Bushidō (武士道): The Spirit of the Japanese Samurai

(This image is taken from: http://playersu.com/bushido-mma/)

Bushidō (武士道): The Spirit of the Japanese Samurai

Bushidō is an ethical system consisted of seven codes of conduct, including righteousness (義 gi), courage (勇 yū), benevolence (仁 jin), courtesy (禮 rei), sincerity (真/誠 makoto), honour (名誉 meiyo) and loyalty (忠義chūgi). These seven codes are commonly known as the virtues of a Japanese samurai. The tradition of Bushidō can be traced back to the Nara period (710-794), the time when the empire was in need of righteous and courageous warriors (i.e. samurais) who were absolutely loyal to the emperor and were not afraid of death while fighting in battles.

The first of the seven Bushidō codes is gi, which is usually translated as “righteousness” and “justice”, is “a deep sense of doing what is right given the situation at hand – based upon reason and judgment – and doing so with fervour.” [1] In this sense, once can see that gi is actually strongly related to the concept of fairness. Only when each person, regardless of their backgrounds, is being treated fairly according to not only law but also justice can the society truly be ordered and peaceful, and thus bringing prosperity and harmony to the empire.

The second of the seven Bushidō codes is yū, which can be translated as “courage”, “valour”, “fortitude”, “bravery”, and “fearlessness”. According to Nitobe Inazō (1862-1933), who had popularized the concept of Bushidō during the early Meiji period, yū is a spirit of daring and bearing. [2] The mind of a truly courageous person is always calm and at peace. As Nitobe noted,

“Tranquillity is courage in repose… A truly brave man is ever serene; he is never taken by surprise; nothing ruffles the equanimity of his spirit. In the heat of battle he remains cool; in the midst of catastrophes he keeps level his mind. Earthquakes do not shake him, he laughs at storms… in the menacing presence of danger or death, [he] retains His self-possession… for instance, [he] can compose a poem under impending peril or hum a strain in the face of death.” [3]

Besides his fearlessness of danger and death, a truly brave samurai was absolutely determined and brisk when it came to killing. Yet, paradoxically, Bushidō is a form of “fighting arts” that advocate peace and harmony. As a result, a virtuous man must bear with him both courage and the third of the seven Bushidō code – jin – in order to be a true samurai.

Jin, which can be translated as “benevolence”, “mercifulness”, “kind-heartedness”, and “philanthropy”, is considered as the highest of all the attributes of the human soul in Bushidō. Both Confucius (551BC-479BC) and Mencius (372BC-289BC) constantly emphasized that a ruler must consist in benevolence. (Note: Bushidō is strongly influenced by Confucianism.) It is because an empire can be prosperous and harmonious only when the ruler is tender and even mother-like, and treats his people with care, love, mercy, benevolence, understanding, and sincerity. In Bushidō, it is believed that a courageous man with no benevolence will gradually lead to nothing but terrible destruction. A courageous man with no benevolence is undoubtedly a great fighter but can never be regarded as a samurai. As an old say goes, “The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.” A courageous yet benevolent samurai is a perfect exemplification of the simultaneous yet harmonious presence of both masculinity and femininity, of both hardness and softness, of both callousness and sensitiveness, and of both toughness and tenderness.

The fourth of the seven Bushidō codes is rei, which can be translated as “courtesy” and “politeness”. It is not merely related to various social manners, Rei is also considered as a noble virtue that can manifest a person’s sympathetic regard for the feelings of others as well as one’s humbleness. A samurai who bears the virtue of rei knows what to do and what to say in various occasions and settings, and to people of different hierarchal ladders and social sectors. Also, a samurai’s rei is rendered profoundly through his clothing, actions, speech, and etiquettes in various social gatherings, rituals and ceremonies. Therefore, rei also reflects a person’s class, taste, literacy, educational background, cultivation, and refinement. As Nitobe noted,

“… by constant exercise in correct manners, one brings all the parts and faculties of his body into perfect order and into such harmony with itself and its environment as to express the mastery of spirit over the flesh. What a new and deep significance the French word biensèance [etymologically: “well-seatedness”] comes thus to contain!” [4]

The fifth of the seven codes is makoto, which can be translated as “sincerity”, “veracity”, and “truthfulness”. After all, a polite person without sincerity can only be considered as a “skilful actor” but not a sincere gentleman. As Nitobe pointed out, “To sacrifice truth merely for the sake of politeness was regarded as an ‘empty form’ (kyo-rei) and ‘deception by sweet words,’ and was never justified.” [5] Indeed, only when a person obtains both the virtues of rei and makoto can he truly be called a cultured samurai with sophistication and refinement. In addition, in both Bushidō and Confucianism, it is believed that an empire can only be prosperous and harmonious when the ruler is truthful, honest and sincere to his people. In this way, his people can truly live a secured life without worrying whether or not their ruler is telling lies and hiding serious facts. “Trust” is the keyword for the virtue of makoto.

The sixth Bushidō code of conduct is meiyo, which is always translated as “honour”. Meiyo consists of two kanji – mei, which means “name”, and yo, which means “countenance” and “reputation”. According to Nitobe, the sense of meiyo implies a self-consciousness of personal dignity and worth, and it “could not fail to characterize the samurai, born and bred to value the duties and privileges of their profession.” [6] A samurai always wore two swords with him – the daitō (大刀, long sword) and the shōtō (小刀, short sword). While the daitō is used for dealing with an enemy or a sudden threat, the shōtō is strongly associated with the virtues of courage and honour. A samurai used his shōtō to committee seppuku (切腹, also known as hara-kiri 腹切り, a ritual of voluntary self-disembowelment) as a form of self-punishment when he had committed serious offense or he had brought shame to himself. Seppuku was also performed when a samurai was about to lose in a battle. The performance of seppuku thus allowed him to die with honour rather than fall into the hands of his enemy. As Tanaka Fumon has pointed out, “By wearing the daitō and shōtō… a warrior not only demonstrated his resolution but also accepted responsibility for his actions and pledged to live his life in honour.” [7]

Indeed, seppuku is inseparable from Bushidō. Yet, seppuku should not be considered as suicide. Instead, it is in fact a serious ritual that was highly respected by both samurais and commoners of the time. It is because the performance of seppuku revealed the samurai’s courage and dutifulness of taking personal responsibility for a grave error which he had made. In some cases, a samurai would also commit seppuku if his lord asked him to do so, demonstrating not only his great courage to confront his destiny and his strong dutifulness to follow commands, but also his resolute loyalty – which is one of the seven Bushidō codes – to his lord.

The final Bushidō code is chūgi, which is generally translated as “loyalty”. Chūgi consists of two kanji – chū, which means “loyalty” and “faithfulness”, and gi, which has already been discussed earlier, means “righteousness” and “justice”. In Bushidō, a samurai’s loyalty to his lord assumes paramount importance. The ruler thus provides resources and protection for samurais in return, building a parent-child bounding with care, respect, and love. This kind of father-and-son relationship between the higher and lower layers of the social ladder is still prominent in today’s Japanese companies such as Panasonic, Sony and Toyota. On the other hand, from a Confucian perspective, it is believed that only a stable social hierarchy, in which everyone is loyal and knows very well their own social positions, duties and responsibilities, can truly bring harmony, growth and prosperity to the empire.

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References:

[1] Nick Horton, “The 7 Virtues of Bushidō: Righteousness,” The Iron Samurai, accessed on September 10, 2016, http://www.theironsamurai.com/the-7-virtues-of-bushido-righteousness/.

[2] Nitobe Inazō, Bushidō: The Soul of Japan (13th Edition) (Tokyo: Teibi Publishing Company, 1908), 25.

[3] Ibid, 29.

[4] Ibid, 49-50.

[5] Ibid, 59.

[6] Ibid, 65-6.

[7] Tanaka Fumon, Samurai Fighting Arts: The Spirit and the Practice (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2003), 45.

Shodō (書道): The Japanese Art of Calligraphy

『玉泉帖』（巻頭部分、三の丸尚蔵館蔵）小野道風書

Shodō (書道) is a traditional Japanese art of calligraphy written with brush, ink, and a kind of paper called “rice paper” specially designed for revealing the beauty of the ink and the spontaneity of the calligrapher’s movements. What makes shodō significant is the fact that the aesthetic and expressive qualities are actually independent of the verbal meaning of the written words (which include kanji, hiragana, and katakana). It is the brushstrokes of the calligrapher that truly matter. Thus, people from all around the world with different native languages and cultural backgrounds can certainly appreciate the beauty and understand the aesthetics of shodō without any perquisite knowledge of the Japanese language. It is important to note that shodō calligraphers pay attention on the process rather than on the result. While viewing a piece of shodō work, the viewer is able to trace the movements of the calligrapher by following the stroke order, capturing the emotions and sentiments of the calligrapher when he was executing the work. As a result, the viewer becomes connected spiritually with the calligrapher, despite the fact that the calligrapher may be a person born in the sixth century, on a metaphysical level, blurring the boundaries between the past and the present, and deconstructing the common cognition of the ideas of space and time. In this sense, one can say that the art of shodō stresses continuity but not completion, providing the contemporary people with a platform to engage in a dialogue with the long-gone past.

Indeed, Japanese shodō is not merely a form of art, but a way of life consisted of its own set of philosophical thoughts and spiritual practices. Besides building a bridge that links up the past and the present, shodō also manifests the consciousness of the calligrapher. In a refined work done with great mastery, the viewer can actually sense the ki (気) – or the circulation of the cosmos’ force – and the reunion between nature and human (thus, in this case, the calligrapher himself) through the recorded brushstrokes. As William Reed has noted, the brush “accurately mirrors [the calligrapher’s] mental and physical attitude. Rigid thinking produces rigid brush strokes… When mind and body are unified, the eyes are calm and clear, the muscles quick and responsive. This quality is transmitted to the brush, and becomes visible in the brush strokes.” [1] Therefore, the brushstrokes recorded on the rice paper reveals not only the mastery but also the personality and spiritual refinement of the calligrapher. As Robert Gunn has suggested, a piece of shodō work is “not only a fingerprint”; instead, it is “a snapshot expression of the mind at that moment, reflecting the degree of focus or distraction, the presence of sadness or joy, the strength or weakness at hand, the intensity of ki” of the calligrapher. [2] Every single movement as well as the control of force are evident in the brushworks. In this sense, a piece of shodō work is not a “completed work” done a long time ago that is static and silent, but a “continuous process” that is alive and vivid. The ki is still living in the work, or in other words, the circulation of the cosmos’ force is still circulating and present in each brush stroke. The work itself is alive.

To conclude, one may have realised that the viewing of a piece of shodō work is, indeed, not merely about looking at some ink splashed on a piece of paper. Instead, it is, on a spiritual level, a timeless conversation between the viewer and the calligrapher in which the viewer is able to follow the vivid movements of the calligrapher and thus free himself from the mundane matters, joining the calligrapher in his action and re-experiencing what the calligrapher experienced during the execution – the numinous and metaphysical re-union with the universe.

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Reference:
[1] William Reed, Shodo: The Art of Coordinating Mind, Body and Brush (New York: Japan Publications, 1989), 24.
[2] Robert W. Gunn, “Intimacy, Psyche, and Spirit in the Experience of Chinese and Japanese Calligraphy,” Journal of Religion and Health Vol. 40 No. 1 (2001): 157.

[Book Review] Lust, Commerce, and Corruption: An Account of What I Have Seen and Heard (2014)

Lust, Commerce, and Corruption

An Account of What I Have Seen and Heard, by an Edo Samurai

Translated by Mark Teeuwen, Kate Wildman Nakai, Miyazaki Fumiko, Anne Walthall, and John Breen. Edited and introduced by Mark Teeuwen and Kate Wildman Nakai

Published by Columbia University Press in February 2014

The core content of the book Lust, Commerce, and Corruption: An Account of What I Have Seen and Heard (2014), translated by Mark Teeuwen et al., is a translation of an extensive critique of all manners of social decadence of the late Edo period entitled Seiji kenbunroku (Matters of the World: An Account of What I Have Seen and Heard). The critique was written by an anonymous samurai author under the pseudonym of Buyō Inshi and was published in 1816. According to Buyō, the country’s unprecedented political stability under the reign of Tokugawa Ieyasu in the early seventeenth century brought order, ease and comfort to the people. However, too much ease and abundance gradually led to excessive luxury as well as corruption and decadence of the society. Upset by the evil changes and depraved deeds of the people of his time, Buyō observes the deteriorating attitudes and behaviours of the four classes – warriors, framers, artisans and merchants – and criticizes their obsession with extravagance and greed during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Buyō begins with a comprehensive and lengthy description of the social problems and moral conditions in the realm (chapter one to chapter six of the book), outlining the position and moral issues of different social groups – such as warriors, framers, temple and shrine priests, townspeople, courtesans, and kabuki actors – within the larger society. Although Buyō brings up a lot of different social phenomena such as the extravagant lifestyle of wealthy framers and artisans, the popularization of arts learning (poetry, calligraphy, and paintings), the arrogance and pride of rich people, ruined mountains and rivers, the idolatry of the Buddhist concepts of karmaand nirvana, the unbalance of wealth in the cities and provinces, and the loss of benevolent governance (exploitation of framers), they can all be grouped as one single central problem – the collapse of Confucianism.

A casual observation on Buyō’s narrative and criticism of the social phenomena of his time, one can see that he is a well-educated samurai who has read most of the Confucian classics. As stated in the twelfth chapter of The Analects, “There is government, when the ruler being a ruler, and the minister being a minister; when the father being a father, and the son being a son.” Confucius believes that social harmony can only be possible when the people of the land understand their rank and carry out the according behaviours and duties within the social hierarchy. In Seiji kenbunroku, Buyō criticizes that the wealthy framers visit pleasure quarters and “practice martial arts unsuitable to their status” (P. 194). He continues to criticize that artisans and merchants also enjoy fame as poets in Chinese or Japanese, calligrapher and painters which is “not appropriate” to their occupation. By criticizing the luxurious lifestyle of wealthy framers and the popularization of arts among people of the lower classes, Buyō reveals himself as a strict Confucianist who suggests that hierarchy and dutifulness are keys to social order and harmony.

On the other hand, Buyō’s criticism on people’s obsessions with extravagance, greed and pride during the late Edo period reflects the Confucian virtue of austerity. As recorded in the seventh chapter of The Analects, Confucius said, “With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow; I have joy in the midst of these things. Riches and honours acquired by unrighteousness, are to me as a floating cloud.” Confucianism suggests that one should consume without damaging justice. Moreover, Buyō also assaults against the anthropocentric act of the greedy people who ruin the Mother Nature for their own “human comfort or trade profits” (P. 703), believing that such great harm will destroy the “character of the land” and “damages the order governing water” (P. 703). Buyō’s view of nature corresponds with the Confucian cosmology of “organic holism” in which human is considered as a humble being integrated with the great mighty universe, and thus human must not regard themselves as superior to nature. As noted by Buyō, human’s evil deeds do bring about numerous natural disasters and enormous deaths. Furthermore, Buyō points out that Buddhism is a serious impediment to the well-being and morality of the society, reflecting Confucian religious skepticism and agnosticism. As Confucius says in chapter six of The Analects, “To give one's self earnestly to the duties due to men, and, while respecting spiritual beings, to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom.”

Indeed, though a significant amount of factual information and statistics is provided throughout the book, Seiji kenbunrokushould not be read as a neutral historical account of the real life, culture and fashion of the late Edo period. In despising the lifestyles, evil deeds, “shows of luxury” and “shameful spectacles” of the wealthy pleasure-seekers (such as idlers, townspeople and kabuki actors), fake cultured elites and unbenevolent governors, Buyō writes with strong prejudices in a contemptuous and elitist manner.

Yet, if we look at the text from another perspective, it actually reflects Buyō’s strong nostalgia for the past. As written by himself:

“It is said… people responded directly to what they saw, and now even heavenly calamities or earthly disasters could upset them. This is called the Japanese spirit, yamato-damashii. I am told that even the Chinese praised Japan as the “land of divine men” or as the “land of gentlemen.” (P. 713)

Buyō is nostalgic for the “land of gentlemen” – the Confucian ideal – that no longer exists (It actually never truly exists). He also says that he has heard that “in ancient time the feelings of [Japanese] people were clear and bright, without duplicity and never obscured by a single cloud or wisp of mist” (P. 706). Throughout the text, he often makes references to and even “reminisce” the good old times which he has heard about. Given the fact that the book was published in 1816, it can be assumed that Buyō was born in the latter half of the eighteenth century. Therefore, he is reminiscing a past that he has never experienced. As Svetlana Boym noted, “The fantasies of the past, determined by the needs of the present, have a direct impact on the realities of the future. The consideration of the future makes us take responsibility for our nostalgia tales.”(1) Buyō writes his social critique with a contemptuous and elitist tone, but he is nonetheless a philanthropic and benevolent samurai who yearns for a possible strategy for survival, a way to restore the Confucian past for the already-decadent-but-still-rescuable (because “murder” has not occurred) country during his time. Yet, Buyō does not fall into the abyss of nostalgic phantasmagorias. While longing for the better past in his fantasy world, he at the same time manages to remain sober in reality and thinks of solution for the future of the country, that is, the execution of the Military Way. He believes that, with the assistance of the legalistic and relatively more violent Military Way to first restore the “basic social order and moral standard” of the country, a peaceful and righteous society governed by a Confucian government consisted of benevolent and virtuous gentlemen – thus the “land of gentlemen” – can then be revitalized. Yet, it is regrettable to learn that this revitalization of the ideal Confucian land does not come before the arrival of Matthew Perry and his black ships.

Despite Buyō’s elitist attitude and nostalgic sentiment, the historical facts and figures as well as the unique opinions and insights of the author are certainly invaluable. His prejudices do not eliminate the scholarly value of the text. Buyō provides his readers with a scathing and entertaining read through an extraordinarily vivid depiction of the social phenomena during the late Edo period. Seiji kenbunroku is undoubtedly a remarkable historical account of the Edo society, not only serving as a crucial academic apparatus for those who are interested in Japanese history and culture but also bearing a timeless quality that allows it to continue to reverberate in the twenty-first-century world.

If you would like to learn more about this book, please visit the Columbia University Press website:

http://cup.columbia.edu/book/lust-commerce-and-corruption%5D/9780231166447

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Reference:
(1) Svetlana Boym, “Nostalgia and Its Discontents,” The Hedgehog Review Vol. 9 No. 2 (2007), 8.

Frailty, Melancholy and the Death of Yūgao: The Japanese Aesthetics of Wabi-sabi in The Tale of Genji (源氏物語)

徳川美術館蔵、源氏物語絵巻(国宝)、夕顔の断裁は未発見だそうです。

(photo taken from: http://blogs.yahoo.co.jp/yunitake2000/45490645.html)

The aesthetic conception of wabi-sabi (please see: The Definition of Wabi-sabi)is manifested profoundly in the fourth chapter of the well-known Japanese Heian literature The Tale of Genji – Yūgao: The Twilight Beauty. The chapter begins with Genji’s visit to his old nurse who lives in Gojō. Genji examines the neighbourhood and notices a lovely crowd of white flowers clustering among a bright green vine against the deserted wall of a small house (where the female protagonist of the chapter, Yūgao, dwells in). Stunned by the flowers’ delicate beauty of tenderness and feebleness, Genji murmurs absent-mindedly, “A word I would have with you, O you from afar.”(1) These white flowers are called yūgao (夕顔), which literally means “twilight beauty,” grow and flourish only in a cramped and shabby environment. “Poor flowers!” Genji exclaims. He then orders his man to go and pick him some of these pitiful flowers. Genji is not only sympathetic but also drawn to the shabbiness and frailty of the pale blossom. Leaning miserably in every direction in such a wretched neighbourhood, yūgao is humble and simple yet melancholy and pitiful.

Unlike bright red rose, which symbolizes royalty, devotion and sophistication, or Chinese orchid, which symbolizes literati culture, elegance and refinement, the pale yūgao is endearing in its own aesthetic quality and principles – wabi and sabi. These feeble white flowers enjoy being surrounded by austerity, rusticity and chaos – which are characteristics of the wild primitive state of nature that is untouched by civilization and culture. Yūgao does not at all concern about worldly matters such as status, power, fame, human civilization and material. While roses and orchids live in a civilized yet artificial world celebrating all the noble symbolic meanings that are attached to them, yūgao lives in the wild enjoying its shabby and primitive yet genuine and inartificial state as an integrated part of the mighty Mother Nature. In other words, roses and orchids have already become an anthropocentric victim that is constantly being manipulated in different ways (for political, economic and religious purposes) while yūgao, though unrecognised, isolated and far from the civilized human world, takes pleasure in “un-civilization”, unpretentiousness, solitude, tranquillity and wabi. By being “imperfect”, powerless and distant from mundaneness, yūgaoremains its harmonious cosmic relationship with nature as well as the universe.

Besides wabi, this tiny pale flower also embodies the Japanese aesthetic value of sabi. In the scene in which Genji’s man, obeying the order from his master, goes and picks the white flowers for Genji, a pretty young maid comes out from the small house and offers the man with a perfumed fan. “Here,” she says, “give them (the yūgao) to him on this – their stems are so hopeless.”(2) The flowers are too fragile to be held by human hands. With its feebleness and colourlessness, yūgao stirs sorrow and desolate sentiments. These white flowers are so fragile as if they are dying. Yet, such feeble state and “imperfection” become a form of perfection. In the aesthetic concept of sabi, beauty does not necessarily require a perfection of form. The delicacy and ephemerality of yūgao should not be understood as being in the process of dying; instead, the flowers are returning to their origin. They are returning to the earth. Their “imperfection” allows them to achieve reunification with the universe. The feebleness of yūgao manifests the circle of departing from and returning to nature: being born from the universe, leaving the universe for ego, individualism, reason and civilization, and becoming one with the universe again. It is exactly the aesthetics of sabi that makes yūgao’s frailty so endearing, spiritual, beautiful and alluring.

Yūgao, the female protagonist of the chapter who shared the same name with the white flowers, is persuaded by Genji and goes with him to a deserted villa near Gojō at dawn. The place is strangely disturbing and quite isolated. “The place is eerie,” Genji says to himself when he is examining the surroundings of the villa.(3) With the shrubbery plants, ancient groves and a fallen gate covered with ferns, the atmosphere is not only silent and remote, but also very desolate and gloomy. Yūgao and Genji spend the evening together in the villa exchanging affectionate poems and gazing out at the melancholic scenery of the place under the twilight glow. Terrified by the gloomy view of the villa’s garden, Yūgao is anxious and yields to Genji little by little. “She had now lain by him all day, piercingly young and sweet in her shy terror.”(4) Genji is charmed by Yūgao’s bashfulness, timidity and feebleness.

Yūgao’s delicate charm of frailty is known as rōtashi(﨟たし), which is “an adjective denoting a Heian ideal of feminine beauty that is used to describe the frail beauty and charm of a girl or woman that inspires in the observer a desire to protect or cherish her.”(5) Similar to the white flowers, the charm of rōtashiis aroused by the beauty of wabi-sabi. Yūgao, the female protagonist, and yūgao, the white flowers, are both a feeble and timid being. Not clinging on materials, status or reputation, both of them are pure, humble and effortlessly beautiful. “It is frailty that gives a woman her charm, though. I do not care for a woman who insists on valuing her own wits,” Genji says to Ukon, the nurse of Yūgao, one evening after the death of the lady. Shy, weak and powerless, both Yūgao and yūgao gleam in their own modest and bashful way, profoundly revealing the beauty of wabi and sabi.

As the story proceeds, a growing grotesque atmosphere dominates the scene. In the dead of night, Genji sees a beautiful woman in his dream, accusing him of being heartless and berates him for having a love affair with an insignificant person like Yūgao. The woman then begins to shake Yūgao awake. Frightened, Genji wakes up and feels a heavy menacing presence around him. Yūgao moans. Turning to look at her in the torchlight, Genji catches a glimpse of the woman in his dream sitting next to Yūgao’s pillow. The woman immediately vanishes. Yūgao is possessed by a malign spirit. Terrified and delirious, she soon grows cold and stops breathing.

When the night is finally over, Koremitsu, Genji’s foster brother and confidant, comes to the villa and conveys Yūgao’s corpse to a quiet temple in Eastern Hills. “Genji did not have the strength to lift her in his arms, and it was Koremitsu who wrapped her in a padded mat and laid her in the carriage. She was so slight that he was more drawn than repelled.”(6) Even though Yūgao is now a corpse, cold and unpleasant to touch, Genji finds her “more drawn than repelled.” The beauty of the corpse is revealed as it embodies the aesthetics of wabi-sabi. The bleak melancholic corpse, rather than frightening, is calm and tranquil. It evokes a deeply personal and sensual aesthetic consciousness. It is a bittersweet representation of both melancholy and serenity, a sense of peace and solitude buoyed by liberation from emotions, desires and material hindrance of the earthly mundane world. Thus, the beauty of the corpse can only be perceived when one turns the focus from outer appearance to look within. Genji is drawn to the inner spirituality and solitude of Yūgao’s corpse, which is now subtly, piece by piece, returning to nature, returning to the origin of life. Similar to yūgao, the white flowers, the corpse of Yūgao does not symbolize death. Instead, its ephemerality witnesses a rebirth in another metaphysical space. The corpse symbolizes the reunification with nature. The perishing is beautiful.

On the second evening after Yūgao’s death, Genji follows Koremitsu to the temple where the corpse is rested. Looking at the pale corpse, Genji is not afraid. “No fear troubled him. She was as lovely as ever; as yet she betrayed no change.”(7) Once again, Genji finds the corpse pleasant to gaze upon. Although the corpse is cold, pale and static, one can feel the vivid circulation of qi (8) under such unvivid, imperfect and weary appearance. One can sense the substance of the corpse, piece by piece, tranquilly returning to the mighty Mother Nature. It is the beauty of wabi-sabithat cultivates the inner aesthetics of a dead body, and helps viewers maintain a calm and peaceful mind when they see corpse or witness the death of someone.

Higashiyama Kaii, a Japanese artist, once said, “When I enjoy the sunset over the far mountains while sitting on a manless grassland, I feel that, at that very moment, I am reunified with nature. There is a very powerful self-consciousness of being one entity with nature. I am alive and dead at the same time.”(9) The beauty of wabi and sabi is manifested profoundly in this statement. Alive, because he is an individual who has a strong ego and is clinging on the materialistic world, making him disconnected with nature; dead, because Higashiyama, while being alone on the grassland, is reunified with nature, leaving all human desires and material hindrance behind in the earthly world and returning back to the origin, thus the universe. What Higashiyama experienced is a cycle of birth and rebirth. Being alive is a process of approaching death; while death is in fact the origin of being. Death is the beginning of a new life. Thus, death is the end of being alive, while at the same time, seemingly paradoxically, it is also the beginning of being alive. It is an eternal cycle. It is the order of the universe. The death of Yūgao, therefore, in spite of its sorrow and desolate appearance, symbolizes her grand reunification with nature – the ultimate goal of human life, as in the contexts of Taoism and Zen Buddhism. This is the essence of the aesthetic concepts of wabi-sabi. Yūgao’s desolate corpse becomes gracefully beautiful, exemplifying the beauty of vitality and longevity at another cognitive and metaphysical level that cannot be explained by worldly logos or human’s analytic powers.

After seeing Yūgao for the very last time, Genji goes back home and, under the clouded twilight sky, murmurs in blank despair:

“When the clouds to me seem always to be the smoke that rose from her pyre, 

how fondly I rest my gaze even on the evening sky!”(10)

Such poetic atmosphere not only reflects Genji’s great grief over his loss of his lover, but also testifies Yūgao’s reunification with nature, her being one with nature. All her sadness, happiness, pain, memories, desires, emotions, sensuality and earthly attachments are now melting into air, leaving only peace and tranquillity. Genji’s poem is solitary without an affectionate response.(11) The absence of a respondent poem underscores the finality of the parting of the two lovers. Genji’s poetic lament undoubtedly manifests the aesthetics of wabi-sabi melancholically and elegantly.

The image of the lovely feeble yūgaoblooming briefly against the deserted wall in the shabby neighbourhood of Gojō illustrated in the beginning of the chapter effectively coveys, along the proceeding of the story, Yūgao’s feebleness, humble existence and ephemeral beauty, and presages her early and sudden death. The evanescent quality of both yūgao and Yūgao thrives most profoundly in the twilight, corresponding to the meaning of the name – “Twilight Beauty” – and at the same time revealing the aesthetic ideal of wabi-sabi with the finest manner. Frailty, desolation and melancholy are the most significant elements in this chapter, giving The Tale of Genji greater sensitivity and grotesquery as well as a refinedly lyrical tone. The beauty of yūgao, the feeble white flowers, and Yūgao, the pitiful young protagonist, is not defined by superficial appearance. Such sublime beauty can only be perceived by a tranquil and sensitive state of mind. Having the ability to see the “invisible” and pare away the unnecessary can lead one to the essence of wabi-sabi.

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References:
(1) Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji, trans. Royall Tyler (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 56.
(2) Ibid.
(3) Ibid, 65.
(4) Ibid, 66.
(5) Janet Emily Goff, “The Tale of Genji as a Source of the Nō: Yūgao and Hajitomi,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, Vol. 42, No. 1 (1982): 195.
(6) Murasaki, The Tale of Genji,69-70.
(7) Ibid, 72.
(8) Qi is a Taoist term that can be translated as “energy flow” or “life force.”
(9) Higashiyama Kaii東山魁夷, Mei yu you li 美與遊歷 [Beauty and Travel], trans. Zhuge Weidong 諸葛蔚東 (Shijiazhuang Shi: Hua shan wen yi chu ban she: Hebei jiao yu chu ban she, 2001), 38.
(10) Murasaki, The Tale of Genji, 76.
(11) In the manner of sequence of love poetry in the Heian imperial anthologies, a lover should start the initial overture and his/her partner should respond the overture with a corresponding affectionate poem, declaring the mutual affection or personal hesitation.

The Japanese Aesthetic Concept of Wabi-sabi (侘寂)

Wabi-sabi (侘寂) has always been considered as the essence of Japanese conception of beauty. Although the words wabi and sabi are always linked together, they are two individual aesthetic concepts that should be understood separately. Wabi (侘), which means “tranquil simplicity”, suggests that one should remain unprivileged, poor and primitive, in other words, not to be dependent on worldly and artificial attachments – wealth, power, fame, reputation and materialism – and yet “to feel inwardly the presence of something of the highest value, above time and social position.”(1) Wabi is the manifestation of the beauty in nature untouched by human hands, thus, the very naturalness and austerity. The appearance of an object does not determine its wabi as it may be ornamented, altered or artificial. As Prusinski pointed out, “the beauty of wabimust be taken into account with the feeling in and essence of itself. There is beauty in its state of being rather than only from the observer’s subjective view.”(2) A person does not necessarily embody the essence of wabi either as they can be dressed according to their social status, and cultivated and trained under particular rules, manners and etiquettes. Anything that is managed, articulated and artificial does not bear the aesthetics of wabi.

While wabi stresses on the sophisticated yet precarious subtle line between beauty and shabbiness, and appreciates the intrinsic attribute of an object, sabi (寂) sees beauty through the rust, desolation, imperfection as well as the perishing and feeble state of an object. A newly-made object, which is a “manipulated” artificial product created from organic natural materials, is undoubtedly beautiful. Yet, what gives it aesthetic value and meaning of existence is its fate to wear and perish. As Itoh described, “Indeed, sabi is at its ultimate when age and wear bring a thing to the very threshold of its demise. Appreciation of sabi confirms the natural cycle of organic life – that what is created from the earth finally returns to the earth and that nothing is ever complete. Sabi is true to the natural cycle of birth and rebirth.”(3) It is exactly this subtle conception – to destroy artificiality and appreciate the intrinsic quality and unaffected simplicity of nature – that makes the Japanese aesthetics of sabi so extraordinarily spiritual and heart-stirring.

京焼・伊藤南山＆書・川瀬みゆき「ふたり展」 （２０１４年３月２２日～３０日）

行書の「侘寂」（わびさび || wabi-sabi）

(photo taken from: http://blog.kawasemi-style.com/?month=201404)

References:

(1) Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1970), 23.
(2) Lauren Prusinski, “Wabi-Sabi, Mono no Aware, and Ma: Tracing Traditional Japanese Aesthetics Through Japanese History,” Studies on Asia Vol. 2 (2012): 29.
(3) Itoh Teiji and Tanaka Ikko, Wabi sabi suki: the essence of Japanese beauty, trans. Lynne E. Riggs (Hiroshima, Japan: Mazda Motor Corp., 1993), 7.

Koon Wai-bong (管偉邦): A Contemporary Literati Painter from Hong Kong

The landscape genre (山水畫) has long been positioned at the top of the hierarchy of Chinese art and has played a significant role in the Chinese literati culture since the Five Dynasties. Yet, it experienced drastic changes in the twentieth century. With the occurrence of the May Fourth Movement, the revolt against Confucianism and Taoism during the Cultural Revolution, the promotion of modernization and westernization, the strong economic and military power of the West, and the British colonization in Hong Kong, the traditional brush and ink landscape genre came under attack for being “outdated” and “irrelevant” in the modern era.

Koon Wai-bong (管偉邦), who is an enthusiastic Hong Kong young artist with an aura of the cultured and cultivated ancient scholar from the twenty-first century, ambitiously determines to revitalize this traditional art form by giving full play of his great knowledge on ancient masters and their works, his meticulous painting prowess, and his fusion of Chinese brushwork and ink with a contemporary display. Koon successfully synthesizes “the past” and “the presence” by conserving the traditional brush and ink technique, engaging in the traditional subject-matters such as landscape and bamboo, and presenting his artworks in a contemporary way with a keen sense of crisis as well as a creative and valorous attitude.

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Whispering Woods｜颯颯風聲

2013

ink on paper｜水墨紙本

pentaptych｜五屏

70 x 305.5 cm in total｜公分 [合共]

private collection｜私人收藏

Luxuriant Greenery ｜菉竹猗猗

2013

colour on gold cardboard｜設色金箋卡板

polyptych with twenty-four panels｜二十四屏

135 x 424 cm [in total]｜公分 [合共] 　[45 x 53 cm [each panel]｜公分 [每屏]]

collected by J. Safra Sarasin Group｜J. Safra Sarasin Group 藏

Perking Up in the Mist

2013

ink on silk ｜水墨絹本｜水墨绢本

polyptych with twenty-four panels｜二十四屏

82.5 x 220 cm [in total]｜公分 [合共]

Glistering as Stars｜會弁如星

2013

colour on paper cardboard｜設色紙本卡板

polyptych with twelve panels｜十二屏

79.4 x 358.2 cm [in total]｜公分 [合共]　 [39.7 x 59.7 cm [each panel]｜公分 [每屏]]

Glistering as Stars｜會弁如星

2011

colour on silk｜設色絹本

twenty panels｜二十屏

25 x 25 cm each｜公分（每屏）

private collection｜私人收藏

Luxuriant Green｜綠竹猗猗


2010 (retouched in 2012｜2012年潤色

colour on silk｜設色絹本

sixteen panels｜十六屏

25 x 25 cm each｜公分（每屏）

private collection｜私人收藏

Tree Methods｜樹法

2009

ink on silk ｜水墨絹本

fourteen panels｜十四屏

96 x 68 cm each｜公分（每屏）

private collection｜私人收藏

Dichotomy｜對

2005

ink on paper｜水墨紙本

tetrapytch｜四屏

136 x 45 cm each｜公分（每屏）

private collection｜私人收藏

For more information about the artist, please visit:

http://www.koonwaibong.com/