写 Utsushi, Senke Jyusshoku/Sokka and Original Copies

While I couldn't read any of the available (Japanese language only) texts that native speaking students of chanoyu have, nonetheless I have been so fortunate to have had an extremely fine aural transmission of this knowledge. That said, nonetheless, learning the words for utensils (i.e. hishaku, chashaku, etc.) during my formative years as a (hidari-kiki mid-life aged) student of chanoyu proved to be one of my greatest challenges. Mimicking gestures and trying to remember phrases that might have wide daily application seemed doable. (A sushi chef, however, admonished me that the highly formal language of the chashitsu should stay in the chashitsu, however!)

I was so overwhelmed with new words that one evening I decided to forgo learning any more names of things and to concentrate on those of my fellow tea students. For a long time I wondered why so many of the first names of the more advanced students began with "So".

Haiken was completely another matter. It took me a while to penetrate the unasked question about why the poetic names and other provenance distinctions change from week to week. For example, the same chashaku had one poetic name one week and something else the next. I understood that it had to be seasonal at least. I finally realized that we were learning the Urasenke generational oiemoto names as they related to the month of the class date and used this as the answer for the maker of the scoop. (March was always Gempaku Sotan Koji, Urasenke's 3rd Generation master.)

Some things didn't seem to change much, and I relied on them to get me through the class if my language brain was asleep. Always popular, like Coco Chanel's "little black dress", was the basic black nastsume: Rikyu's shape, black lacquer, and middle size. Likewise a repeat, was the answer to the question, "Who did the lacquer?" It was usually attributed to Sotetsu. (Later I learned it was Nakamura Sotetsu.) Likewise, the shifuku was always attributed to Yuko, who I always thought was a woman because we had several Yuko-sans in class.

Inasmuch as  for the koichademae, we only used two chaires whose shapes were observable cues (tsurukube and katatsuki, crane neck and shouldered, respectively) this was easy to remember. As for the kamamoto wa ... the choice came from a list of historic kilns: Seto, Akahada, Zeze, Tamba, etc., but I never knew which our prêt-a-porter pieces they actually were. The kireiji, fabric, of the shifuku usually didn't change, but it was years before I learned that one of those words meant "stripe" and another "brocade" and that fabrics were very complicated to learn because of the huge variety.


When it comes to the point of the "ceremony", the tea, again we learned classic names of favored growers and the poetic names given by our oiemoto, but was it really Kambayashi? We also never have the opportunity for side-by-side taste / smell comparisons. (Please see my article Much Ado About Matcha originally published in Kyoto Journal.) 

What did change often -- shape, ceramic style, patterns -- were the chawans. We could be sure that from summer to winter, the shapes for the usuchawans  went from wide saucers to mugs, and vice versa as the seasons warmed up again. As for those used in koicha, aside from the late-comer “Korean” one (Koraijawan, but not Ido per se), there were the always correct fraternal Raku twins: one black and one red, to which we told to select a name from Chojiro's fabled seven. No attempt was made to explane whether what we were holding resembled any of them in particular, save for the color. It was like ordering in a Chinese restaurant: one dish from Column A and one from Column B. 

As the study became progressively more "intense", we began to handle material that had additional provenance through attribution to the owner, the circumstance for which it was being used now, adding any significant apocryphal or midrashic references (e.g. My sensei gifted it to me when I received my chamei.) 

Thus, in the course of my research for a review about the excellent new English-language catalog from the Raku Museum, I explored the notion of 写 utsushi.

From Wikipedia:

"Utsushi (写) can be translated as, appropriation, emulation, inspiration, attribution, etc. However, the word Utsushi encompasses the meanings found in all the terms mentioned. An Utsushi can be a work where an artist is inspired by a traditional motif and incorporates the design in a work of art or the artist is emulating a masterpiece of the past to surpass the original subtly.

"Emulating or making an Utsushi of an existing work might be done for a variety of purposes. Appropriating the work of predecessors is one of the developmental methods in training artists across all ranges of Japanese artistic genres. Through the process of replicating the techniques and style of a noted or established master, the artist experiences firsthand the technology, material requirements, and aesthetic understanding necessary in producing an artwork of the utmost quality."

Thus It is definitely not a soulless copy or reproduction.

"Utsushi promotes a dialogue between the artist and the masters of the past, connecting past, present, and future."

"Within the way of tea, a new perspective is cast upon Utsushi especially when objects that display an acute sensibility of the original and its reinterpretation are displayed and used in the tea room. The aesthetic quality is highly valued where it brings both the newly conceived version and the reinterpreted into a sharper perspective.[2] Moreover, objects favored by succeeding masters of the various schools in the way of tea have a close connection with the notion of Utsushi. Over the history of the way of tea, certain designs and objects preferred by specific masters have been emulated where individuals can enjoy and be familiar with the object in a different manner."

I began to understand the notion of at once maintaining the lineage while expanding it first hand when, many naive years ago, I accepted an impromptu invitation of a museum customer service representative to meet a gentleman who I had just shared the elevator cabin at the Kettle Museum in Kyoto. The fellow, dressed in samue, was none other than Onishi Seiwemon, the oiemoto of the famed Kyoto iron chagama house, one of the Senke Jisshou. I accepted and again was back in the elevator which now opened one floor above at his studio / workshop. I smiled. He spoke no English but was told by the receptionist who accompanied me that I was a student of chado in Los Angeles. He smiled back and invited me to look at his worktables where I saw patterns, dies, tools and sketchbooks that were clearly well used by previous oiemotos to make chagamas. These hard-worked “relics” looked as if they could create the end result without guidance by his hand, yet he seemed to be worthy of the task. I could see in his eyes that he could likely look all the way back through his lineage and see the future, too.

I then began to look into the notion of the provenance of chadogu and the Senke Jyusshoku (sp. var. Jusshoku /Jushoku)  10 Craft Families that have served the Senke schools for generations. The Omotosenke website explains the history of cultivating an appreciation for the tradition-bound patronage of form and function in the Senke Jusshoku:

"This term 'Senke jushoku' was first used in the Taisho (1912 – 1926) period, at the time of chanoyu's renaissance, when there was a great increase in demand for utensils. This is what they were called at exhibitions of their work in department stores, and the use of the term has spread up to this day. In the world of chanoyu they are still called 'shokka'.


”Looking at the history of the word 'shokka', its use was previously not limited to the ten families. Halfway through the Edo period, in the time of the 7th generation Joshinsai and the 8th generation Sottakusai, utensils were made to the Iemoto's design by more than 10 craftsmen families. These families called 'shokka' each answer all of the requirements for utensils in their field, responding to the needs of the Iemoto and of tea lovers. ... In this we see the unique point of view and readiness of the craftsmen against the background of their long history, which is perhaps the difference between them and pure artists."

The ten current Jusshoku are EIRAKU Zengorō, HIKI Ikkan, KOMAZAWA Risai, KURODA Shōgen, NAKAGAWA Jōeki, NAKAMURA Sōtetsu, OKUMURA Kichibei, ŌNISHI Seiwemon, RAKU Kichizaemon, TSUCHIDA Yūko.

Morgan Pitelka brings forth this relationship of teamasters to dogu crafters as it applies to the Raku family tradition and its relationship with Senke through the ages in his book Handmade Culture: Raku Potters, Patrons, and Tea Practitioners in Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2005). I found this work to be a wonderful counterpoint to the exhibition catalog as he looks at the issues of patronage from a diverse number of vantages. An earlier essay may be read here.

Still diverted from my task at hand, I was attracted an exhibition “When Japan’s Tea Ceremony Artisans Meet Minpaku’s Collections” at the National Museum of Ethnology, Osaka (Minpaku). A catalog was published. (Japanese only).


From the Museum’s website:

“In a totally new attempt at this Museum, it was decided to bring the Jisshoku to Minpaku to expose them to the artifacts stored here, suggest that they choose a piece that inspired them and have them create something new within their own tradition. In this way we hope to provide new perspectives on both the artifacts in our collection, showing them to be a mine of potential sources of inspiration for the creative mind, and on the implements traditionally used in the Japanese tea ceremony showing how their form and function can be developed by today's Artisans and by their successors in future generations. The exhibition has 3 themes:

• Introducing Jisshoku, the Ten Tea Ceremony Artisans of Japan: Their Traditions, Activities and Artworks
-- Why Jisshoku at Minpaku? In this section the history of each Jisshoku family and their work will be shown, along with representative artworks from earlier generations of each family.

• Jisshoku Inspired: What They See, Feel and Create
 -- An artwork created by each of the Jisshoku that was inspired by exploring Minpaku's collections is exhibited in this area, along with the artifacts chosen from the exhibition that stimulated the new works.

• 
Artisans and Their Work from Around the World -- The artwork created by Jisshoku and their skills are compared to those of artisans around the world, through a comparison of activities such as beating, casting, molding, baking, painting, socketing, bending, weaving, bonding, cutting, and sewing, skills used at various stages of the creative manufacture of art and the tools used for these activities.

Matthew Larking commented in article in the Japan Times (“Ten members of the 10 craft-producing families for Senke seek exotic inspirations”) and in The Journal of Modern Craft  (“A new spirit for tea traditions: The original in modern craft tradition and contemporary oblivion. How to make original copies?) about the impulse (or not) for the current heads of the esteemed Senke Jusshoku lineages to riff off the main line and take their work to a whole new level.

“In the rarefied world of Japanese tea ceremony, innovations have often been greeted coolly. When the Japanese-American abstract sculptor Isamu Noguchi (1904-88) gave a tea kettle of his own making to the landscape designer and tea connoisseur Mirei Shigemori (1896-75), the recipient was baffled.

“It violates every concept of what a conventional tea kettle should be,” said Shigemori. “Noguchi doesn’t understand what ‘new’ means for tea,” he noted.

“By the mid-Edo Period (1603-1867), there were more than 10 craft families; the name is recent, dating from a 1919 exhibition in Osaka’s Mitsukoshi department store. The popularization of the name Jusshoku came with an early 20th-century tea ceremony renaissance that led to an enormous increase in the demand for tea wares.

“In the process of producing something new, though, the Jusshoku had to temper their creations to practical and aesthetic standards laid down by Rikyu. Practical concerns include the convenience and intention of the user, and aesthetic ones, the creation of objects that are seemingly in a natural state and soberly adorned and free from affectation. Neatness and cleanness of form are also prized. A certain unassuming quality must be discerned — no bold statements whereby the presence of an object is too forcefully felt.

“A case in point is the 14th-generation woodworker Komazawa Risai (b. 1930), who notes in the exhibition catalog the continuing importance of Rikyu’s ideals for contemporary tea life. Sifting through the museum collection, Komazawa took a fancy to wooden headrests and stools from Kenya and earthenware ceramics from Morocco, but the form of a woven bread container from Morocco in particular entranced him. Ignoring its vivid color combination of gold, red and green fabrics, Komazawa fashioned a hexagonal tea sweets container with decoration primarily of natural paulownia wood grain and a few engraved cloud and flower shapes.

“Thirteenth-generation lacquerer Nakamura Sotetsu (b. 1965) brought similar restraint to her contribution. Having assembled an assortment of objects such as an eight-sided table from Morocco, a ceramic from Mexico and tiles from Turkey, she settled upon two Iranian tiles with sprawling organic designs and a brightly colored pouch used by women in Guatemala. The influences of these objects percolated with her own hereditary traditions, resulting in a black, four-sided dish with a simplified geometrical design in subdued gold and gray.

“While the items from the museum’s collection are from distant lands and times, the new wares created have found in the foreign objects aesthetic similarities to local tea traditions. The basket of goods assembled by the 12th- generation scroll-mounting maker, Okumura Kichibei (b. 1934), includes a vertical bamboo calendar and a horizontal picture scroll from Indonesia because they suggested to him the formats of Japanese hanging scrolls. His contribution is a folding screen made form Mexican amate paper, a kind of mottled and textured fabric made from bark. In another project, Okumura took a liking to Indonesian banana paper and fashioned kamashiki (paper kettle pads) of 48 sheets folded into fourths, a tradition also said to have begun with Rikyu.

“Other sections in the exhibition include the historical examination of Jusshoku traditions and their comparison to other hand-made world crafts. The former is of particular interest for the background it provides to contemporary Jusshoku activities, and also the chance to view such rare items as the “Black Raku Tea Bowl” by Chojiro (d. 1589), the founder of Raku ceramics who produced designs Rikyu commissioned with the so-called roof-tile carving skills of his professional trade.

“In stark contrast to the anything-goes impulse of the contemporary art world, the tea world, it seems, is one that seeks in contemporary creation not the liberation from rules and tradition, but freedom from arbitrary and impulsive behavior.”

I am reminded of an exhibition by the Asia Society and Japan Society of New York, created in conjunction with the International Chado Culture Foundation, Kyoto, "The New Way of Tea". It featured art and architecture, including tea houses, mural paintings and tea utensils designed by contemporary East Asian, European and American artists. It was organized by the now late Masakazu Izumi, second son of Genshitsu Daisosho when the later was Sen Soshitsu XV, Hounsai, the oiemoto of Urasenke, and the director of the International Chado Culture Foundation. The website is still up for the most part with photographs of many of the objects that were on exhibition. Urasenke's  Milliemme enterprise provides an "advancement of culture" through the sale of newly designed utensils, tea furniture, and services participation in contemporary international expositions and other opportunities.

While I loved the idea of a riff on the old stuff ... I now, more than ever, prefer the classic versions, each one of them likely avant garde (or at least very garde) during their time. We begin to understand the issues of tori awase when what seems to be a disparate group of utensils begin to interact inharmoniously with each other to the detriment of their becoming a single means to an end. Change one element, and everything else must must be reconsidered. There must be an algorithm that can explain it ...

For those of us who do not have the resources to obtain utsushi chadogu, we are forced to improvise. This often honors Necessity, the Mother of Invention. During various situations she has brilliantly offered for the chashaku ... a sterling silver butter knife that's been in the family for generations as well as a plastic swizzle stick in the shape of a ski from an alpine resort. Of course, each has a great story behind it!

Greater Ordinary: The Taste of Gratitude

wabi sabi

In a recent episode of “Cool Japan”, a pop culture program on NHK Television (via KCET), there was  discussion about wabi – sabi, Japan’s most iconic, yet elusive aesthetic markers. While each guest suggested an attribute of some thing, it became clear to me that the dyad is really an invocation to awaken one’s inner self to the beauty of the ordinary.

This is the stuff of poets and is definitely not wasabi, the horseradish grated at sushi bars. Like the term “Zen”, these two distinct terms are deeply misunderstood in the West, and, among Japanese people, their meanings are so embedded in the shadows and materials of everyday life that it is almost impossible to speak about them.

Sabi, from the verb to rust, is the sensibility of weathered, used, and experienced. On the other hand, wabi, from the verb meaning to feel forlorn, is to be retired, withdrawn from distractions. Together, they constitute the fundamental experience of chado, The Way of Tea.

As practitioners of chado, we immerse ourselves in training activities to develop sensitivity to harmony, purity and respect that leads to tranquility in the whole of our experience, whether laying charcoal to boil water or just sitting with the lingering taste of tea on our tongue. It is often said that it is the taste of Zen itself.

A chaji, formal tea gathering, is an exercise for the guest to develop gratitude from the moment s/he walks through the middle gate into the roji, literally “dewy path”, toward the chashitsu, a humble hut or room. With every step on a short, meandering, uneven rock pathway through lightly misted greenery, we leave behind the mundane world and, eventually crawl through the tiny hatch opening into the small tearoom. Inside, we see a few simply-arranged flowers set in the alcove, a scroll with one calligraphed word or phrase, hear the matsukaze (sound of the wind in the pines) coming from the kettle’s mouth as the water begins to boil, enjoy the slight scent of sandalwood incense and taste a small seasonal sweet before the tea is served. All are opportunities assembled by the host to trigger inner awareness of self that begins reconnect us to exquisite life. 

It takes a lifetime to learn to be a good guest. And to have a grateful one is a blessing to the host.

In the turbulent 16th Century in Kyoto Sen no Rikyu, our great chado ancestor, lost his life over promoting the wabi – sabi aesthetic to the egomaniacal Toyotomi Hideyoshi. The Shogun became fixated on the power chanoyu and its master held over him. He struggled mightily to possess every aspect of it, much like he possessed power through swash-buckling samurai, castles, land, and gorgeous tea utensils from China and Korea. In one tale, Hideyoshi stormed toward Rikyu’s tea hut compound to see the master’s acclaimed hedge of morning glory flowers, only to be confronted with an exterior wall of green leaves and single bloom placed by the master in the tearoom’s alcove. What happened next in that tiny wood / paper / thatched hut? Rikyu made tea for the fuming warlord and served it to him in a roughly crafted bowl made by a local potter.

Almost a half millennium since those days, my teacher Matsumoto Sosei, the distinguished master of Japanese Tea Ceremony, here in Los Angeles, always reminds us to be cognizant of the source of the hospitality. “Appreciate first!” sensei always admonishes us when we are served the tray of sweets or a bowl of tea. We learn to kansha, to slightly raise up the tray or bowl before partaking. In Japan, bowing too low can be an insult. Even the formalities of language used in the tearoom promote gratitude: while the host offers the sweets and tea “up” to the guest, the guest receives them from “above”. 

While there’s not much quantity of tea in the chawan, or furnishings in the chashitsu, amazingly, it satisfies one’s entire being to the ordinary moment. 

Paradoxically, it is possible to leave the tearoom both fuller and emptier than when one arrived.

(Originally written for the "40 Day Gratitude Journey" on Dr. Hanna Chusid's diablog.

For a more detailed discussion, please see my review "Wabi Savvy:  When Less is, More or Less, More" Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren in Kyoto Journal #29, 1995.

Calligraphy Sources
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The Imprint of Lamed: Learning = Teaching

According to one of my teachers, Gilla Nissan, the Hebrew letter lamed ל

has kabbalistic meaning of both teaching and learning, education. The form of the lamed represents the aspiration of the truly devoted pupil to learn from the mouth of the teacher. In the “Letters of Rabbi Akiva,” the full spelling of the letter's name, i.e. lamed (lamed-mem-dalet) is read as short for the phrase: “a heart that understands knowledge” (lev meivin da’at). Thus, it is often heard that a student of Jewish knowledge will say that she "learns" with a particular teacher, rather than as we might say in English, we learn from that teacher, implying that the teacher and the knowledge are separate; one takes away knowledge. In these situations, teacher and student are engaged in the exchange, rather than a more dualistic, disconnected give and take. 

I was thinking about this letter when reflecting on my experiences in the classes known  as oku-no-okeiko, advanced lessons that focus on the temae of the daisu. These procedures are not (supposedly) recorded in a book; one must learn directly in the presence of a teacher. Not every teacher feels comfortable (or is granted license) to teach this "level" (above shikaden), so when available, they are usually held on the fourth week of the month. We must wear kimono and be prepared to spend a long time in seiza position. 

These daisudemae procedures for koicha are to the previous series of classes what a symphony is to a student etude, as they incorporate pieces of many of the other procedures linked together with a refined extended elegance that is hard to describe. These are said to be the original procedures that were abbreviated / disassembled into parts that were taught separately as temae in themselves. 

It takes many years before a student is introduced to the daisudemae, and these procedures are practiced with a teacher at most 12 times during the full year, with the modifications to the ro/furo as is normal per the appropriate season. Thus, it takes a long time to actually inculcate the procedures, even using well-practiced steps.

Out of respect for the effort that my sensei had invested in explaining to me about the procedures, I remember being quite nervous before my oku classes because I didn't remember the variations and connections between the various aspects of a daisudemae. So I relied on her guidance once again to take me through the steps.

LIkewise, I was charged with hosting a chashitsu biraki, opening of my tea room and celebrating my having been granted chamei, professional name. I had never hosted a chakai, much less a chaji, so I had many, many questions for my teacher about how to create such an even worthy of the senior students and other teachers who would be the guests in my home. 

In both these cases, I felt that I was never alone in my learning, and even when sensei said nothing during my temae I knew that we were doing it together then, and will forever, together. 

Intimate vs Gigantic: The Temaeza Challenge

More than 15 years ago, I had the privilege to make tea for Eric Lloyd Wright and Mary Wright atop the construction site of their home-to-be overlooking the Malibu Cove and the Pacific Ocean. Eric, who passed away at the age of 92 in March 2023, was Frank Lloyd Wright's grandson and a Taliesin Fellow, meaning that he not only grew up but also apprenticed with his grandfather in Wisconsin, and Arizona. Mary is an accomplished artist and taught painting in Japan for many years in the 1950s. Each has been deeply committed to maintaining sustainable lifestyle very close to the land as the events of Wright Organic Resource Center testify. 

Eric continued design and built in the signature "organic architecture" style of his grandfather, where building and surroundings engage each other to create a style of life akin to living with  nature, not merely in it. This was to be their family "house", but it was a dream never fulfilled as a residence. Rather, it remains a living sculpture in nature, site of many community gatherings, film soots and a place "just" to be quiet in nature. 

Like a temae, its most "outstanding feature is that it is literally not out-standing; it cannot be seen from any road or from any other spot on the 24 acres upon which it rests. When the structural concrete pour (walls, floor, internal supports) was completed, the adjacent hillside at the “back” of the building, a site sacred to native Chumash peoples and those of us who honor the natural forces of life, was pushed against the "back" wall. The soil carpetes the roof, blends into the profile of the "second" (there are interior stairs) story and formed part of the wall of the entryway.  It is seamlessly connected to the earth.

It was on the top of the plywood for the roof that set up my goza, straw mat, and prepared to establish temaeza, the place where tea is made. I needed to have electrical power for my kama heating element, so they pulled one of the power cords from the construction site up the ladder to the top. The cord was so long that I decided to coil it neatly into what I decided was my kare sansui (raked sand) garden.

                               

The biggest challenge, however was to determine which way the guests would face. The ocean vista was remarkable, but I realized, too big for the intimacy of temae, so I had them face a set of rebars set against the hillside, looking very much like a furosaki byobu of bamboo. 

It’s a powerful decision to turn one’s back to hugeness, but essential to establish a barrier to cultivate the notion of intimacy and camaraderie. 

There is a reason that the nijiriguchi, small hatchway entrance to a tea hut, is one of the key elements of chashitsu design: to draw into narrow-focus the mind and heart toward the matter at hand. 

In chanoyu, 

large becomes small; 

small becomes large. 

Like organic architecture, 

it all drops 

away, 

anyway.