Review: Wabi Savvy: When Less is, More or Less, More

Review by Lauren W. Deutsch

KYOTO JOURNAL 29

Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers

by Leonard Koren (1994. Stone Bridge Press. Berkeley CA)

Should you not be one of the types listed Leonard Koren's irresistibly titled 96-page murder-mystery-who-done-it lamentation in two acts and wish to venture forward, fear not; for wabi-sabi is as close as the classic pair of blue jeans you have hanging in your closet.  According to author, this "most conspicuous and characteristic feature of what we think of as traditional Japanese beauty," is an endangered species, taking its most direct hits from the very forces which nurtured it: the Japanese tea ceremony establishment. 

Trained as an architect and creator of one of the premiere avant garde magazines of the 1970s WET: The Magazine of Gourmet Bathing, as well as such books as 283 Useful Ideas from Japan, how to rake leaves, how to take a Japanese bath, and others, Tokyo / San Francisco resident Koren self-inflicted the challenge to wrestle in writing the most slippery of ethereal-material notions.  His goal is to thrust it into "a meaningful system", "'saving'", he says, "what once constituted a comprehensive and clearly recognizable aesthetic universe."  In a sense he asks whether the experts at saving face can save their aesthetic soul.  

Definitions are in order.  Koren loosely appoints the word "rustic" as the meaning of the confederation of two quite distinct concepts.  Classically, wabi, refers to the "misery of living alone in nature, away from society" in a "dispirited, cheerless emotional state," and sabi, "withered" or "lean."  The wabi-sabi compound is contemporary, a lackadaisical slur suffered from years of misuse, and, as Koren intimates throughout the book, clandestine abuse. 

A wise mortal nevertheless, Koren honestly pursues a dialogue.  No doubt with the popularity of this black-white "sabi-esque" photograph-illustrated book, he will get his wish.  Not willing to defend spiritual materialism on any front, this reviewer wishes to ask: Why should  anyone hold on to anything in this universe ... whether it is our breath or our ideals, much less / much more how could  anyone "save" that which by its very nature must disintegrate.  Whether we are philosophers or philosopher-plumbers, the least we can do is to be sensitive to the wabi-sabi seasons all around us.  On the way, in concert with Koren, we face many pitfalls. 

The high priest of wabi-sabi was, of course, Sen no Rikyu (1522-1591), chajin-for-all-seasons.  While not the first man of high rank to discover beauty in something simply, commonly fabricated, new or old, Rikyu and his progeny -- a carefully accounted for 400 year lineage of 15 generations of oiemoto  (grand masters) set wabi-sabi standards to be appreciated and valued through Chado, the Way of Tea.  And, as Koren more than once mentions, Rikyu's heirs have carefully honed and refined this into a capital concern of great magnitude.  Throughout the book, though a bit helterly-skelterly, Koren indicts the imperial-like patriarchal system for its presumptuous hold on what's right and what's wrong.  Who's asking?

Politics aside, the book does provoke the mind, making one wonder what's the fuss all about anyhow.  Is there really a difference between a pair of blue jeans well-worn in "real time" and that stone-washed "look" created by fast-forwarding the fabric through a chemical process?  Do the pants create the woman or man or vice versa?  And who cares?  This is fun.

Many years ago during a camping trip in the Smoky Mountains, I attended a Saturday night town social in Galax, Virginia attended by probably everyone -- old and young -- who could get up the fire house stairs to the community hall.  My city-slicker partner and I put on our clean(est) blue jeans and prepared to blend in with the natives for some down-home bluegrass music and dancing.  But we were the only ones in blue denim; everyone else turned their work clothes in for fancier duds.  Not even a pair of "designer denims" were to be found anywhere.  Being "correct" is very complicated.

Koren's "unswerving principles of wabi-sabi " are illustrated here: #1/ "No one object or element ... shall stand out above any other."(We tried to blend in.)  #2/ "Thou shalt not revere the old for old's sake."  (If the pants fit, wear them.)  I wish the book would consider other principles (the author's), such as: #3/ Some things build up over time like young mountains; others, like old ones, wear down; (Patch holes over the knees were once the rage -- quite practical, actually -- now it's the holes themselves which are sported with savoir faire.)   #4/ How to detect wabi-sabi fraud?  (The pants cost more than a day's wages and have been dry cleaned.); #5/Wabi-sabiness is not transferable from symbol to significant nor vice versa.  (Beware of tourists!)

Pablo Picasso once reflected, "I want to live like a poor man with a lot of money."  Poverty has never been as chic as it has emerged in the 20th Century USA and Western Europe.  Take the current "home boy" gang-inspired fashion, the city rapper fatigues ... baseball cap perched brim backward, huge, funky pants (how do they keep them up?), layers of flannel shorts atop a hooded sweatshirt?  Mucho dinero  from Japan to Paris ... soo cool even in the "I hated the riots, didn't  you?" Westside of L.A. 

As for the notion of refined rusticity, that "further retired" feeling, an L.A. art critic once noticed how artists are the real estate tycoon's bloodhounds in the property speculation hunt.  Once artists move into what is usually the dangerous, depressed (read "cheap rent") parts of town, these areas become trendy and rents quickly inflated, driving the artists further and further into more dangerous, depressed ... etc.

Poverty is not inherently chic and, it's very expensive.  Most homeless people of sound mind* would like to get out of the cold.  What they would do with Picasso's wealth is certainly another story.  Given the preference of a classic structure from L.A. architect Frank Gehry (walls made from inexpensive corrugated metal, cinder block and adobe with chain link trimming) or something which resembles Versailles or Katsura, who knows what would be #1.  (Don't mention which would be more cost-effective for a government to build.)  We're not talking about urban camping which could a delightful social experience on a hot night.

In short, becoming vulnerable is an essential humbling, human experience.  It shows we are living.  Perhaps it is a dulling of our sense of responsibility for our actions individually and collectively, in the name of science and art, about which Koren is sounding the alarm.  I hope he writes a sequel for people like me.  (Disclosure: I worked for Koren at WET in the late 1970s).

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* There are reports of homeless people living on the streets in L.A. who have been identified by social service agencies as preferring not to  be tied to a regular form of shelter, even if they could afford it.  In New York, there have been legal battles about whether someone by law must go to a shelter if offered.)

Sweet Nothings

Unlike the Western custom of sweetening a beverage, a guest is served wagashi, (traditional Japanese sweet) in advance of the somewhat bitter tasting green matcha, (powdered green tea leaf).  As nothing incorporated in a chaji should escape the host's meticulous consideration of theme, mood and guest's enjoyment, the form and function of those otherwise mundane adzuki beans and rice are heavily invested with meaning. 

Western culture, through American pop influences, has given us seasonal sweets for such holidays as Valentines day, Halloween and Easter. But in Japan the vocabulary is exponentially larger.

Kyoto, chado central, is a major center for tea sweet makers.  Just as the main tea families have their formal court of utensil makers (Raku and Sotetsu, by appointment to the Urasenke oiemoto (grand tea master) ceramists and laquerware makers, respectfully), there are sweet makers whose confections have been served at Sen family, school and organization chaji  for generations.  Tomiko Sen, the late wife of Hounsai Daisosho, Urasenke's now retired Oiemoto,  compiled her essays (translated into English) about the Sen family's favorite sweets in a beautifully illustrated book, An Almanac of Urasenke Seasonal Tea Sweets (Kyoto, Tankosha. 1994). 

True to its name, the book takes the reader on a year's odyssey of omogashi (moist)  and higashi (dry) sweets which are served following the kaiseki meal and preceding koicha (thick tea) and usucha (thin) tea presentations, respectively.  Here we have insight into the subtle sensuality and symbolism of sweetness. 

It is said that a chaji stimulates all senses ... matsukaze (sound of wind in the pines) of a boiling tea kettle; the aroma of incense; as well as touch of the ceramic tea bowl and  refreshing visual harmonies of flowers and scroll.  As for the sense of taste, tea sweets are   not sickly sweet as to overpower the palate.   In addition to beans and rice, other basic "structural" ingredients can include kudzu (a starch), agar gelatin and miso.  While the predominant source of sweetness is sugar, the taste can vary with the addition of such traditional elements as chestnuts, ginko nuts and yuzu (a citron), even a cherry leaf. 

While higashi are typically created in meticulously carved wood molds, the omogashi shapes are limited by the ingredients to being cut from a "slab" (like the supermarket available yokan jelly), rolled or pressed by hand.  Some are made to be eaten with the fingers, others with a kuromoji (pick).  Sweets can be contained in fresh green bamboo shoots or wrapped in edible and non edible leaves.   Depending upon the circumstances, traditionally omogashi are served in a 5-tiered stack of black lacquered boxes or bowls (glass, ceramic, lacquer, etc.) ; the higashi are served on trays in one of several formal configurations of laying food items on a tray. 

The handmade sweets are often prepared to order, reflecting historic as well as innovative imagery, taste and shape favored by the host to fit the occasion.  Many of the designs are Japanese classics ... whirlpools to suggest water, rabbits for New Year, various seasonal flowers, red-yellow-orange maple leaves, ears of rice, mushrooms, pine needles and cones.  Standard chaji banter between host and main guest includes inquiring as to the source and poetic name of the sweets.  Names included in this book include:

January	Chiyomusubi	Eternity
February	Tsumuyuki	Snow Drift
March	Hanagoromo	Flowery Robe
April	Hanaikada	Raft with Cherry Blossoms
May	Kashiwa mochi	Oak Leaf Mochi
June	Minazuki	Rainless Month
July	Himuro	Icehouse
August	Hagi no Tsuyu	Bush Clover Dew
September	Hatsukari	First Geese
October	Yamaji no Kiku	Chrysanthemum by the Mountain Path
November	Fukiyose	Blown Together
December	Hashimori	Bridge Keeper

True to the spirit of the Japanese sense of color mixing, the sweets palette range from the terribly subtle to the awfully day-glo.  I remember an event I attended at Tenryuji temple in Kyoto's Arashiyama many Octobers ago.  Following a kencha (offertory tea) presentation by the Urasenke Iemoto, we onlookers were served tea in the magnificent old, dimly lighted tea rooms by the senior teachers using some meibutsu (old, important, registered) utensils.  It was wabi-sabi heaven ... until the sweets came out: Yamamichi (Mountain Path), from the Tachibanaya confectionary, a bean/rice configuration of an, (bean paste of single consistency like smooth, soft fudge.)   The dark red-brown an center is surrounded by a thin screaming hot-pink, green and yellow rice flour skin with impressions representing mountain peaks and valleys.  (The piece was a cross-section cut from what must have looked when first made like a fluted column with a flat side.)   Ms. Sen observes, "One somehow cannot imagine tramping through such beautiful woods.  When November approaches, the amount of chestnuts in this sweet is decreased, and the colors representing the maple covered peaks, are made brighter, contrasting with the cold air all around us."

Wandering around the narrow old streets of Kyoto, it's difficult to immediately spot a tea sweet proprietor, so beyond the tried and true yet awkward method of peeking in windows, I took advantage of Diane Durston's Old Kyoto (first edition) which listed several, including century-old Shioyoshi-ken (Nakadachiuri-agaru, Kuromon-dori, Kamigyo-ku).    The Taisho-period machiya-styled wood latticed windows revealed nothing of the activities inside; the doorway was hidden by a weathered kamban and a quietly breeze-fluttered calligraphed noren concealed the doorway.  Like most traditional confectioners, the shop was more artist's studios and gallery than retail store.  No English was spoken, so I resorted to an explanation in bumpy nihongo about my chanoyu  studies at Urasenke in Kyoto and the USA, and then after being presented a bowl of matcha.  (Seems I sounded like a serious customer!)  I looked around at the old wood-appointed sales room with its wall of closed wooden drawers and to see a few displays of what looked like a tiny basket of raked autumn leaves from a temple garden ... 3000 yen for about 25 pieces of candy no larger than a thumbnail!  But they were beautiful. 

Unfortunately, Tomiko Sen's book does not have addresses* of the confectioners mentioned (some may not be open to the public); however, two of Urasenke's mainstays are easy to find: Yoshinobu (with an expensive tea utensil store on the second floor and a cafe on the first), located on the same side of the street and south of the Chado Research Center (Horikawa at Teranouchi) and Miso Matsukazeya on Kitaoji on the same side and just east of Daitokuji (a fabulous roof tile and stepping stone facade!)   One need not speak perfect Japanese to be received graciously.  Going prices in Kyoto for moist sweets at the high end averaged 500 yen each in the fall of 1994. 

In many cases, the only place you can buy a particular sweet is directly from the confectioner and of course, they are only available in season.  (Some shops have outlets in department stores.)  Sweets must be fresh to be truly enjoyed, as the ingredients can also be re configured into paste and building materials. Resist the temptation to eat one on the run (a Japan faux-pas anyhow) and seek out a place to enjoy the sweet with a bowl of tea in a refined atmosphere of a temple or neighborhood tea room.  Otherwise, it's just beans and rice.

*NOTE: I have initiated a Google Earth project Kyoto Sweet Shops to map Kyoto's classic okashiya ... if you have information in English (or at least a website with photos in Japanese), please get in touch with me via my FaceBook page with the same name as this blog. 

P.S. Los Angeles Little Tokyo has two local omogashi makers, Mikawaya and Fugetsu-do.  At the former I once purchased a stiff gelatin-type sweet which mimicked a bright orange koi swimming in a temple pond.  My favorite proprietor is Chikaramochi in Gardena. The consistency of their mochi is so smooth, the colors are subtly wild and the taste is always fresh. In San Francisco there once was the masterful Yamada-Seika in Japan Town which in season dips strawberry in mochi.

Practice

The study of chanoyu, literally in Japanese, hot water for tea, is a lifetime pursuit. This is why it is called the "Way" of tea, chado.

Do: The Way

It is most likened to studying a musical instrument: we learn how to touch, to tune, to hold, to repair, to listen to the sounds of our instrument. We do scales, etudes, explore the classic repertoire, play in ensemble, informally alone.

In short, we practice.

Likewise, in the study of chado, we learn how to hold utensils, how to build a fire to heat the water (and to select the water), how to handle the tea, how to walk in the tearoom, how to identify and combine utensils in pursuit of a seasonal poetic theme. We learn the history of the practice, about the crafting and provenance of utensils. We explore the tea room's architecture and our movement within it. We also enjoy preparing and eating appropriate meals and sweets that complement the experience. it is all done with full cognizance of the seasonal appropriateness.

It is a way of being with ... tea, each other, what is in the room and what is not. 

We learn to be host and guest equally, so that we can have full appreciation of the totality experience.

We practice over and over. From one to ten and then again, one to ten. 

There's nowhere to go.