Muto Tomohiko
A continuous thread among all the artists and masters we’ve met is a connection to nature but in particular a dialogue between humans and nature. This was made particularly clear after meeting with Muto-san at the Murin-an zen garden. We learned that humans are not the lords of nature nor subservient. The relationship is dynamic and intricate.
Muto-san went on to explain the philosophy of Shin, Gyo, and So to describe this connection between humans and nature. There is this inherent dichotomy; Shin, or human affairs, is more symmetrical, regular, and continuous, whereas So, or nature, is asymmetrical, irregular, and discontinuous. Despite these seemingly clashing concepts, Gyo is where Shin and So connect. This can particularly be seen with the garden and ‘realizing mental landscapes’ as Muto-san explains. The garden is a transcription of nature incorporated into a limited space. It is a synthesis of Shin and So. At Murin-an, the garden takes nature, or So, as a model and celebrates natural scenery. It suppresses the message that there is human involvement and emphasizes the beauty of nature. Muto-san theorizes that a human’s need for a harmonization of nature is a survival instinct, it’s a function of the desire for longevity.
Muto-san pointed out how humans and nature have a particularly interesting relationship in Japan. There is a duality to nature – it brings blessings, as seen with tea, gardens, urushi, but also natural disasters, such as typhoons and tsunamis. When thinking about Inochi alongside humans and nature, Muto-san believes no man-made landscape can surpass that of nature. Although there is this harmony with Gyo, So will always have the capability to control Shin.
These new terms and concepts of Shin, Gyo, and So are hard to translate and may have different meanings to different people. This connects to the philosophy of Oguruso-san.
Norihide Ogurusu
Many of the terms we’ve talked about are difficult to translate to English, or shift meaning depending on how you choose to interpret them. In our discussions, we’ve spent a lot of time agonizing over translations and definitions. But when we visited Goryo Shrine yesterday, Ogurusu-san, a Shinto priest, introduced us to kotoagesezu: the concept of taking the world in as a whole, without trying to verbalize one’s experience. Dividing things into labels destroys the harmonious whole. Like the path of Zen, it is about “oneness.”
The Japanese garden reflects this idea. When we took in the garden at Murin-an, and its borrowed landscapes, it was a world without division. To be honest, putting the experience into words like this goes against kotoagesezu—it is an idea rooted in the act of living, rather than doctrine. My responsibility is to do it anyway. Kotoagesezu felt like a key aspect to understanding the relationships between man and nature we’ve seen on this trip. It is about unity between all things—and though direct explanations only shatter that unity, we have seen it with each artisan, expressed through the primordial, open medium of art.
Ogurusu-san comes from a long line of priests overseeing Goryo Shrine. He came to understand kotagesezu simply by being with his father. Like for many others, his intuitive approach to the natural world has been passed down through the generations.
There is another irony. As foreign students coming to explicitly learn and discuss Japanese culture, we’re really practicing kotoagesezuseru. And yet if we did not do so, we could not learn about and appreciate the traditional crafts and the very idea of kotoagesezu in the first place. But to take the mindset of kotoagesezu one step further, perhaps we don’t have to try to find perfect answers or rationalize these contradictions. They are often encountered in life. Perhaps, then, we can simply live with them.
Horii Chotaro
We had the experience of exploring the oldest tea garden in Uji thanks to Horrii-san. The cultivation of tea is a true example of humans working with nature to create a beautiful product that has greatly impacted Japanese culture. The Uji region is a prime case study for analyzing Inochi’s relationship with humans and nature. In the 1950s, the town was reconstructed around the tea farms. This shows how Japanese society is willing to change courses of action just to preserve not only the beauty but the utility of nature.
In order to grow the best tea, gardeners must be extremely attuned to nature. Horii-san diligently checks in on the plants every day. There is also the virtue of patience, as he waits five years to hand-pick the tea leaves.
But as Muto-san mentions, there is a duality to nature. Horii-san acknowledges the impacts of climate change on his garden. Outside of Japan, humans’ disregard for nature across the globe is catching up, faster than many have anticipated. This has varying impacts, and for the tea garden, it means picking the leaves almost a week earlier than ever before.
Horii-san is able to harness nature and tea leaves to grow the most exquisite tea that can be enjoyed domestically, and as we’ve seen in his factory, internationally too. He pointed out that his tea plants do not look extremely uniform – there is an irregularity as the plants vary in size and length. This is intentional as gardeners hand-pick the tea leaves – this demonstrates how humans need to be delicate and careful when dealing with nature. Horri-san explains how each tree has its own characteristic and its own sense of Inochi. In fact, Horii-san said that taking care of tea leaves is like taking care of a child – there is a pain felt when insects ruin/ destroy a plant similar to what a parent feels when a child is hurt. This human element to the plants was also felt by his father, who experienced a true dialogue with the tea trees. The plants would speak to Horii-san’s father saying, “I am ready to be picked.” This conversation shows how the collaboration between humans and nature can have a lasting impact for generations.
Hosai Matsubayashi
Matsubayashi-san is the sixteenth-generation owner of Asahiyaki. In his studio, we were able to see his family kiln, the raw earthen material from the mountains, and the ceramics themselves.
His careful relationship with nature was apparent in his work and philosophy. The Western art world today wants (requires, really) its artists to express their uniqueness and individuality. In Asahiyaki pottery, the pieces are shaped with consideration for how the earth wants to curve. Matsubayashi-san explains that the beauty is already there; he simply gives it physical form. Kyoto craft comes not just from the artist, but from the life around us.
Before the kiln is fired, a candle is lit and prayer issued. His father taught him the practice, and he continues it now with his son. We asked if there was a religious aspect to that prayer, and if he saw something spiritual in his pieces. Not quite, he said. Not religious. Something more primitive. Then he gave an example: Before fishermen go to sea, they pray for a safe return. When they pray for harmony with nature, they wish to survive. Perhaps, as Muto-sensei has theorized, a dialogue with nature taps into the same impulse.
Michelangelo once said: “Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it. I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” The Ancient Greeks believed that the divine Muses chose and spoke through all great poets; in all transcendent art, there was the touch of God or the gods, and humans acted as messengers and prophets.
In Greek and Abrahamic religions, gods are inseparable from nature, whether as its creator or as a patron deity. In all these philosophies, Eastern and Western, there is an appeal to the primitive: a human impulse to understand the artistic expression as a connection to a natural world larger than them. Different cultures have developed different ways of responding to that primitive element of being, but it is always there. I’m glad for that—it means that, across the world, there can be understanding.
Presentation by Malini and Alison