Mr. Takamatsu had started using gadgets to replace the functions of his failing left hand. Rotating clamps held the tiny figures in position while he carved and painted their intricate details with his right hand. It, too, was doomed by the creeping numbness.
He had researched assistive devices: exoskeletons, pneumatic gloves, electrical stimulators. Nothing offered the necessary precision.
Soon, he would have to stop. His family’s art, passed from father to son for countless generations, would fade away. He had no sons.
Takamatsu called his 12-year-old daughter into the workshop. “Kyoko,” he said, “it is time for you to learn.”
He had researched assistive devices: exoskeletons, pneumatic gloves, electrical stimulators. Nothing offered the necessary precision.
Soon, he would have to stop. His family’s art, passed from father to son for countless generations, would fade away. He had no sons.
Takamatsu called his 12-year-old daughter into the workshop. “Kyoko,” he said, “it is time for you to learn.”
