provide a clearer understanding of the armour as a complete object, beyond what can reasonably be shown here.

Going forward, I will continue to provide more in depth examinations of the armours I handle, treating them as objects for study as much as for appreciation. Detailed documentation, photography and analysis form an important part of understanding these pieces, and I hope future examples will offer the same opportunity for closer examination and learning.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask. This is the best place to communicate with me directly.

Best regards,
David

I was approached by Peter Jansen, the owner of the Samurai Art Museum in Berlin, to restore one of his armours. It was a key piece in the museum’s main display case and needed to be in top condition for the opening night.

The problem was with the odoshi (the silk lacing). When the armour arrived from Japan, the lacing was already disintegrating. Unfortunately, this is something that collectors and museums must always be aware of. Black odoshi is especially vulnerable because the dye often contains iron oxide, which can cause discolouration. Combined with the fact that black absorbs UV light, the silk fibres degrade far more quickly than other colours. This was such a known issue in the past that Tokugawa Ieyasu actually banned black odoshi for anyone other than himself.

As if that wasn’t challenging enough, the braid width was unusual—14 mm—and the museum wanted me to reproduce it on my own machines in the UK. When I flew to Berlin to take measurements, I found that it actually varied between 10 mm and 14 mm across different sections. With the opening just weeks away, time was tight.

On top of that, they asked me to do the re-lacing on-site, inside the museum. Of course, I agreed. Being locked in a storeroom surrounded by armour? A dream come true and a break from being locked under the stairs at home by my wife.

I made the replacement braid and flew back to Berlin. I had just five days to strip out the old lacing and re-lace the armour. I’ll be honest: I’m fast, but this was still pushing it. I cobbled together a lacing frame using a wooden pole, a stepladder, and a shelf clamp, then settled into a brutal schedule: 8 a.m. starts, 9 p.m. finishes, with only a few short breaks. Luckily, my ADHD superpowers kicked in and I got it done, finishing the armour the night before the grand opening. I was wrecked afterwards and took the following week off to recover.

As a bonus challenge, one of the staff accidentally dropped the dragon maedate (helmet crest), shattering it into three pieces. I ended up repairing that too, alongside the lacing.

Looking back, I have nothing but fond memories of the project. Opportunities like this don’t come around often, and every time I see the armour in videos or social media posts, I smile. That Kato armour feels like an old friend now, one I helped [got paid for] preserve for many more years to come.

If you get the chance, I highly recommend visiting the Samurai Art Museum. It’s one of the finest collections in the world.