I possess no specialized knowledge of architecture, but I understand
that in the Gothic cathedral of the West, the roof is thrust up and up
so as to place its pinnacle as high in the heavens as possible-and that
herein is thought to lie its special beauty. In the temples of Japan, on
the other hand, a roof of heavy tiles is first laid out, and in the
deep, spacious shadows created by the eaves the rest of the structure is
built. Nor is this true only of temples; in the palaces of the nobility
and the houses of the common people, what first strikes the eye is the
massive roof of tile or thatch and the heavy darkness that hangs beneath
the eaves. Even at midday cavernous darkness spreads over all beneath
the roof's edge, making entryway, doors, walls, and pillars all but
invisible. The grand temples of Kyoto-Chion'in, Honganji-and the
farmhouses of the remote countryside are alike in this respect: like
most buildings of the past their roofs give the impression of possessing
far greater weight, height, and surface than all that stands beneath the
eaves.
I possess no specialized knowledge of architecture, but I understand
that in the Gothic cathedral of the West, the roof is thrust up and up
so as to place its pinnacle as high in the heavens as possible-and that
herein is thought to lie its special beauty. In the temples of Japan, on
the other hand, a roof of heavy tiles is first laid out, and in the
deep, spacious shadows created by the eaves the rest of the structure is
built. Nor is this true only of temples; in the palaces of the nobility
and the houses of the common people, what first strikes the eye is the
massive roof of tile or thatch and the heavy darkness that hangs beneath
the eaves. Even at midday cavernous darkness spreads over all beneath
the roof's edge, making entryway, doors, walls, and pillars all but
invisible. The grand temples of Kyoto-Chion'in, Honganji-and the
farmhouses of the remote countryside are alike in this respect: like
most buildings of the past their roofs give the impression of possessing
far greater weight, height, and surface than all that stands beneath the
eaves.
In making for ourselves a place to live, we first spread a parasol to
throw a shadow on the earth, and in the pale light of the shadow we put
together a house. There are of course roofs on Western houses too, but
they are less to keep off the sun than to keep off the wind and the dew;
even from without it is apparent that they are built to create as few
shadows as possible and to expose the interior to as much light as
possible. If the roof of a Japanese house is a parasol, the roof of a
Western house is no more than a cap, with as small a visor as possible
so as to allow the sunlight to penetrate directly beneath the eaves.
There are no doubt all sorts of reasons-climate, building materials-for
the deep Japanese eaves. The fact that we did not use glass, concrete,
and bricks, for instance, made a low roof necessary to keep off the
driving wind and rain. A light room would no doubt have been more
convenient for us, too, than a dark room. The quality that we call
beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our
ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover
beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty's ends.
In making for ourselves a place to live, we first spread a parasol to
throw a shadow on the earth, and in the pale light of the shadow we put
together a house. There are of course roofs on Western houses too, but
they are less to keep off the sun than to keep off the wind and the dew;
even from without it is apparent that they are built to create as few
shadows as possible and to expose the interior to as much light as
possible. If the roof of a Japanese house is a parasol, the roof of a
Western house is no more than a cap, with as small a visor as possible
so as to allow the sunlight to penetrate directly beneath the eaves.
There are no doubt all sorts of reasons-climate, building materials-for
the deep Japanese eaves. The fact that we did not use glass, concrete,
and bricks, for instance, made a low roof necessary to keep off the
driving wind and rain. A light room would no doubt have been more
convenient for us, too, than a dark room. The quality that we call
beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our
ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover
beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty's ends.
And so it has come to be that the beauty of a Japanese room depends on a
variation of shadows, heavy shadows against light shadows-it has nothing
else. Westerners are amazed at the simplicity of Japanese rooms,
perceiving in them no more than ashen walls bereft of ornament. Their
reaction is understandable, but it betrays a failure to comprehend the
mystery of shadows. Out beyond the sitting room, which the rays of the
sun can at best but barely reach, we extend the eaves or build on a
veranda, putting the sunlight at still greater a remove. The light from
the garden steals in but dimly through paper-paneled doors, and it is
precisely this indirect light that makes for us the charm of a room. We
do our walls in neutral colors so that the sad, fragile, dying rays can
sink into absolute repose. The storehouse, kitchen, hallways, and such
may have a glossy finish, but the walls of the sitting room will almost
always be of day textured with fine sand. A luster here would destroy
the soft fragile beauty of the feeble light. We delight in the mere
sight of the delicate glow of fading rays clinging to the surface of a
dusky wall, there to live out what little life remains to them. We never
tire of the sight, for to us this pale glow and these dim shadows far
surpass any ornament. And so, as we must if we are not to disturb the
glow, we finish the walls with sand in a single neutral color. The hue
may differ from room to room, but the degree of difference will be ever
so slight; not so much a difference in color as in shade, a difference
that will seem to exist only in the mood of the viewer. And from these
delicate differences in the hue of the walls, the shadows in each room
take on a tinge peculiarly their own.
And so it has come to be that the beauty of a Japanese room depends on a
variation of shadows, heavy shadows against light shadows-it has nothing
else. Westerners are amazed at the simplicity of Japanese rooms,
perceiving in them no more than ashen walls bereft of ornament. Their
reaction is understandable, but it betrays a failure to comprehend the
mystery of shadows. Out beyond the sitting room, which the rays of the
sun can at best but barely reach, we extend the eaves or build on a
veranda, putting the sunlight at still greater a remove. The light from
the garden steals in but dimly through paper-paneled doors, and it is
precisely this indirect light that makes for us the charm of a room. We
do our walls in neutral colors so that the sad, fragile, dying rays can
sink into absolute repose. The storehouse, kitchen, hallways, and such
may have a glossy finish, but the walls of the sitting room will almost
always be of day textured with fine sand. A luster here would destroy
the soft fragile beauty of the feeble light. We delight in the mere
sight of the delicate glow of fading rays clinging to the surface of a
dusky wall, there to live out what little life remains to them. We never
tire of the sight, for to us this pale glow and these dim shadows far
surpass any ornament. And so, as we must if we are not to disturb the
glow, we finish the walls with sand in a single neutral color. The hue
may differ from room to room, but the degree of difference will be ever
so slight; not so much a difference in color as in shade, a difference
that will seem to exist only in the mood of the viewer. And from these
delicate differences in the hue of the walls, the shadows in each room
take on a tinge peculiarly their own.
Of course the Japanese room does have its picture alcove, and in it a hanging scroll and a flower arrangement.
But the scroll and the flowers serve not as ornament but rather to give depth to the shadows.
We value a scroll above all for the way it blends with the walls of the alcove,
and thus we consider the mounting quite as important as the calligraphy or painting.
Even the greatest masterpiece will lose its worth as a scroll if it fails to blend with the alcove,
while a work of no particular distinction may blend beautifully with
the room and set off to unexpected advantage both itself and its surroundings.
Wherein lies the power of an otherwise ordinary work to produce such an effect?
Most often the paper, the ink, the fabric of the mounting will possess a certain look of antiquity,
and this look of antiquity will strike just the right balance with the darkness of the alcove and room.
Of course the Japanese room does have its picture alcove, and in it a hanging scroll and a flower arrangement.
But the scroll and the flowers serve not as ornament but rather to give depth to the shadows.
We value a scroll above all for the way it blends with the walls of the alcove,
and thus we consider the mounting quite as important as the calligraphy or painting.
Even the greatest masterpiece will lose its worth as a scroll if it fails to blend with the alcove,
while a work of no particular distinction may blend beautifully with
the room and set off to unexpected advantage both itself and its surroundings.
Wherein lies the power of an otherwise ordinary work to produce such an effect?
Most often the paper, the ink, the fabric of the mounting will possess a certain look of antiquity,
and this look of antiquity will strike just the right balance with the darkness of the alcove and room.