Although the Japanese have been producing great art and writing aboutit for many centuries, including a rich tradition of poetics goingback a millennium, the philosophical discipline in Japan correspondingto Western “aesthetics” did not get underway until thenineteenth century. A good way to survey the broader field is toexamine the most important aesthetic ideas that have arisen in thecourse of the tradition, all of them before aesthetics was formallyestablished as a discipline: namely,mono no aware (thepathos of things),wabi (subdued, austere beauty),sabi (rustic patina),yūgen (mysteriousprofundity),iki (refined style), andkire(cutting). (This last term is pronounced as two evenly accentedsyllables,kee-reh. The macrons over some vowels signify avowel sound of double length. When a person name is used, the order isthe conventional Japanese one: family name, then given name.)

• 1. Introduction
• 2.Mono no aware: the Pathos of Things
• 3.Wabi: Simple, Austere Beauty
• 4. Rikyū’s Tea and the Equalizing Aesthetic ofWabi
• 5.Sabi: Rustic Patina
• 6.Yūgen: Mysterious Grace
• 7.Yūgen and Landscape Painting
• 8.Iki: Refined Style
• 9.Kire: Cutting
• 10. Ozu Yasujirō: Cinematic Cuts
• Bibliography
• Academic Tools
• Other Internet Resources
• Related Entries

1. Introduction

Two preliminary observations about the Japanese cultural tradition arerelevant to the arts. First, classical Japanese philosophy understandsreality as constantchange, or (to use a Buddhist expression)impermanence. The world of flux that presents itself to oursenses is the only reality: there is no conception of some stable“Platonic” realm above or behind it. The arts in Japanhave traditionally reflected this fundamentalimpermanence—sometimes lamenting but more often celebrating it.The idea ofmujō (impermanence) is perhaps mostforcefully expressed in the writings and sayings of thethirteenth-century Zen master Dōgen, who is arguablyJapan’s profoundest philosopher, but there is a fine expressionof it by a later Buddhist priest, Yoshida Kenkō, whoseEssaysin Idleness (Tsurezuregusa, 1332) sparkles withaesthetic insights:

It does not matter how young or strong you may be, the hour of deathcomes sooner than you expect. It is an extraordinary miracle that youshould have escaped to this day; do you suppose you have even thebriefest respite in which to relax? (Keene, 120)

In the Japanese Buddhist tradition, awareness of the fundamentalcondition of existence is no cause for nihilistic despair, but rathera call to vital activity in the present moment and to gratitude foranother moment’s being granted to us.

The second observation is that the arts in Japan have tended to beclosely connected with Confucian practices of self-cultivation, asevidenced in the fact that they are often referred to as “ways[of living]”:chadō, the way of tea (teaceremony),shodō, the way of writing (calligraphy), andso forth. And since the scholar official in China was expected to beskilled in the “Six Arts”—ceremonial ritual, music,calligraphy, mathematics, archery, and charioteering—culture andthe arts tend to be more closely connected with intellect and the lifeof the mind than in the western traditions.

To this day it is not unusual in Japan for the scholar to be a finecalligrapher and an accomplished poet in addition to possessing thepertinent intellectual abilities.

2.Mono no aware: the Pathos of Things

The meaning of the phrasemono no aware is complex and haschanged over time, but it basically refers to a “pathos”(aware) of “things” (mono), derivingfrom their transience. In the classic anthology of Japanese poetryfrom the eighth century,Manyōshū, the feeling ofaware is typically triggered by the plaintive calls of birdsor other animals. It also plays a major role in the world’sfirst novel, Murasaki Shikibu’sGenji monogatari (TheTale of Genji), from the early eleventh century. The somewhat laterHeike monogatari (The Tale of the Heike Clan) begins withthese famous lines, which clearly show impermanence as the basis forthe feeling ofmono no aware:

The sound of the Gionshōja bells echoes theimpermanence of all things; the color of thesōlaflowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline. The prouddo not endure, they are like a dream on a spring night; the mightyfall at last, they are as dust before the wind. (McCullough 1988)

And here is Kenkō on the link between impermanence and beauty:“If man were never to fade away like the dews of Adashino, neverto vanish like the smoke over Toribeyama, how things would lose theirpower to move us! The most precious thing in life is itsuncertainty” (Keene, 7). The acceptance and celebration ofimpermanence goes beyond all morbidity, and enables full enjoyment oflife:

How is it possible for men not to rejoice each day over the pleasureof being alive? Foolish men, forgetting this pleasure, laboriouslyseek others; forgetting the wealth they possess, they risk their livesin their greed for new wealth. But their desires are never satisfied.While they live they do not rejoice in life, but, when faced withdeath, they fear it—what could be more illogical? (Keene, 79)

Insofar as we don’t rejoice in life we fail to appreciate thepathos of the things with which we share our lives. For most of us,some of these things, impermanent as they are, will outlastus—and especially if they have been loved they will become sadthings: “It is sad to think that a man’s familiarpossessions, indifferent to his death, should remain long after he isgone” (Keene, 30).

The well-known literary theorist Motoori Norinaga brought the idea ofmono no aware to the forefront of literary theory with astudy ofThe Tale of Genji that showed this phenomenon to beits central theme. He argues for a broader understanding of it asconcerning a profound sensitivity to the emotional and affectivedimensions of existence in general. The greatness of LadyMurasaki’s achievement consists in her ability to portraycharacters with a profound sense ofmono no aware in herwriting, such that the reader is able to empathize with them in thisfeeling.

The films of Ozu Yasujirō, who is often thought to be the most“Japanese” of Japanese film directors, are a series ofexercises in conveyingmono no aware. Stanley Cavell’sobservation that “film returns to us and extends our firstfascination with objects, with their inner and fixed lives”applies consummately to Ozu, who often expresses feelings throughpresenting the faces of things rather than of actors. A vase standingin the corner of a tatami-matted room where a father and daughter areasleep; two fathers contemplating the rocks in a “drylandscape” garden, their postures echoing the shapes of thestone; a mirror reflecting the absence of the daughter who has justleft home after getting married—all images that express thepathos of things as powerfully as the expression on the greatestactor’s face.

The most frequently cited example ofmono no aware incontemporary Japan is the traditional love of cherry blossoms, asmanifested by the huge crowds of people that go out every year to view(and picnic under) the cherry trees. The blossoms of the Japanesecherry trees are intrinsically no more beautiful than those of, say,the pear or the apple tree: they are more highly valued because oftheir transience, since they usually begin to fall within a week oftheir first appearing. It is precisely the evanescence of their beautythat evokes the wistful feeling ofmono no aware in theviewer.

3.Wabi: Simple, Austere Beauty

In the aforementionedEssays in Idleness Kenkō asks,“Are we to look at cherry blossoms only in full bloom, at themoon only when it is cloudless?” (Keene, 115). If for theBuddhists the basic condition is impermanence, to privilege asconsummate only certain moments in the eternal flux may signify arefusal to accept that basic condition. Kenkō continues:“To long for the moon while looking on the rain, to lower theblinds and be unaware of the passing of the spring—these areeven more deeply moving. Branches about to blossom or gardens strewnwith faded flowers are worthier of our admiration.” This is anexample of the idea ofwabi, understated beauty, which wasfirst distinguished and praised when expressed in poetry. But it is inthe art of tea, and the context of Zen, that the notion ofwabi is most fully developed.

In theNampōroku (1690), a record of sayings by the teamaster Sen no Rikyū, we read: “In the small [tea] room, itis desirable for every utensil to be less than adequate. There arethose who dislike a piece when it is even slightly damaged; such anattitude shows a complete lack of comprehension” (Hirota, 226).Implements with minor imperfections are often valued more highly, onthewabi aesthetic, than ones that are ostensibly perfect;and broken or cracked utensils, as long as they have been wellrepaired, more highly than the intact. Thewabi aestheticdoes not imply asceticism but rather moderation, as this passage fromtheNampōroku demonstrates: “The meal for agathering in a small room should be but a single soup and two or threedishes; sakè should also be served in moderation. Elaboratepreparation of food for thewabi gathering isinappropriate” (Hirota, 227).

TheZencharoku (Zen Tea Record, 1828) contains a well-knownsection on the topic ofwabi, which begins by saying that itis simply a matter of “upholding the [Buddhist] precepts”(Hirota, 274). The author continues:

Wabi means that even in straitened circumstances no thoughtof hardship arises. Even amid insufficiency, one is moved by nofeeling of want. Even when faced with failure, one does not brood overinjustice. If you find being in straitened circumstances to beconfining, if you lament insufficiency as privation, if you complainthat things have been ill-disposed—this is notwabi.(Hirota, 275)

The way of tea exemplifies this attitude toward life in the elegantsimplicity of the tea house and the utensils, which contradicts anynotion that beauty must entail magnificence and opulence.

Wabi reaches its peak of austerity in emptiness—whichis a central and pervasive idea in Buddhism. In an essay “InPraise of Shadows” (1933) the great novelist TanizakiJun’ichirō (1886–1965) has this to say about thebeauty of the alcove (tokonoma) in the traditional Japaneseteahouse:

An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so thatthe light drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness. There isnothing more. And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathersbehind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves,though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome withthe feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reignscomplete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutabletranquility holds sway. (Tanizaki, 20)

A simple structure, but a special and evocative one, a place of deeplyphilosophical depths. A space cut out of the room, which cuts offdirect light and thereby opens up a new world: these techniquesdeveloped distinctively in the Japanese tradition of architecture.(See section 7, below, on cutting.)

This was the genius of our ancestors, that by cutting off the lightfrom this empty space they imparted to the world of shadows thatformed there a quality of mystery or depth superior to that of anywall painting or ornament. The technique seems simple, but was by nomeans so simply achieved.

Instead of adding something artistic to the wall one subtracts thewall itself and sets it back into an alcove. Then one lets theemptiness fill with a play of light and shadows.

One place with a claim to be where the Japanese tea ceremonyoriginated is Ginkakuji, The Temple of the Silver Pavilion, in Kyoto.Whereas the pavilion (late 15th century) is a modest monument to thejoys ofsabi, the Moon-Viewing Platform and Sea of SilverSand beside it (from some 200 years later) are paradigms ofWabi. These latter two constitute an unusual version of thedistinctively Japanese “dry landscape” style of garden(see section 7, below). These strikingly abstract formations (for the17th century!) are optimally viewed from the second floor of thepavilion on a night of the full moon, when the sand glistens silver inthe moonlight and the stripes appear as waves on the surface of amotionless ocean.

Larger Photographs of the Sea of Silver Sand and Moon-Viewing Platform at Ginkakuji

4. Rikyū’s Tea and the Equalizing Aesthetic ofWabi

Few figures in Japanese history emerge as more formidable artists thanSen no Rikyū (千利休, 1522–1591), and fewaesthetic movements are more transformative than his rendition of thetea ceremony,Wabicha (侘茶). While Rikyū isrecognized as the preeminent Japanese tea master, his role as anaesthete extends much farther. A consummate painter and poet, apractitioner ofikebana, an accomplished calligrapher andlandscape artist, Rikyū in time became an influential governmentdignitary advising the Shogunate on cultural and artistic matters.Through countless inventions and innovations, the impact of theaesthetic world he created, and some say perfected, stretches farbeyond the boundaries of the tea ceremony itself, unearthing novelprospects for Japanese identity and citizenship, pioneering new socialvirtues, original visions of human existence and religious salvation,and ultimately, opening new possibilities for equality (Suzuki278–9), all rooted in thewabi aesthetic.

While Rikyū’s reputation has come to eclipse that of hispredecessors, his aesthetic innovations were part of a lineage born inthe port city of Sakai, comprising the tea master Murata Shukō(村田珠光, 1423–1502) and his studentTakeno Jōō (武野 紹鴎,1502–1555), both Zen adherents, the latter of whom would latermentor Rikyū. Both of his forerunners began pioneering teaaesthetics, which laid the groundwork for Rikyū’s eventualrefinement, and both harnessed fresh aesthetic stratagems aimed atincorporating thewabi aesthetic into the tea ceremony(Ludwig, 387–390. Sen Sōshitsu, 123–157).

What distinguished Rikyū’sWabicha from hismentors’ ceremonies was its resolution of the tensions betweencompeting aesthetic undercurrents coursing through the 16th-centurypractice of tea and broader Japanese cultural worlds (Slusser55–57). Before the advent ofWabicha, medieval tea wasbecoming increasingly polarized in two directions. TheShoin(書院) style orchestrated ostentatious displays of wealthcarried out in opulent domiciles of the powerful aristocracy. Withinthis milieu, the most cherished tea utensils (meibutsu名物) were rare and precious wares imported from China,their aesthetic value predominantly gauged by how well they displayedthe host’s affluence and power, renderingShoin tea anintentionally non-egalitarian ceremony.

The ostentation of theShoin style found furtherreinforcement in what was called the “basara”attitude (婆娑羅), characterized by tasting contests(tōcha 闘茶) and lavishtea parties (chayoriai 茶寄合) orchestratedfor grandiose demonstrations of wealth. As theShoin stylewas in ascendency, the tea world was simultaneously evolving in theopposite direction, in a version of the ceremony known as theSōan (草庵) style, anaesthetic that extolled austerity and poverty rather than opulence andaffluence. In place of grand halls of the aristocracy and gatheringswith dozens or even hundreds of guests, the so called“grass-hut”Sōan styleaestheticized the world of the farmer and hermit and sought theintimacy of a gathering in a tiny unadorned hut, typically attended bya mere handful of guests. Shukō and Jōō were some ofthe progenitors of this style and it was tea as the “grasshut” ideal that Rikyū inherited and eventually honed toperfection.

A second polarizing cultural tendency in 16^th centuryJapan, which cut across theShoin andSōan divide, was a tension betweenwarrior and religious aesthetic sensitivities. Rikyū’sWabicha dissolved this tension by melding elements of Samuraigatherings with those cultivated in Zen monasteries. His ceremonyavoided exclusive alignment with religiosity or militarism andemployed thewabi aesthetic to infuse an egalitarianismcounterbalancing hierarchical divisions entrenched within bothspheres, re-castingwabi as a “non-hierarchicalawareness of the real” (Hirota 95).

Beyond the realm of the martial and the monastic, the populace of16th-century Japan was deeply stratified, from Samurai at the top allthe way down to farmers, peasants, and merchants at the bottommostsocial rung. These divisions were absolute, and upward mobility tohigher social strata was virtually inconceivable. Nevertheless,Rikyū deployed thewabi aesthetic to challenge socialstratification (Sen Sōshitsu 182–183). In hisWabicha, all patrons of tea were considered equal, and hisaesthetic innovations concretized this principle, ensuring this wasnot simply a lofty ideal. In the text attributed to him, theNampōroku (1690), he claims that “worldly rank isignored” in the tea room.

Rikyū’s aesthetic decisions were guided by a veneration ofthe meagre existence of the agrarian lifestyle, the strict economy ofthe mountain hermit, and the austere lack of adornment of the poorfarmer. He thus had a predilection for rough un-hewn materials, whichmeant walls and timber within the tea hut were left raw andunfinished, with straw and cob visibly protruding. Costly Chineseporcelain, ivory flower vases and tea scoops were replaced by locallyproduced bamboo versions. Colorful flowers were almost entirelyexcluded, while an “aniconic” ceremony emerged,characterized by the absence of imagery within the hut and surroundinggarden.

Among the numerous architectural innovations Rikyū deployed, themost egalitarian were several features of the tearoom, which renderedit physically impossible for tea guests to express their socialposition or power. Thenijiriguchi (躙口),roughly translated as “crawl in space” was the only entryway for guests (previous instances of thesukiya had anotherlarger entryway for nobility and aristocracy). The tiny aperturemeasuring only around 60cm x 60cm (2ft x 2ft) achieved two equalizingaims ofWabicha (Sōshitsu Sen 182–183). Firstly,samurai were prevented from entering with their twoKatanaswords, which normally were the most visible signs of their positionatop the social hierarchy. (Rikyū introduced a sword rack(katanakake 刀掛け) next to thenijiriguchi under the tea hut’s eaves.) Further, thesize of the opening meant that wealthy aristocrats and courtiers couldnot make it through the small opening with their oversized top hats.Thus, once inside Rikyū’s tinysukiya, noappearance endured of the markings normally employed to exhibit andmaintain the rigid social hierarchy. Even conversation or figures ofspeech invoking social status, references to employment, objectsexhibiting one’s wealth, or associations legitimatingone’s power were all strictly prohibited.

An additional dimension of theWabicha aesthetic, whichreinforces egalitarian ideals is Rikyū’s embrace of thelocal. He opposed the trend of importing expensive Chinese tea wareand instead championed locally crafted articles reflecting theagrarian lifestyle outside the bustling urban city centre. AmidstRikyū’s manifold innovations, the mostfamous—renowned for epitomizing the very quintessence ofwabi—was the inception of an entirely novel potterystyle known asRaku (楽焼,raku-yaki).Rikyū enlisted a local potter Sasaki “Raku”Chōjirō (長次郎) to give form to tea wareembodying thewabi aesthetic. As opposed to highlysophisticated Chinese porcelain,Raku was rustic earthenware,utilitarian, un-adorned, often asymmetrical and imperfect in form andfinish – celebrating the grace of a humble existence, an ode tolocal hermit and farmer. Firing and drying techniques were developedto grant leeway to the atmosphere, nature, and gravity to expressthemselves in the clay body as it heated then cooled. The aestheticevoked the monk or farmer in the vicinity working with what was athand rather than the worldly aristocrat importing treasures fromforeign shores. Aligned with the ethos ofwabi,Rakuware was valued for its exposition of the simple beauty of meagreexistence, accentuating the aesthetics of paucity over opulence. Thus,Raku played a levelling role that made a previously exclusivematerial culture surrounding the tea ceremony more egalitarian.

Another important innovation that curtailed signs of wealth involvedtransformations in design and emphasis of the hanging scroll(Kakemono 掛物). Once a peripheral piece,Rikyū elevates the scroll, recalibrates its aesthetics towardegalitarian ideals, and installs it as the centrepiece of the tea hutand the ceremony as a whole (Hirota, 217–218). Rikyū notonly elevated the scroll to the aesthetic forefront of the ceremony,(a role previously occupied by the tea caddy in theShoinstyle) but also shifted scroll aesthetics away from costly andexclusive Chinese versions. Under Rikyū’s patronage,scrolls were for the first time commissioned from local Zen Buddhistcalligraphers and painters.

While his interventions may have succeeded in challenging the rigidsocietal stratification beyond the confines of the tea world, theymight have also set the stage for his own tragic downfall. The markersof social hierarchy he sought to dismantle were crucial for justifyingand maintaining the Shogunate’s power. As a governmentalofficial, Rikyū had little latitude to deny Hideyoshi’swishes, which often diverged drastically from the austerities ofWabicha (for instance, building the golden Tai-an(待庵) tearoom). His egalitarianism was undermining avital symbol the Shogun relied on to showcase his supremacy, andthreatened to subvert power structures that maintained his positionatop the social-political hierarchy (Slusser, 56-57).Rikyū’sWabicha and the hierarchy-nullifyingsymbols and structures he shaped countered the power politics embracedby the Shogunate and challenged the militaristic interests of theelite he served. Rikyū would be ordered to commit ritual suicide(seppuku 切腹), and following his last teaceremony in 1591, he wrote his death poem before taking his ownlife.

While Rikyū’s impact on the subsequent history of Japanesetea and culture at large is irrefutable, his legacy is complicated.His ritual suicide was appropriated for a subsequent aestheticizationof hyper-nationalistic tendencies, thereby setting an early standardfor an “aesthetic” death as sacrifice to one’snation at time of war (Cross, 163–166). Thus, his tragic momentwas promoted as a means to rationalize some of the empire’s mostegregious brutalities. A memory that should have remained untarnishedbecame attached to Japan’s calamitous aestheticization ofimperialism, warfare, and self-sacrifice—values fundamentally atodds to those that Rikyū introduced to Japanese culture throughthewabi aesthetic in the tea ceremony.

5.Sabi: Rustic Patina

The termsabi occurs often in theManyōshū, where it has a connotation ofdesolateness (sabireru means “to becomedesolate”), and later it seems to acquire the meaning ofsomething that has aged well, grown rusty (another word pronouncedsabi means “rust”), or has acquired a patina thatmakes it beautiful.

The importance ofsabi for the way of tea was affirmed by thegreat fifteenth-century tea master Shukō, founder of one of thefirst schools of tea ceremony. As a distinguished commentator puts it:“The conceptsabi carries not only the meaning‘aged’—in the sense of ‘ripe with experienceand insight’ as well as ‘infused with the patina thatlends old things their beauty’—but also that oftranquility, aloneness, deep solitude” (Hammitzsch, 46).

The feeling ofsabi is also evoked in the haiku of the famousseventeenth-century poet Matsuo Bashō, where its connection withthe wordsabishii (solitary, lonely) is emphasized. Thefollowing haiku typifiessabi(shii) in conveying anatmosphere of solitude or loneliness that undercuts, as Japanesepoetry usually does, the distinction between subjective andobjective:

Solitary now —
Standing amidst the blossoms
Is a cypress tree.

Contrasting with the colorful beauty of the blossoms, the more subduedgracefulness of the cypress—no doubt older than the personseeing it but no less solitary—typifies the poetic mood ofsabi.

Tanizaki’s “In Praise of Shadows” frequentlycelebratessabi. By contrast with Western taste, he writes ofthe Japanese sensibility:

We do not dislike everything that shines, but we do prefer a pensivelustre to a shallow brilliance, a murky light that, whether in a stoneor an artifact, bespeaks a sheen of antiquity. . . . We love thingsthat bear the marks of grime, soot, and weather, and we love thecolors and the sheen that call to mind the past that made them.(Tanizaki, 11–12)

This is a significant existential consideration: the sheen of olderthings connects us with the past in ways that shiny products of moderntechnology simply cannot. And since older things tend to be made fromnatural materials, to deal with them helps us to realize our closestconnections with the natural environment.

Sabi figures prominently, for Tanizaki, in the aesthetics ofthe traditional Japanese toilet, which “stands apart from themain building at the end of a corridor, in a grove fragrant withleaves and moss.” He wrestles with the vexations that moderntechnology imposes on the question of fixtures, as the traditionalones are superseded by “white porcelain and handles of sparklingmetal” (Tanizaki, 3, 6).

Wood finished in glistening black lacquer is the very best, but evenunfinished wood, as it darkens and the grain grows more subtle withthe years, acquires an inexplicable power to calm and soothe. Theultimate, of course, is a wooden “morning glory” urinalfilled with boughs of cedar: this is a delight to look at and allowsnot the slightest sound. (Tanizaki, 6)

Our forebears, making poetry of everything in their lives, transformedwhat by rights should be the most unsanitary room in the house into aplace of unsurpassed elegance, replete with fond association with thebeauties of nature.

It is surely fitting that one should perform those most naturalfunctions of urinating and defecating, returning to the earth theremains of its bounties, in natural rather than high-techsurroundings.

A more exalted exemplification ofsabi is the exquisiteSilver Pavilion at Ginkakuji in Kyoto. Even though the tea ceremony issaid to have originated here, in a smallsabi-saturatedteahouse, the exterior of the pavilion was originally going to becovered in silver foil, in emulation of the Golden Pavilion (14thcentury) at Kinkakuji. Without ever having enjoyed a coating ofsilver, the Silver Pavilion is the epitome ofsabi and one ofthe most graceful structures ever built. The contrast with the larger,and flashier Golden Pavilion, whose coating of gold leaf lends it aquite different (and distinctly un-sabi) kind of beauty, isinstructive.

Larger Photographs of the Silver Pavilion at Ginkakuji and the Golden Pavilion at Kinkakuji

In 1950 a deranged Buddhist acolyte, deeply disturbed by the beauty ofthe Golden Pavilion, set fire to it and burned it to the ground. Anexact replica was built on the original site in 1955. The aestheticqualities of the original structure are celebrated in MishimaYukio’s fine novelThe Temple of the Golden Pavilion(1956), as well as in Ichikawa Kon’s classic filmEnjo(Conflagration, 1958). In 1987, the burgeoning Japanese economy madeit possible for the first time in the building’s history tocover the structure with gold leaf, according to the creator’soriginal intention. The result is breathtakingly spectacular—buttotally un-Japanese. Old-time residents of Kyoto famously complainedthat it would take a long time for the building to acquire sufficientsabi to be worth looking at again. At the rate the patinaseems to be progressing, probably several centuries.

In 2011, after the tsunami in Tōhoku and the explosions andnuclear meltdown in Fukushima caused an acute energy shortage inJapan, one of many responses was a dramatic reduction of lighting inpublic places, and especially in subway stations with extensiveunderground restaurant and shopping precincts. Tanizaki cites aprescient remark from the late 1920s to the effect that “perhapsno two countries waste more electricity than America and Japan”(Tanizaki, 35). He would be delighted now to see Japanese citiesreducing the ubiquitous glare of neon lighting and all-night electricillumination, in a dimming of unnecessary lights which therebyreintroduces some of the shadows he so eloquently praises.

6.Yūgen: Mysterious Grace

Yūgen may be, among generally recondite Japaneseaesthetic ideas, the most ineffable. The term is first found inChinese philosophical texts, where it has the meaning of“dark,” or “mysterious.”

Kamo no Chōmei, the author of the well-knownHōjōki (An Account of my Hut, 1212), also wroteabout poetry and consideredyūgen to be a primaryconcern of the poetry of his time. He offers the following as acharacterization ofyūgen: “It is like an autumnevening under a colorless expanse of silent sky. Somehow, as if forsome reason that we should be able to recall, tears welluncontrollably.” Another characterization helpfully mentions theimportance of the imagination: “When looking at autumn mountainsthrough mist, the view may be indistinct yet have great depth.Although few autumn leaves may be visible through the mist, the viewis alluring. The limitless vista created in imagination far surpassesanything one can see more clearly” (Hume, 253–54).

This passage instantiates a general feature of East-Asian culture,which favors allusiveness over explicitness and completeness.Yūgen does not, as has sometimes been supposed, have todo with some other world beyond this one, but rather with the depth ofthe world we live in, as experienced with the aid of a cultivatedimagination.

The art in which the notion ofyūgen has played the mostimportant role is the Nō drama, one of the world’s greattheater traditions, which attained its highest flourishing through theartistry of Zeami Motokiyo (1363–1443). Zeami wrote a number oftreatises on Nō drama, in whichyūgen(“Grace”) figures as “the highest principle”(Rimer, 92). He associates it with the highly refined culture of theJapanese nobility, and with their speech in particular, though thereis also in Nō a “Grace of music,” a “Grace ofperformance [of different roles],” and a “Grace of thedance” (Rimer, 93). It is something rare, that is attained onlyby the greatest actors in the tradition, and only after decades ofdedicated practice of the art. It is impossible to conceptualize, sothat Zeami often resorts to imagery in trying to explain it:“Cannot the beauty of Grace be compared to the image of a swanholding a flower in its bill, I wonder?” (Rimer, 73).

The most famous formulation comes at the beginning of Zeami’s“Notes on the Nine Levels [of artistic attainment inNō],” where the highest level is referred to as “theart of the flower[ing] of peerless charm”:

The meaning of the phrase Peerless Charm surpasses any explanation inwords and lies beyond the workings of consciousness. It can surely besaid that the phrase “in the dead of night, the sun shinesbrightly” exists in a realm beyond logical explanation. Indeed,concerning the Grace of the greatest performers in our art [it givesrise to] the moment of Feeling that Transcends Cognition, and to anart that lies beyond any level that the artist may consciously haveattained. (Rimer, 120)

This passage alludes to the results of a pattern of rigorousdiscipline that informs many “performing arts” (whichwould include the tea ceremony and calligraphy as well as theater) inJapan, as well as East-Asian martial arts. Nō is exemplary inthis respect, since its forms of diction, gestures, gaits, and dancemovements are all highly stylized and extremely unnatural. The idea isthat one practices for years a “form” (kata) thatgoes counter to the movements of the body and thus requires tremendousdiscipline—to the point of a breakthrough to a “highernaturalness” that is exhibited when the form has beenconsummately incorporated. This kind of spontaneity gives theimpression, as in the case of Grace, of something“supernatural.”

7.Yūgen and Landscape Painting

Intriguing features of Japanese aesthetics are revealed through theartistic practices of Sesshū Tōyō and his mostcelebrated work, the so-called “Splashed ink landscape” of1495 (HabokuSansui, literally, “Broken InkLandscape”). Taking the first steps towards reading his artcalls on us to recognize a distinctive feature of Japanese landscapepaintings, that is, as art objects they have a considerably expandedaesthetic status relative to similar works as interpreted withinWestern philosophical and art historical traditions. Of course, thepainting object itself is important, but key aesthetic value also liesin the bodily performance the work attests to. Properly estimating thebeauty of Sesshū’s “Splashed inklandscape”—similar to how one should appreciate Japanesecalligraphy—involves more than simply making judgments regardingthe marks on paper, but also calls for an appreciation of the bodilymovements that created the work. Because Sesshū’sspontaneous movements were cultivated according to highly disciplinedZen Buddhist practices, interpreting his landscape art demands anaesthetics expanded to embrace the philosophic and religious.

Sesshū Tōyō (雪舟等楊,1420–1506) was a towering figure of the Japanese art world whohelped initiate an indigenous artistic tradition at a time whenphilosophic-religious practices were going beyond their Chineseinfluence, as Chan Buddhism gave rise to Zen Buddhism in Japan.Sesshū was part of a trajectory of many centuries to establishJapanese forms of Buddhism as an enduring feature of thecountry’s religious, philosophic, and aesthetic identity. Duringhis life, Zen was reaching prominence as a religious discipline, aswere the related arts under Ashikaga patronage. The Muromachi Periodwas the time of Zen aesthetics: not only monochrome ink painting, butall Japanese aesthetic practices (geidō) includingcalligraphy, tea ceremony, Nō drama, and dry landscape gardeningflourished as expressions of the Zen, especially Rinzai Zen, spirit ofthe time. During this period, a shift was underway in the paintingworld fromkara-e (唐絵 “Chinesepainting”) toyamato-e(大和絵 “Japanese painting”).Representations of deities for devotional purposes, and paintings ofDaoist and Buddhist themes (dōshakuga) were beingsupplanted as the heart of art practice as Japan saw its firstmovements towards initiating an art tradition seeking purely aestheticideals. Landscape painting was central to that movement.

Sesshū was a celebrated painter, poet, calligrapher, andgardener, who mastered all of the major Chinese styles and genres,from bird and flower paintings, to portraiture, hanging scrolls,screens, and fans. It was his landscapes, however, particularly hisfamed “Splashed Ink Landscape” for which he has beenimmortalized. This painting offers insight into a central concept ofJapanese aesthetics discussed above, that is,yūgen.

Splashed Ink Landscape by Sesshū

The mysterious grace of his most celebrated landscape painting derivesas much from the space that is left un-touched, the invisible andabsent (often referred to as the “dragon’s veins” ofa painting) as from what is painted and visible. The work appearsincomplete, still in the act of formation, and the dramatic negativespaces created by the mists allow the various forms to dissolve andblend into one another, but more decisively, according to theyūgen dynamic, this negativity invites the viewer into thepainting to actively complete it. As artists employing yūgenprinciples in other genres have shown, the incompleteness andallusiveness of the artwork summons the viewer into the scene. InGhilardi’s words, “the onlooker must merge in the image,completing the empty spaces, making it a lively element of natureitself, ‘between’ visible and invisible” (Ghilardi,2015, 99).

Sesshū does not seek to render every detail of the landscape toachieve representational verisimilitude, to depict an object thatwould be discernible for a subject. The aim is to give only asuggestion or a trace of trees, mountains, or waters, which appear tonegate themselves as objects. Accordingly, Sesshū does notcircumscribe forms but offers the impression of poetic immediacy bybreaking them down. Extreme abbreviation and abstraction are employedsuch that any form, if even discernible, is pushed as far as possiblefrom objectivity without disappearing completely into formlessness. AsJullien writes regarding Chinese painters who influenced Sesshū,they paint the “landscape in the tonality ofas if, inthe mode of appearing-disappearing, at once ‘as if therewere’ and ‘as if there were not.’”(Jullien,2009. 8) The central grouping of trees, the inn blending into theirtrunks, and the tiny oarsman all appear but feel as though they areabout to be lost, maybe already transitioning into a vague memory,only a brushstroke away from dissolving completely. A sensitive viewerdoes not simply perceive a representation of this event but can sensethe sweeping and spontaneous gestures that gave rise to theephemerality of the scene. To appreciate this aesthetic feature of thepainting invokes Buddhist principles Sesshū would have cultivatedas a Zen monk.

Sesshū’s life and work are exemplary for Japaneseaesthetics given that his practice was not aesthetic in a restrictedsense, but also encompassed the religious and philosophical principlesof Daoist-inspired Zen Buddhism. “Splashed ink landscape”was composed in Sesshū’s 76^th year, a time whenhe claimed that his eyes “were growing misty” and Daoismwas increasingly influential for his painting. As a painter-priest,both his meditative as well as his artistic practice would have aimedat self-negation, at achieving “non-self” as per the goalof Zen training. As Yukio Lippit writes, “Splashed Ink Landscapethus showcases a mode of ink painting that projects both cultivatedartistic agency and a state of subjectlessness. This condition of thepermeable subject would prove pitch-perfect for the Japanese monkpainter of the late medieval period” (Lippit 2012, 71). Todisclose how this aesthetic-religious goal was approached in paintingpractice reveals the Daoist roots of Zen Buddhism.

Painting was among the Japanese aesthetic practices referred to asgeidō 芸道. One of the sinographs sharedamong the compounds for archery (kyudō弓道), martial arts (jūdō柔道), calligraphy (shodō 書道),flower arranging (kadō 華道), tea ceremony(sadō 茶道) is the sinographdao(道), (dō ormichi in Japanese)indicating the philosophic-religious orientation of the practices. Tomove according to thedao is to move with a naturalspontaneity as an embodiment of the well-known concept“non-action” (wuwei 無爲). Actingspontaneously involves moving beyond the binary of activity orpassivity; that is, the world moves the body as much as the body movesin the world. Accordingly, as Nishida comments, we can say that“Sesshū painted nature or that nature painted itselfthrough Sesshū” (Nishida 1990, 135). The gracefulnaturalness of the swordsman, the calligrapher, or the Nō actoris also characteristic of the painter’s gestures. All are bodilypractices that seek to harmonize with the spontaneous motions of thedao through non-action. Thus, to estimate the aesthetic valueof Sesshū’s brushwork is to appreciate its religious sourcein Daoist-informed Buddhist practice. Because observers can harmonizetheir own bodies with the movements animating the painting, the workelicits more than aesthetic judgments, it is itself a site forcultivating religious-philosophic discipline.

The “splashed ink” technique Sesshū employed isparticularly exemplary of the expanded frame of Japanese aesthetics.“Splashed Ink” (hatsuboku) was one of several“broken ink” (haboku) spontaneous techniquesoriginating in China, which Sesshū learned while travelling tostudy with painters and conduct religious practice at its monasteries.The techniques ranged from spontaneous washes and splashes to actualink-flinging and dripping. While these methods sound reckless and wereassociated with an “aesthetics of inebriation” and“aesthetics of accident,” the splashed ink idiom is infact the most demanding style, regarded as the highest form ofexpression and the supreme test of the artist’s skill. Likewise,it was thought to test the observer’s sensitivity like no othergenre. The style originated with the “literati” artists ofthe Southern Song School of Chinese landscape painting who favoredyūgen-style abbreviated poetic suggestion, rather thanthe detailed and descriptive “academic” approach of theNorthern School. Thus, following this tradition, painters such asSesshū did not aim to develop virtuoso skill to create a fullyformed art image, but in negating the self and becoming continuouswith the motions of nature, they follow the Daoist precept that“the great image has no form.”

8.Iki: Refined Style

The Structure of “Iki” (“Iki” nokōzō) by Kuki Shūzō (1888–1941) is arguablythe most significant work in Japanese aesthetics from the twentiethcentury—and certainly one of the shortest. Kuki wrote the firstdraft in 1926 while living in Paris, toward the end of a seven-yearstay in Europe, and published the book shortly after returning toJapan in 1929. It’s a phenomenological and hermeneutic study ofa phenomenon,iki, that was central to Japanese aestheticlife during the previous two or three hundred years and derived fromforms of erotic relations between men and geisha in the pleasurequarters of the big cities. Kuki remarks that although the Frenchtermschic,coquet, andraffinéshare connotations with the termiki, no European word iscapable of translating the richness of itsmeanings—unsurprisingly, since it emerged from a particularcultural context and Kuki is concerned to grasp the “livingform” of the phenomenon as experienced. Kuki mentions the Frenchesprit and the GermanSehnsucht as terms that aresimilarly untranslatable, for similar reasons of cultural embeddedness(Nara, 15–16).

Kuki distinguishes two further “moments” ofikiin addition to its basis in seductiveness or coquetry(bitai): “brave composure” (ikiji) and“resignation” (akirame). Insofar asikias seductiveness is concerned “to maintain a dualisticrelationship, protecting the possibility aspossibility”—an allusion to Heidegger’s existentialconception of death as ultimate possibility—it already embracesimpermanence and mortality. The first sense in which iki preserves thepossibility as possibility, and thus maintains a dualisticrelationship, is that the act of sexual union is not consummated (orat least postponed). This preservation of possibility is furtherenhanced by brave composure, which for Kuki is exemplified in theattitude toward death (his own and others’) on the part of thesamurai warrior and his way of living (bushidō). It isenhanced too by the moment of resignation, which Kuki understands asthe Buddhist attitude of non-attachment to a world of impermanence.All together they enable a kind of aesthetic “play”,thanks to a (phenomenological) “bracketing” of theconcerns of everyday life (Nara, 18–23).

After positioning the phenomenon ofiki among a variety ofother aesthetic feelings such as sweet (amami) versusastringent (shibumi), flashy (hade) versus quiet(jimi), and crude (gehin) versus refined(jōhin), Kuki goes on to examine the objectiveexpressions of the phenomenon, which are either “natural”or “artistic” (Nara, 24–34). In nature, willow treesand slow, steady rain exemplifyiki; in the human body aslight relaxation, a voice of medium rather than high pitch, a facethat is long rather than round, a certain tension and relaxationtogether of the eyes, mouth, and cheeks, the hand curved or slightlybent back. Alsoiki is the wearing of thin fabric, makeupthinly applied, hair styled not too formally, with the aid of waterrather than oil, and adécolletage designed to callattention to the nape of the neck laid bare (Nara, 35–39).

In the “free art” of design, parallel lines, andespecially vertical stripes, are expressive ofiki: almostall the other beautiful patterns developed by Japanese fabric arts,since they often involve curved lines, are un-iki. The onlycolors that embodyiki are certain grays, browns, and blues.In architecture the small (four-and-a-half mat) Zen teahouse is aparadigm ofiki, especially insofar as it initiates aninterplay between wood and bamboo. Lighting must be subdued: indirectdaylight or else the kind of illumination provided by a paper lantern.The scales, melodies, and rhythms of various kinds of music arecorrespondinglyiki, insofar as (alluding to Goethe,Schelling, and Schopenhauer) “[a]rchitecture is frozen music,and music is flowing architecture” (Nara, 41–51).

In his conclusion, Kuki asks whether various nineteenth-century andcontemporary European arts might exemplifyiki and decidesprobably not exactly, though he allows that various aspects ofBaudelaire’s poetry and aesthetics come very close (with thedifference that dandyism is a male prerogative whereasiki isassociated with both sexes). During his seven years in Germany andFrance he listened to lectures and seminars by, and conversed with,such figures as Heinrich Rickert, Edmund Husserl, Martin Heidegger,Henri Bergson, and Jean-Paul Sartre. Kuki thereby developed asophisticated understanding of European philosophy and aesthetics, andwas concerned after his return to Japan to apply methods he hadlearned to a Japanese aesthetic phenomenon. He didn’t thereforeaspire to any kind of universal aesthetics—sinceiki isrooted in the culture of a particular ethnic group. Yet because theJapanese at that time, under geopolitical pressure to modernise moreefficiently, were losing touch with their own traditions, Kuki took itas one of his tasks to celebrate the aesthetic values of the past(Nara, 58–60).

He has unfortunately been excoriated on these grounds as anultranationalist and even a fascist, notably by Leslie Pincus in herbookAuthenticating Culture in Imperial Japan: KukiShūzō and the Rise of National Aesthetics, and thisdeters some people from reading him. But while Pincus’s bookprovides a good deal of helpful historical background of the milieu inwhich Kuki was working in Japan, her claims that he was a fascist aregroundless (see Parkes 1997, 2007). An unprejudiced reading ofTheStructure of Iki reveals no fascist tendencies whatsoever, andthe nationalist themes are innocuous, simply calling for a rememberingof what is valuable in the Japanese tradition and likely to be lostbeneath the waves of modernization—in a world where connectionswith the past were withering and Japan was warding off thecolonization of East and South Asia by the Western powers.

Kuki is a fascinating thinker, andThe Structure of Iki,while occasionally tortuous because of its commitment to a strictlyEuropean methodology, illuminates some fascinating aspects of theJapanese aesthetic tradition while at the same time engaging thedeepest levels of experience anywhere.

9.Kire: Cutting

A distinctive notion in Japanese aesthetic discourse is that of the“cut” (kire) or “cut-continuity”(kire-tsuzuki). The “cut” is a basic trope in theRinzai School of Zen Buddhism, especially as exemplified in theteachings of the Zen master Hakuin (1686–1769). For Hakuin theaim of “seeing into one’s own nature” can only berealized if one has “cut off the root of life”: “Youmust be prepared to let go your hold when hanging from a sheerprecipice, to die and return again to life” (Hakuin,133–35). The cut appears as a fundamental feature in thedistinctively Japanese art of flower arrangement calledikebana. The term means literally “making flowerslive”—a strange name, on first impression at least, for anart that begins by initiating their death. There is an exquisite essayby Nishitani Keiji on this marvelous art, in which organic life is cutoff precisely in order to let the true nature of the flower to come tothe fore (Nishitani, 23–7). There is something curiouslydeceptive, from the Buddhist viewpoint of the impermanence of allthings, about plants, which, lacking locomotion and by sinking rootsinto the earth, assume an appearance of being especially “athome” wherever they are. In severing the flowers from theirroots, Nishitani suggests, and placing them in an alcove (itself cutoff from direct light, as Tanizaki remarks), one is letting them showthemselves as they truly are, namely, as absolutely rootless as everyother being in this world of radical impermanence.

The notion of cut-continuation is exemplified in the highly stylizedgait of the actors in the Nō drama. The actor slides the footalong the floor with the toes raised, and then “cuts” offthe movement by quickly lowering the toes to the floor—andbeginning at that precise moment the sliding movement along the floorwith the other foot. This stylization of the natural human walk drawsattention to the episodic nature of life, which is also reflected inthe pause between every exhalation of air from the lungs and the nextinhalation. Through attending to the breath in zen meditation onebecomes aware that the pause between exhalation and inhalation isdifferent—more of a cut—from that between inhalation andexhalation. This reflects the possibility of life’s being cutoff at any moment: the one exhalation that isn’t followed by aninhalation, known as “breathing one’s last.”

Cutting also appears in the “cut-syllable”(kireji) in the art ofhaiku poetry, which cuts offone image from—at the same time as it links it to—thenext. There is a famous cut-syllable,ya, at the end of thefirst line of the best-known haiku by Bashō, the most famoushaiku poet:

Furuike ya Kawazu tobikomu Mizu no oto.

Ah, an ancient pond— Suddenly a frog jumps in! The sound of water.

The most distinctively Japanese style of garden, the “drylandscape” (karesansui) garden, owes its existence tothe landscape’s being “cut off” from the naturalworld beyond its borders. The epitome of this style is the rock gardenat Ryōanji in Kyoto, where fifteen “mountain”-shapedrocks are set in beds of moss in a rectangular “sea” ofwhite gravel.

Larger Photographs of the Dry Landscape Garden at Ryōanji

(The Japanese word for landscape,sansui, means literally“mountains waters”: see Berthier 2000.) At Ryōanjithe rock garden is cut off from the outside by a splendid wall that isnevertheless low enough to permit a view of the natural surroundings.This cut, which is in a way doubled by the angled roof that runs alongthe top of the wall and seems to cut it off, is most evident in thecontrast between movement and stillness. Above and beyond the wallthere is nature in movement: branches wave and sway, clouds float by,and the occasional bird flies past. But unless rain or snow isfalling, or a stray leaf is blown across, the only movement visiblewithin the garden is shadowed or illusory, as the sun or moon castsslow-moving shadows of tree branches on the motionless gravel.

The garden is cut off on the near side too, by a border of pebbles(larger, darker, and more rounded than the pieces of gravel) that runsalong the east and north edges. There is a striking contrast betweenthe severe rectangularity of the garden’s borders and theirregular natural forms of the rocks within them. The expanse ofgravel is also cut through by the upthrust of the rocks from below:earth energies mounting and peaking in irruptions of stone. Each groupof rocks is cut off from the others by the expanse of gravel, and theseparation is enhanced by the “ripple” patterns in theraking that surrounds each group (and some individual rocks). And yetthe overall effect of these cuttings is actually to intensify theinvisible lines of connection among the rocks, whose interrelationsexemplify the fundamental Buddhist insight of “dependentco-arising” (engi).

The rock garden also embodies the central Buddhist insight ofimpermanence. Insofar as its being cut off from the surrounding naturehas the effect of drying up its organic life, which then no longerdecays in the usual manner. Being dried up (thekare ofkaresansui means “withered”), the mountains andwaters of the garden at Ryōanji at first appear less temporarythan their counterparts outside, which manifest the cyclical changesthat organic life is heir to. But just as plants look deceptivelypermanent thanks to their being rooted in the earth, so the rocks ofthe dry landscape garden give a misleading impression of permanence,especially when one revisits them over a period of years. Asparticipants in (what Thoreau called) “the great centrallife” of the earth, rocks have a life that unfolds in timesequences that are quite different from ours—and yet alsosubject to the impermanence that conditions all things.

10. Ozu Yasujirō: Cinematic Cuts

The garden at Ryōanji makes a brief but significant appearance inone of the classics of Japanese cinema, Ozu Yasujirō’sLate Spring (1949). It comes right after one of thefilm’s most famous images: a vase standing on a tatami mat infront of a window on which silhouettes of bamboo are projected. Thescene in question consists of eight shots, seven of which show theRyōanji rocks (of which there are fifteen in total), and whichare separated and joined by seven cuts. (Ozu hardly ever uses anyother transition than the cut, such as the wipe.) After two shots ofrocks in the garden, the camera angle reverses, and we see the mainprotagonist with his friend—they are both fathers ofdaughters—sitting on the wooden platform with the tops of tworocks occupying the lower part of the frame. Two rocks and twofathers. Cut to a close-up of the fathers from their left side, withno rocks in view. In their dark suits, seated in the classic Ozu“overlapping triangles” configuration, and leaning forwardtoward the garden with their arms around knees drawn up toward theirchins, they resemble two rocks. They talk about how they raisechildren who then go off to live their own lives. As they invoke suchmanifestations of impermanence, they remain motionless except for theoccasional nod or turn of the head.

Enlarged Sequence of Stills fromLate Spring

In their brief conversation by the edge of the garden, the two fathersdo little more than exchange platitudes about family life—andyet the scene is a profoundly moving expression of the humancondition. It gains this effect from the assimilation of the figuresof the two men to rocks, which seems to affirm the persistence ofcycles of impermanence. These images of assimilation capture one ofthe central ideas behind the dry landscape garden: that of thecontinuum between human consciousness and stone, which is alsounderstandable as the kinship of awareness with its originalbasis.

The opening shots ofTokyo Story (1953), which some considerOzu’s greatest film, are also exemplary with respect to thecutting. The first shot shows a shrine sculpture to the left of centerand behind it an estuary with a boat chugging along to the right, inthe direction of a gradual rise of hills on the horizon. After tenseconds, just as the boat is about to disappear beyond theframe—there is a cut to the pavement on the side of a street. Acart now occupies the left foreground of the frame, and beside itstand two large bottles (Ozu’s signature shapes). Eight smallchildren in school uniform walk away from the camera to the right.Continuity is provided by a parallel between the river and horizon ofthe first scene and the horizontal lines of the pavement and houses inthe second, as well as by the movement toward the right. Continuity isalso provided aurally by the continuing sound of the boat’sputt-putting. A ninth child appears and as he passes the bottles andreaches the center of the frame—there is a cut to a shot overthe roofs of houses of a train traveling to the right, with behind itthe buildings of a shrine or temple, and then hills behind those. Theputting sound of the boat continues before being drowned out by thesound of the train, and the almost horizontal line of thetrain’s passage continue to be congruent with those of thestreet, descending gradually to the right. Smoke issues from twochimneys at left and center, the scene lasting fifteen seconds.

As the end of the train reaches the center of the frame—thesound continues but there is a cut to a closer shot of the train fromthe hill side, so that it is now moving up along a diagonal to theleft. Behind the houses on the other side of the train is the estuaryagain. As the train’s whistle blows—there is a cut to ashrine surrounded by pine trees and statuary standing on an embankmentwith the estuary in the background on the far left. Continuity isprovided by a chimney in the foreground that spouts smoke as thetrain’s steam whistle continues. The main line has reverted to ahorizontal line rising toward the right. After six seconds, theshortest scene so far—there is a cut to a grandfather andgrandmother sitting on the tatami matting of their home in thevillage, facing toward the right. The grandfather, consulting atimetable, says, “We’ll pass Osaka at around 6:00 thisevening,” referring to a train trip they are just about to taketo Tokyo, which will initiate the film’s main action.

Enlarged Sequence of Stills fromTokyo Story

For each cut Ozu has arranged for at least one formal element toprovide continuity (kire-tsuzuki) between the adjacentscenes. Ozu’s inconspicuous switches remain among the moststylish cuts in world cinema, and his work continues to be a source ofinspiration.

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Acknowledgments

The photographs of the Silver Pavilion etc. at Ginkakuji, and of theDry Landscape Garden at Ryōanji, are by Graham Parkes. Thephotographs of the Golden Pavilion at Kinkakuji are by Susanne Z.Riehemann, and are reproduced here with her permission. Theacknowledgements for the still images from the films discussed inSection 7 are:Late Spring, directed by Ozu Yasujirō,1949, copyright by Shochiku Co., Ltd.; andTokyo Story,directed by Ozu Yasujirō, 1953, copyright by Shochiku Co., Ltd.The image of Splashed Ink Landscape isin the public domain.