As we see in the history of various arts, periods of great innovation are often followed by periods of basically copying those earlier creations.  Formulae are developed and strictly followed, with the original reasons for developing them sometimes getting forgotten.  So it was with karesansui in Japan. 

During the last century, a revolution of sorts was conducted by Shigemori Mirei, a scholar of arts and Japanese culture who had first published a major study of ikebana (Japanese flower arrangement) and later turned to gardens.  He produced a massive 26-volume encyclopedia cataloguing Japanese gardens and their history.  After completing the first volume, he began his own career as a landscape designer.  Mirei felt that since about the middle of the Edo Era, garden designers had stopped innovating and were merely copying their predecessors.  He thus took it upon himself to modernize garden design.  He is quoted in Christian Tschumi’s excellent book, “Mirei Shigemori : Modernizing the Japanese garden,” as follows:

“Historically speaking, Japan’s past was very good, but Japan’s present largely comes up empty.  In 100 years, in 1000 years, they will be wondering what people in the Meiji, Taisho, and Showa Periods were up to.  That’s how dull these times are!  That’s why I thought I had to at least leave something good behind, so I switched to being a maker of things.  Whether I was good or not will be judged by the future, I guess.”

His very first major commission, the gardens at Tofuku-ji (a Zen temple of the Rinzai school) in Kyoto’s Higashiyama area, is probably sufficient to answer his question about how the future would judge him.  Though revolutionary and controversial at the time, elements of these gardens now look to me both new and ancient, modern and traditional.  Perhaps most famous is the gradient checkerboard pattern of moss and paving stones in the north garden, which now looks so “right” but probably shocked some at the time.  While the use of paving stones in a garden was an innovation, Tschumi’s book reveals that this was the result of the temple priest’s request to re-use materials in line with the precepts of Rinzai Zen.  A good example of how imposing constraints can lead to creative solutions. 

In general, Shigemori Mirei’s designs are highly dynamic, featuring strong lines including curves and waves, and large stones that are more often vertically oriented than what we see in more traditional gardens.  This gives them the impression of being grounded while simultaneously reaching upward toward the sky. 

Several gardens by Shigemori can be found in Kyoto.  I have visited most of the accessible ones, some multiple times.  One I hadn’t yet been able to enjoy until the latest trip, though, is the one he built at the home where he lived from the early 1940s until his death in 1975.  This home (in a slightly out-of-the-way part of Kyoto) is now operated as the Mirei Shigemori Garden Museum, and can be visited by appointment only.  Upon finally seeing it, I was fascinated by the thought of it representing what he freely designed for his own home, without the constraints of other locations where, even though he had wide creative freedom, there was still a “customer”.  Not surprisingly, here we see plenty of the vertically thrusting stones which have sometimes been criticized as excessive in his work.  The garden itself was completed around 1953, along with an adjacent teahouse.  But Mirei continued to tinker with the stones until reaching the “final” version in 1970.  It is said that this is the only garden in which he ever made changes to his original stone placements.  It’s also the only one in which he planted cherry blossom trees, giving in to the wishes of his wife (Ref:  “Shigemori Mirei, Creator of Spiritual Spaces”, Kyoto Tsushinsha Press).

I will never tire of visiting Kyoto, however many times I am fortunate enough to go there.  Among many attractions, I particularly enjoy temple gardens and what I see as dialogues there between humans and nature.  People may see Japanese gardens as relatively rough compared with those of, say, Europe, with their carefully ordered hedges and flowers.  In Japan we find gardens that look relatively natural while being carefully controlled by man.  They are not wild.  Yet they are also characterized by the ways in which nature is allowed to shape them over time – moss on earth, lichens on stone, patina on wood.  In Kyoto this balance is seen most abundantly along the outskirts, the Eastern, Northern, and Western hills where temples and their gardens line the slopes.  One sees nature shaped by man, with the results in turn shaped by nature. 

Over a history of some 1300 years, of course, there has been ample variation on this theme.  One style is the dry landscape garden, karesansui in Japanese.  Particularly distinctive are the gardens composed primarily of rocks, gravel, and sand (sometimes inaccurately referred to as, “Zen gardens”, though they have often been constructed as aids to meditation at Zen temples), meticulously composed to represent certain natural features (mountains, seas, rivers).  I consider them works of art – specific, suggestive representations of nature, like ink paintings extended to three dimensions.  While Japanese gardens have been dated back to the 700s, the so-called Zen gardens first appeared in Kyoto from the 14^th and 15^th Centuries.  The spare, enigmatic garden at Ryoan-ji, most likely from the Muromachi era (1333 – 1568) is the most well-known example. 

During a recent visit to Kyoto I photographed several temple gardens.  Some were repeat visits.  It has been said that these rock based gardens are unphotographable, meaning that their essence can’t be captured by a camera and they must be seen in person.  I have had this same feeling.  The humble photo from Ryoan-ji that I have posted here, the only one not from this latest trip, shows only about half of the garden.  But in spite of this problem, or perhaps because of it, I keep going again and again to find out what I might be able to capture and learn.

Recently I came across photographs I very much admire, by Eiji Ohashi.  His series called, "Roadside Lights", depicts Japan's ubiquitous vending machines.  Most were photographed at night or dusk, so they emit a warm glow.  Locations range from grand landscapes, including Mount Fuji, to more humble looking village streets and local shops.  Many were taken in snow, as the photographer's hometown is Wakkanai in the farthest north of Hokkaido.  All are beautifully composed and exposed. 

Living here, one certainly becomes accustomed - especially on sweltering days like we're having now - to having a cold drink close at hand just about anywhere in the city, thanks to these machines.  And in fact, they also deliver hot drinks that are welcome in winter.  When we see them far from cities, though, we may feel differently.  Even at the summit of the sacred Mt. Fuji, such machines can be found.

The photographs are without people, so the machines are simultaneously oasis-like (in fact, Ohashi has said the idea of photographing vending machines came after he was caught in a heavy snowstorm and it was only by their lights that he was able to find his way home) and evidence of humanity's impact on the natural landscape.  Looking at these photos, I feel a tension between seeing them as beacons of rescue and human convenience - what led them to be put there in the first place - and as stains on the earth. 

I'll definitely be looking for more of Ohashi san's work.