The grinding wheel turns, and you press the glass against it. The glass resists, then yields — a shallow cut forming, catching the light differently than the uncut surface. This is Edo kiriko, the cut glass tradition of Tokyo's shitamachi districts, developed in the Meiji era from techniques brought from the West and transformed into something distinctly Japanese. The patterns have names — hemp leaf, chrysanthemum, arrow fence — and histories. Each represents a particular relationship between the glass and the light passing through it, a different way of multiplying reflection into something that resembles, from the right angle, architecture. The workshops in Sumida and Koto wards offer the experience of making one of these patterns yourself, under the guidance of someone who has spent years learning to control the wheel. The shitamachi districts where Edo kiriko is still made sit in the shadow of the Tokyo Skytree, which is visible from most of the workshops. The juxtaposition is not ironic; it is simply how Tokyo holds its layers. The same neighborhoods that produce this craft have been producing things with their hands for centuries. The specific thing changes; the intention to make something carefully does not.