by Неизвестный
So while I spent my days in Saga totally immersed in writing my novel, at night I usually made my way to the Arashiyama Theater. The city of Kyoto, its shrines and temples, its famous places and ancient ruins—none of these moved me in the least. I was content just to be with the other freezing spectators, fewer than a hundred of them, enveloped in the stench of piss in the Arashiyama Theater, half yawning and half laughing at the ridiculous gags. . . .
I know absolutely nothing about the engineering aspects of architecture, but one thing I do know is that the distinguishing feature of temple construction is that first and foremost the buildings are not designed to serve as homes. This means more than the elimination of all things that allude to an everyday life in this everyday world. In the construction of a temple, attention must be focused on expressing a lifestyle and philosophy diametrically opposed to the worldly and profane. This being the case, it is no surprise that the True Pure Land sect, which affirms a worldly lifestyle fully in keeping with its religious beliefs, maintains temple compounds that reek of the vulgar and routine.11 Its temples (such as the two Honganji temples of Kyoto) take ancient temple architecture, evocative of a philosophy of austerity and self-denial, adopt it whole cloth, and attempt to employ it in its own beliefs, which affirm life in this world. The result is entirely unsettling and vulgar. Don’t misunderstand me—I have no objections to vulgarity in things that are meant to be vulgar. My point is that vulgarity calls for applications unique to the circumstances. . . .
Contrary to popular belief, the Japanese landscape garden cannot possibly have been modeled on nature itself. It seems instead to be an attempt to give concrete expression, in the form of a garden, to the stark, minimalist ideals or spirit that we see expressed in paintings of the Southern school.12 The same is true of the architecture of the tearoom (or of temples, for that matter): all these are expressions of concepts, manipulations of nature rather than replications of it. The limits imposed by the confines of space are the equivalent of those imposed on a painting in accordance with the size of the canvas. But think for a moment of the stark austerity of the boundless sea, of the desert, or of the forests and plains. In comparison we become painfully aware of just how twisted and perverse, how trifling, the stark austerity of the landscape garden is.
What is the rock garden of Ryōanji trying to express?13 What sorts of concepts is it attempting to weave together? Taut, for his part, showered praise on the black-and-white checked wallpaper in the library of the Shugakuin Detached Palace, claiming that it represented the sound of a waterfall.14 Forcing an appreciation to the point of such tortured explanations is downright embarrassing. Landscape gardens and tearooms, like the enlightenment of a Zen monk, are castles in the air. They have nothing but Zen-like hypotheses to support them. “Wherein lies the Buddha nature?” one asks. The answer: “In a shit scoop.” Someone puts a rock in a garden and says, “This is indeed a shit scoop, but it also has the Buddha nature.” That works just fine as long as people are willing to cooperate and consider the thing to be Buddha-like. But the minute somebody sees the shit scoop as just a shit scoop, well, that’s the end of that. The obvious, self-evident observation that a shit scoop is just a shit scoop and nothing more makes for a more persuasive argument than any following the conventions of the Zen dialogue.
The profound stillness and the minimalist beauty expressed by the rock garden at the Ryōanji, its link to unfathomable Zen mysteries—none of this matters. The ideals and philosophy behind the placement of the rocks, too, are beside the point. When the emotions evoked by the rock garden do not compare with those summoned up by a grand sunset over the desert or with the overwhelming melancholy prompted by a boundless sea, we can just as well dismiss the garden without giving it a second thought. To defend it on the grounds that it is impossible to capture the boundless seas and plateaus within the confines of a garden is just plain nonsense. . . .
Ike Taiga did not have a studio; Ryōkan had no need for even a temple.15 This is not to say that these men made a vow of poverty a defining principle of their lives. On the contrary, the fact is that spiritually speaking, their desires were too deep, too extravagant, too aristocratic for ordinary material goods. Studios and temples were not meaningless to them; rather, they realized that the absolute was unobtainable, and rejecting the idea of compromise, they chose instead a purity in which nothingness was the absolute value.16
The tearoom is designed around the idea of simplicity. It is not, however, a product of the spirit in which nothingness is the ultimate value. For this spirit every last ounce of energy deliberately expended to produce simplicity is impure and garrulous. However much the tokonoma may be manipulated to give the impression of rustic simplicity, the efforts invested in producing that result render it, by definition, inferior to nothingness, less authentic than that which might occur spontaneously. From the perspective of the spirit in which nothingness reigns supreme, the simple tearoom and the gaudy Tōshōgū of Nikkō are birds of a feather, both similarly being products of “presence.”17 Viewed from this perspective, the distinction between the simple, refined Katsura Detached Palace and the vulgar Tōshōgū is invalid. Both are just so much chatter; neither is a structure that can stand an eternal appreciation from the “spiritual aristocracy.”
However, although that harsh critical spirit centered on nothingness as an ultimate value may itself exist, an art based on this ideal is inconceivable. There is no such thing as art without form. Now, if one were to accept both this fact and the belief that nothingness is the ultimate value, in a renewed attempt to create material beauty it would make more sense to reject the contrived simplicity of something like the tearoom in favor of attempting to bring the ideal to fruition in the greatest extravagance humanly possible, pushing a worldly vulgarity to its very limits. If both simplicity and ostentation are ultimately vulgar, then surely one is better off adopting a magnanimity capable of embracing a vulgarity that revels in its vulgarity rather than clinging to a pettiness that remains vulgar despite attempts to transcend that state.
I see this spirit in Toyotomi Hideyoshi.18 The extent of his understanding and appreciation of art is a mystery to us, and we may never know the degree of his input into the art projects he commissioned. Furthermore, Hideyoshi himself was no artisan, and surely he made the most of his workers’ unique abilities. Still, without a doubt, all the art produced on his orders is consistent in character: it is the epitome of artifice; it is extravagant to the extreme. As long as the work was carried out along those lines, Hideyoshi gave his artisans free rein. When he was building a castle, he would gather the biggest damned boulders in the realm. The walls of the Sanjūsangendō are giants among walls; the folding screens of the Chishakuin were so enormous that when sitting in front of them Hideyoshi must truly have looked like a monkey among the blossoms.19 To this man, art and shit were alike, both products born of the most vulgar intentions. Be that as it may, the works do have an undeniable decisiveness about them. They have a calm and settled feel. . . .
There is no trace of such elegance or leisure in Hideyoshi’s work. Each and every thing that he did was an expression of his fanatical desire for things unparalleled in the realm. There is no evidence of hesitation, no trace of even the slightest restraint. He wanted all the beautiful women in the realm, and, when denied, somebody would end up like Sen no Rikyū: dead.20 Hideyoshi was able to demand anything, even the impossible. And he did. There is something comforting about the incessant demands of a spoiled child, and this feeling, magnified to the level of a nation’s ruler, is what blossoms in all the works Hideyoshi left behind. . . .
I yearn for those who lived true to their desires, the common man living a common life without apology, the petty man living a petty life with no regrets. I feel the same way about the arts: they must be honest. And temples—they don’t come before the monks; there should be monks and, only then, temples. The existence of Ryōkan had nothing to do with temples. If we do indeed need Buddhism, it means that we n
eed monks, not that we need temples. Let the ancient temples of Kyoto and Nara burn to the ground. The traditions of Japan would not be affected in the least. Nor would Japanese architecture as a whole suffer. If a need exists, we can just as well build the temples anew; the style of prefab barracks would be just fine.
The temples of Kyoto and Nara are virtually all the same, and none sticks out in my memory. It is the coolness of the rocks at Kumazaki Shrine that stays with me; it is Fushimi Inari’s outrageously vulgar red torii arches, making a tunnel more than two miles long, that I can’t forget. Offensive to the eye and without an ounce of beauty to recommend them, yes; but being tied to the heartfelt desires of the people, there is something about them that strikes straight to the heart. These structures do not posit nothingness as an ultimate value, and their forms are petty and vulgar. But they are necessities. I have no desire to compose myself in the stone garden of Ryōanji, but there are times when I want to lose myself in thought while watching kitschy revues at the Arashiyama Theater. Humans love what is human, and that alone. True art, too, is infused with the truly human. Rejuvenate myself beneath some sterile stand of trees, removed from the world of our most human emotions? No thanks. . . .
Old things, tedious things—it is only natural that they should fade away or be reborn in a new form. . . .
On Beauty
Three years ago I lived in a town called Toride. It’s a tiny place along the Tonegawa River with only two restaurants to choose from: one serves pork cutlets and the other noodles. I ate the cutlets every day and, after six months, couldn’t stand the sight of them. I used to go into Tokyo twice a month and, as a rule, would come home drunk. . . .
The town is only about fifty-six minutes by train from Ueno in the heart of Tokyo. On the way you cross three big rivers—the Tonegawa, the Edogawa, and the Arakawa—and on the banks of one of these sits Kosuge Prison. You can get a great view of this colossal modern structure from the train as it shoots past. The wings of this prison house stretch out proudly in the shape of an “X,” and it is all surrounded by very tall concrete walls. Thrusting skyward at the intersection of the wings is a watchtower taller than the chimney of any large factory. As you would expect, this grand building does not have a single decorative embellishment and is, however you look at it, a most prison-like prison. Built in the way it is, you couldn’t imagine it being anything but a prison, and this made the sight strangely appealing. I wasn’t drawn to this structure because it coincided with certain preconceptions of what a prison should look like (oppressive, say). Instead, I found it appealing for sentimental reasons. Or put another way, there was something beautiful about it. The scenery of the Tonegawa River and the Teganuma marshlands failed to move me as this prison did, and this fact was so odd that I sometimes wondered whether there wasn’t something wrong with me. . . .
In the following passages Ango describes, first, a dry-ice factory on Tsukudajima and later a destroyer, both of which he also found appealing in their utterly utilitarian construction.
The Kosuge Prison and the dry-ice factory. Other than being struck by the fact that their sturdy beauty stirs up that yearning within me, I’ve never really thought about what they have in common. Their beauty is entirely different from that of places like the Hōryūji or Byōdōin temples.21 If we take into consideration the antiquity or history of places like the Hōryūji and the Byōdōin, there is no denying that there is something beautiful about them. But it’s not an immediate beauty that stirs our very souls or strikes straight to the heart. To appreciate their beauty, we somehow have to supplement their deficiencies. The Kosuge Prison and the dry-ice factory, though, appeal to us more directly; there is nothing to supplement, and they have the power to inspire that yearning within me. I’ve never felt the need to consider why this is so. . . .
What makes these three things—the prison, the factory, and the destroyer—so beautiful? It is the fact that no frills have been added for the sake of beautifying them. Not a single pillar or sheet of steel has been added in the interest of beauty; not a single pillar or sheet of steel has been removed because it is not aesthetically pleasing. What is needed, and only that, has been placed precisely where it is needed. With the superfluous removed, the unique shapes demanded by necessity emerge. These are shapes true to themselves, and they bear no resemblance to anything else. Where needed, the pillars are ruthlessly warped, the sheets of steel are hammered unevenly into place, and the overhead rails jut out of nowhere. It is all done out of necessity, pure and simple. No preconceived notion was powerful enough to obstruct the creation of these things; the necessities behind them were unstoppable. And thus three utterly unique objects were created. . . .
Being pleasing to the eye does not in and of itself qualify something as truly beautiful. What really matters is substance. Beauty for beauty’s sake is not sincere; it is not, in the end, authentic. Such beauty is essentially empty and has no truth capable of moving people. When all is said and done, we can just as well do without such items. I couldn’t care less if both the Hōryūji and the Byōdōin burned to the ground. If the need should arise, we’d do well to tear down Hōryūji and put in a parking lot. The glorious culture and traditions of our race would most certainly not decline because of it. True, the quiet sunsets over the Musashino plains are no more. What we have instead is the sun setting over the rooftops of housing tracts, the prefabs all built right on top of one another. The dust in the air is so thick that it blocks the sunlight on even the clearest day, and the moonlight has been replaced by the glare of the neon. But our lives as we actually live them have their roots in this landscape, and as long as that is the case, how can it be anything but beautiful? Just look—planes fly overhead, iron warships glide through the seas, trains dart by on elevated rails. Our day-to-day lives are healthy and as long as this is so, our culture is healthy, even if we do pride ourselves on replicating Western architecture with cheap, prefab knockoffs. Our traditions, too, are healthy. If the need arises, plow under the parks and turn them into vegetable plots. If inspired by a genuine need, then those plots are an integral part of our everyday life, and they are sure to be beautiful. As long as we live sincerely, apish imitation is nothing to be ashamed of. If it is an integral part of our everyday lives, apish imitation is as precious as creativity.
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1. Because of the time changes and International Date Line, December 8 is the date that Japanese readers know for Pearl Harbor Day. “December 7” would have the same meaning to American readers.
1. Bodies of the dead are traditionally laid out with their head to the north, which is the reason that most Japanese avoid sleeping that way.
2. The strands of hair will be given to the soldiers’ families as mementos of their lost sons, brothers, or fathers.
1. On the border between Outer Mongolia and Manchuria, where in 1939, Soviet troops routed a division of Japan’s Guandong Army.
2. The Taishō era lasted from 1912 to 1926. Rakugo refers to the comic monologues recited by professional storytellers.
1. The Omoro soshi is a sixteenth-century collection of ancient Okinawan prayers and songs.
2. Deigo flowers is the common name for Erythrina indica flowers, found commonly in Okinawa.
1. The square brackets indicate words deleted in the original to avoid suppression by the censor. Since there is no way to tell what the poet had in mind, these are my surmises.
1. Ango’s assault on the conventional icons of traditional Japanese culture is aimed largely at the model left by German architect Bruno Taut (1880–1938). Taut arrived in Japan in 1933, and his books praising traditional Japanese culture and architecture (including one whose title Ango appropriated for this essay) were embraced by a Japanese public craving foreign affirmations of the nation’s worth. Taut championed the stark, minimalist (sabi) vein of Japanese aesthetics, the pinnacle of which he found in Kyoto’s Katsura Detached Palace (Katsura rikyū). Built in the seventeenth century, this compound includes the tokonoma (al
coves), landscape gardens, and tearooms of which Taut was so fond.
All the individuals mentioned are classical artists championed by Taut. Although the roster includes metal workers and sculptors as well, most of the figures are associated with the tradition of bunjinga, or “paintings by literati.” Distinguished by their understated, elegant simplicity, these paintings often are natural scenes depicted with no more than a few quick, seemingly casual brushstrokes of black ink on a white scroll. Many include a few short lines of poetry, another of the literati talents.
2. Here Ango is referring to tales of samurai valor like that of the “forty-seven rōnin,” Chūshingura. After the wrongful death of their lord in 1701, these loyal retainers lulled the responsible party into a false sense of security by feigning lives of decadence and debauchery. They then stormed his residence and killed him in the bath, an act of vengeance for which they were ordered to take their own lives. The story has long been immensely popular and has been told and retold in countless forms.