Japanese Impressions

Part 1: seeking harmony

It has been some years since I last returned to Japan. And yet, from time to time, I’m still haunted by the silent outlines of its mountains hidden in the mist, by winding paths that, at the bend of a final curve, lead to old Shinto shrines carved in weathered stone — and by the blaring neon lights at the exits of each Tokyo’s train station.

Japan — land of contrasts and strange contradictions. And yet, more than most, it seems to have mastered the art of letting them coexist. Perhaps because the pursuit of harmony, of inner peace, is more deeply rooted here than elsewhere. Japan does not thrive in chaos. Against the inevitable uncertainty of life, it offers a quiet, methodical order — a cultivated slowness, a reverence for stillness and contemplation.

And often, when that peculiar ache for Japan returns, I reopen an old novel by Kawabata or Hori, whose prose — poetic, though not without a certain cruelty — severs me, if only briefly, from the world.

source: personal archives, Japan, 2017.

“What is bright catches the eye; what is shadowed brings peaceto the soul.” — Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, In praise of Shadows

I landed in Tokyo for the first time, one September evening of 2017, heavy heat still clinging to the air. Summer still lingered. Exhausted from eighteen sleepless hours of travel, I hurried to a small room I had rented for the night, in a quiet neighborhood not far from the airport. From the back seat of a small Toyota, I watched the city pass by in a daze. What I remember most are the small white lace doilies laid delicately on each seat, the pristine steering wheel cover, and the faint floral scent that filled the car.

From the first walks, I was struck — and would remain so throughout the journey — by the elegance and refinement of the Japanese. The city breathed an unexpected harmony. Crowds poured from subway exits, flowing along wide avenues in a choreographed rhythm. Bodies blending into one another, movements deliberate, composed, but never careless. Now and then, a woman in kimono would appear, a vision, drifting through the futuristic towers of Shibuya.

Despite the city’s size and density, everything seemed to fall into place effortlessly. Beyond the main arteries, the high-rises gave way to small houses, at whose doorsteps stood rows of potted plants, carefully arranged. The rumble of traffic faded, replaced by the occasional ring of a bicycle bell. In narrow lanes, almost hidden, one would sometimes find a quiet temple where passers-by stopped to pray during their lunch break, sitting with their bento, or simply when time allowed.

Over a bowl of soba one afternoon, I asked a friend — long settled in Japan — how to make sense of this need for elegance and attention to the smallest details of daily life. He replied: “In Japan, harmony with one’s environment is essential. Because we are never truly alone — because we belong to a whole — the beauty of that whole depends on the care we bring to it each day. To neglect oneself is to upset that balance.”Later on, I often found myself wondering what made this Japanese idea of beauty and harmony so different from our own. In the West, we seek to assert our individuality — even while conforming to imposed norms. We chase visibility, we hunger for recognition. Rarely do we consider that beauty might not reside in self-affirmation, but in subtlety in the quiet attunement to one’s surroundings.

On this matter, Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows remains a most timely companion. Page after page, one learns to embrace dimness, the discreet melancholy of softly lit rooms, dark wood, sliding screens, and the morning mist that envelops the red bridge in Nikkō. Images return, sedimented through journeys and homecomings: one evening, unfolding my futon in a small, deep room of Hakone that might have felt austere were it not for the gentle warmth of woven straw beneath my feet, and a tiny window opening onto the forest. Beyond the frame, mountain ridges inked across the sky like an old print.

source: personal archives, Japan, 2017.

“The sound of the freezing of snow over the land seemed to roar deep into the earth.” — Yasunari Kawabata, Snow Country

On another journey, I spent most of my time in the mountains of the Fukushima region — perhaps wearied by the velocity of city life. After a few days in Tokyo, I boarded a regional train at dawn. As the city receded, the carriages emptied, and the light shifted. A hastily bought bento served as breakfast: rice, fried tofu, seaweed salad, fermented vegetables. As always — simple, balanced.

Here, even supermarket visits can become small delights. Fruits and vegetables — even the most ordinary — are wrapped with care. What we might have tossed in bins without thought is here arranged, packaged, presented. Still, it’s a lot of packaging, I think. But even the most ordinary objects seem to reflect the spirit of tsutsumi.

But back to the mountains. The train stopped at a small, charming station, opening onto a road that disappeared into the woods. For a short stretch: a few shops, two or three yatai selling takoyaki or yakitori at all hours.

The house I had rented sat higher up, at the beginning of a trail. A quiet hamlet, framed by trees. The owners had left a note and a pair of slippers at the door. Inside, a corridor opened onto two rooms divided by shōjis: a plain kitchen giving way to a living space decorated with fresh flowers and small framed prints; and a bare bedroom — or nearly — with two futons laid side by side on the tatami, and neatly folded blankets stacked at their edge. From the sliding glass doors, one could glimpse the garden — moss, a few stones, bare branches. And, in the distance, the tiled roof of a neighboring house.

The days passed on the trails — walks along rivers or along ridges, sometimes beside a lake, sometimes near a volcano. Everywhere, small signs warned of bears. I walked on, a small bell tied to my bag, hoping to keep the wild creatures at bay. At the top of a pass, I came across two men seated on a rock, hunched over their portable stoves, unpacking a collection of small pouches, each containing carefully wrapped food.

source: personal archives, Japan, 2017.

“I stared intently at the distant ridgelines, memorizing every detail, and yet I knew, deep down, that I was only just beginning to uncover what nature had long been holding in reserve for me.” — Tatsuo Hori, The Wind Has Risen

There is a quiet nobility in this daily pursuit of harmony — for it is almost spiritual. For a Western mind, often restless, there is certainly solace in it. Still, one must see with what relentless rigor the Japanese commit themselves to their duties — professional, familial, and social — with a muted, almost oppressive sense of obligation. A pressure under which they sometimes bend, in bars where they drink themselves into oblivion after work, or in the blinding lights of pachinko halls.

One should always be wary of what appears charming or picturesque at first. Every way of living has its shadow side — revealed only slowly, with time, and close attention. And every beauty has its cost.

To be continued…

References:

• Tatsuo Hori, The Wind Has Risen, 1938

• Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, In praise of Shadows, 1933

• Yasunari Kawabata, Snow Country, 1948