I first met Kikuko in 2005 when Karyn and I were planning our wedding. Karyn herself knew her for several years before that, when she had the store up on Greenwood, and had in a sense adopted her as second obasan or at the very least, respected elder. Her death on Monday, a rainy morning in Burien with the cherry trees in early blossom, has definitely left an emptiness. It’s not only our tie to her world in all its rich variety, but her world itself that’s emptier today.

Kikuko was the real deal: a master of shibori, a tireless craftsperson in an age that cares little for craft. Behind her tiny apartment on Yesler, she had a patch of Danny Woo Gardens in which she wanted to grow indigofera to make her own dye. By the blue tinge of her fingertips you knew she was on a creative bender. Her textile work was intricate, delicate, surprising, always functional, and so organic you’d think she just plucked it from a tree.

Any thorough eulogy for Kikuko will by rights mention her intergenerational appeal and her easy appropriation of the avant garde into an ancient medium. What I remember most, though, is how listening, acceptance and being open to the weirdnesses around her — the artist’s best palette — came to her so naturally. She didn’t behave like an old woman, whatever that means. I guess I mean she always had that spark, which is what made her such a huge inspiration to me.