IV. The Tea-Room

IV. The Tea-Room

To European architects brought up on the traditions of stone and

brick construction, our Japanese method of building with wood

and bamboo seems scarcely worthy to be ranked as architecture.

It is but quite recently that a competent student of Western

architecture has recognised and paid tribute to the remarkable

perfection of our great temples. Such being the case as regards

our classic architecture, we could hardly expect the outsider to

appreciate the subtle beauty of the tea-room, its principles of

construction and decoration being entirely different from those

of the West.

The tea-room (the Sukiya) does not pretend to be other than a

mere cottage--a straw hut, as we call it. The original ideographs

for Sukiya mean the Abode of Fancy. Latterly the various

tea-masters substituted various Chinese characters according to

their conception of the tea-room, and the term Sukiya may

signify the Abode of Vacancy or the Abode of the Unsymmetrical.

It is an Abode of Fancy inasmuch as it is an ephemeral structure

built to house a poetic impulse. It is an Abode of Vacancy

inasmuch as it is devoid of ornamentation except for what may

be placed in it to satisfy some aesthetic need of the moment.

It is an Abode of the Unsymmetrical inasmuch as it is consecrated

to the worship of the Imperfect, purposely leaving some thing

unfinished for the play of the imagination to complete. The

ideals of Teaism have since the sixteenth century influenced our

architecture to such degree that the ordinary Japanese interior of

the present day, on account of the extreme simplicity and

chasteness of its scheme of decoration, appears to foreigners

almost barren.

The first independent tea-room was the creation of Senno-Soyeki,

commonly known by his later name of Rikiu, the greatest of all

tea-masters, who, in the sixteenth century, under the patronage

of Taiko-Hideyoshi, instituted and brought to a high state of

perfection the formalities of the Tea-ceremony. The proportions

of the tea-room had been previously determined by Jowo--a

famous tea-master of the fifteenth century. The early tea-room

consisted merely of a portion of the ordinary drawing-room

partitioned off by screens for the purpose of the tea-gathering.

The portion partitioned off was called the Kakoi (enclosure), a

name still applied to those tea-rooms which are built into a house

and are not independent constructions. The Sukiya consists of the

tea-room proper, designed to accommodate not more than five

persons, a number suggestive of the saying "more than the Graces

and less than the Muses," an anteroom (midsuya) where the tea

utensils are washed and arranged before being brought in, a

portico (machiai) in which the guests wait until they receive the

summons to enter the tea-room, and a garden path (the roji) which

connects the machiai with the tea-room. The tea-room is

unimpressive in appearance. It is smaller than the smallest

of Japanese houses, while the materials used in its construction

are intended to give the suggestion of refined poverty. Yet we

must remember that all this is the result of profound artistic

forethought, and that the details have been worked out with care

perhaps even greater than that expended on the building of the

richest palaces and temples. A good tea-room is more costly than

an ordinary mansion, for the selection of its materials, as well as its

workmanship, requires immense care and precision. Indeed, the

carpenters employed by the tea-masters form a distinct and

highly honoured class among artisans, their work being no

less delicate than that of the makers of lacquer cabinets.

The tea-room is not only different from any production of

Western architecture, but also contrasts strongly with the

classical architecture of Japan itself. Our ancient noble

edifices, whether secular or ecclesiastical, were not to be

despised even as regards their mere size. The few that have

been spared in the disastrous conflagrations of centuries

are still capable of aweing us by the grandeur and richness

of their decoration. Huge pillars of wood from two to three

feet in diameter and from thirty to forty feet high, supported,

by a complicated network of brackets, the enormous beams

which groaned under the weight of the tile-covered roofs.

The material and mode of construction, though weak against

fire, proved itself strong against earthquakes, and was well

suited to the climatic conditions of the country. In the Golden

Hall of Horiuji and the Pagoda of Yakushiji, we have noteworthy

examples of the durability of our wooden architecture. These

buildings have practically stood intact for nearly twelve

centuries. The interior of the old temples and palaces was

profusely decorated. In the Hoodo temple at Uji, dating from

the tenth century, we can still see the elaborate canopy and

gilded baldachinos, many-coloured and inlaid with mirrors and

mother-of-pearl, as well as remains of the paintings and

sculpture which formerly covered the walls. Later, at Nikko

and in the Nijo castle in Kyoto, we see structural beauty sacrificed

to a wealth of ornamentation which in colour and exquisite detail

equals the utmost gorgeousness of Arabian or Moorish effort.

The simplicity and purism of the tea-room resulted from

emulation of the Zen monastery. A Zen monastery differs from

those of other Buddhist sects inasmuch as it is meant only to be a

dwelling place for the monks. Its chapel is not a place of worship

or pilgrimage, but a college room where the students congregate

for discussion and the practice of meditation. The room is bare

except for a central alcove in which, behind the altar, is a statue

of Bodhi Dharma, the founder of the sect, or of Sakyamuni

attended by Kashiapa and Ananda, the two earliest Zen patriarchs.

On the altar, flowers and incense are offered up in the memory of

the great contributions which these sages made to Zen. We have

already said that it was the ritual instituted by the Zen monks of

successively drinking tea out of a bowl before the image of

Bodhi Dharma, which laid the foundations of the tea-ceremony.

We might add here that the altar of the Zen chapel was the

prototype of the Tokonoma,--the place of honour in a Japanese

room where paintings and flowers are placed for the edification

of the guests.

All our great tea-masters were students of Zen and attempted

to introduce the spirit of Zennism into the actualities of life.

Thus the room, like the other equipments of the tea-ceremony,

reflects many of the Zen doctrines. The size of the orthodox

tea-room, which is four mats and a half, or ten feet square,

is determined by a passage in the Sutra of Vikramadytia.

In that interesting work, Vikramadytia welcomes the Saint

Manjushiri and eighty-four thousand disciples of Buddha in

a room of this size,--an allegory based on the theory of the

non-existence of space to the truly enlightened. Again the

roji, the garden path which leads from the machiai to the

tea-room, signified the first stage of meditation,--the passage

into self-illumination. The roji was intended to break

connection with the outside world, and produce a fresh

sensation conducive to the full enjoyment of aestheticism in

the tea-room itself. One who has trodden this garden path

cannot fail to remember how his spirit, as he walked in the

twilight of evergreens over the regular irregularities of the

stepping stones, beneath which lay dried pine needles, and passed

beside the moss-covered granite lanterns, became uplifted above

ordinary thoughts. One may be in the midst of a city, and yet feel

as if he were in the forest far away from the dust and din of

civilisation. Great was the ingenuity displayed by the tea-masters

in producing these effects of serenity and purity. The nature of

the sensations to be aroused in passing through the roji differed

with different tea-masters. Some, like Rikiu, aimed at utter

loneliness, and claimed the secret of making a roji was contained

in the ancient ditty:

"I look beyond;/Flowers are not,/Nor tinted leaves./On the sea beach/

A solitary cottage stands/In the waning light/Of an autumn eve."

Others, like Kobori-Enshiu, sought for a different effect.

Enshiu said the idea of the garden path was to be found in the

following verses:

"A cluster of summer trees,/A bit of the sea,/A pale evening moon."

It is not difficult to gather his meaning. He wished to create the

attitude of a newly awakened soul still lingering amid shadowy

dreams of the past, yet bathing in the sweet unconsciousness of

a mellow spiritual light, and yearning for the freedom that lay

in the expanse beyond.

Thus prepared the guest will silently approach the sanctuary,

and, if a samurai, will leave his sword on the rack beneath

the eaves, the tea-room being preeminently the house of peace.

Then he will bend low and creep into the room through a

small door not more than three feet in height. This proceeding

was incumbent on all guests,--high and low alike,--and was

intended to inculcate humility. The order of precedence

having been mutually agreed upon while resting in the machiai,

the guests one by one will enter noiselessly and take their seats,

first making obeisance to the picture or flower arrangement on

the tokonoma. The host will not enter the room until all the

guests have seated themselves and quiet reigns with nothing

to break the silence save the note of the boiling water in the

iron kettle. The kettle sings well, for pieces of iron are so

arranged in the bottom as to produce a peculiar melody in

which one may hear the echoes of a cataract muffled by clouds,

of a distant sea breaking among the rocks, a rainstorm sweeping

through a bamboo forest, or of the soughing of pines on some

faraway hill.

Even in the daytime the light in the room is subdued, for the low

eaves of the slanting roof admit but few of the sun's rays.

Everything is sober in tint from the ceiling to the floor; the guests

themselves have carefully chosen garments of unobtrusive colors.

The mellowness of age is over all, everything suggestive of

recent acquirement being tabooed save only the one note of

contrast furnished by the bamboo dipper and the linen napkin,

both immaculately white and new. However faded the tea-room

and the tea-equipage may seem, everything is absolutely clean.

Not a particle of dust will be found in the darkest corner, for if

any exists the host is not a tea-master. One of the first requisites

of a tea-master is the knowledge of how to sweep, clean, and

wash, for there is an art in cleaning and dusting. A piece of

antique metal work must not be attacked with the unscrupulous

zeal of the Dutch housewife. Dripping water from a flower

vase need not be wiped away, for it may be suggestive of dew

and coolness.

In this connection there is a story of Rikiu which well illustrates

the ideas of cleanliness entertained by the tea-masters. Rikiu was

watching his son Shoan as he swept and watered the garden path.

"Not clean enough," said Rikiu, when Shoan had finished his task,

and bade him try again. After a weary hour the son turned to

Rikiu: "Father, there is nothing more to be done. The steps have

been washed for the third time, the stone lanterns and the trees are

well sprinkled with water, moss and lichens are shining with a fresh

verdure; not a twig, not a leaf have I left on the ground." "Young

fool," chided the tea-master, "that is not the way a garden path

should be swept." Saying this, Rikiu stepped into the garden,

shook a tree and scattered over the garden gold and crimson leaves,

scraps of the brocade of autumn! What Rikiu demanded was not

cleanliness alone, but the beautiful and the natural also.

The name, Abode of Fancy, implies a structure created to meet

some individual artistic requirement. The tea-room is made for

the tea master, not the tea-master for the tea-room. It is not

intended for posterity and is therefore ephemeral. The idea that

everyone should have a house of his own is based on an ancient

custom of the Japanese race, Shinto superstition ordaining that

every dwelling should be evacuated on the death of its chief

occupant. Perhaps there may have been some unrealized sanitary

reason for this practice. Another early custom was that a newly

built house should be provided for each couple that married.

It is on account of such customs that we find the Imperial capitals

so frequently removed from one site to another in ancient days.

The rebuilding, every twenty years, of Ise Temple, the supreme

shrine of the Sun-Goddess, is an example of one of these ancient

rites which still obtain at the present day. The observance of

these customs was only possible with some form of construction

as that furnished by our system of wooden architecture, easily

pulled down, easily built up. A more lasting style, employing

brick and stone, would have rendered migrations impracticable,

as indeed they became when the more stable and massive wooden

construction of China was adopted by us after the Nara period.

With the predominance of Zen individualism in the fifteenth

century, however, the old idea became imbued with a deeper

significance as conceived in connection with the tea-room.

Zennism, with the Buddhist theory of evanescence and its

demands for the mastery of spirit over matter, recognized the

house only as a temporary refuge for the body. The body

itself was but as a hut in the wilderness, a flimsy shelter made

by tying together the grasses that grew around,--when these

ceased to be bound together they again became resolved into

the original waste. In the tea-room fugitiveness is suggested

in the thatched roof, frailty in the slender pillars, lightness in

the bamboo support, apparent carelessness in the use of

commonplace materials. The eternal is to be found only in the

spirit which, embodied in these simple surroundings, beautifies

them with the subtle light of its refinement.

That the tea-room should be built to suit some individual taste

is an enforcement of the principle of vitality in art. Art, to be

fully appreciated, must be true to contemporaneous life. It is

not that we should ignore the claims of posterity, but that we

should seek to enjoy the present more. It is not that we should

disregard the creations of the past, but that we should try to

assimilate them into our consciousness. Slavish conformity to

traditions and formulas fetters the expression of individuality

in architecture. We can but weep over the senseless imitations

of European buildings which one beholds in modern Japan.

We marvel why, among the most progressive Western nations,

architecture should be so devoid of originality, so replete with

repetitions of obsolete styles. Perhaps we are passing through an

age of democratisation in art, while awaiting the rise of some

princely master who shall establish a new dynasty. Would that we

loved the ancients more and copied them less! It has been said that

the Greeks were great because they never drew from the antique.

The term, Abode of Vacancy, besides conveying the Taoist theory

of the all-containing, involves the conception of a continued need

of change in decorative motives. The tea-room is absolutely empty,

except for what may be placed there temporarily to satisfy some

aesthetic mood. Some special art object is brought in for the

occasion, and everything else is selected and arranged to enhance

the beauty of the principal theme. One cannot listen to different

pieces of music at the same time, a real comprehension of the

beautiful being possible only through concentration upon some

central motive. Thus it will be seen that the system of decoration

in our tea-rooms is opposed to that which obtains in the West,

where the interior of a house is often converted into a museum.

To a Japanese, accustomed to simplicity of ornamentation and

frequent change of decorative method, a Western interior

permanently filled with a vast array of pictures, statuary, and

bric-a-brac gives the impression of mere vulgar display of riches.

It calls for a mighty wealth of appreciation to enjoy the constant

sight of even a masterpiece, and limitless indeed must be the

capacity for artistic feeling in those who can exist day after day

in the midst of such confusion of color and form as is to be

often seen in the homes of Europe and America.

The "Abode of the Unsymmetrical" suggests another phase of

our decorative scheme. The absence of symmetry in Japanese

art objects has been often commented on by Western critics.

This, also, is a result of a working out through Zennism of

Taoist ideals. Confucianism, with its deep-seated idea of dualism,

and Northern Buddhism with its worship of a trinity, were in no

way opposed to the expression of symmetry. As a matter of fact,

if we study the ancient bronzes of China or the religious arts of

the Tang dynasty and the Nara period, we shall recognize a

constant striving after symmetry. The decoration of our classical

interiors was decidedly regular in its arrangement. The Taoist and

Zen conception of perfection, however, was different. The dynamic

nature of their philosophy laid more stress upon the process through

which perfection was sought than upon perfection itself. True

beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally completed

the incomplete. The virility of life and art lay in its possibilities

for growth. In the tea-room it is left for each guest in imagination

to complete the total effect in relation to himself. Since Zennism

has become the prevailing mode of thought, the art of the extreme

Orient has purposefully avoided the symmetrical as expressing not

only completion, but repetition. Uniformity of design was considered

fatal to the freshness of imagination. Thus, landscapes, birds, and

flowers became the favorite subjects for depiction rather than the

human figure, the latter being present in the person of the beholder

himself. We are often too much in evidence as it is, and in spite

of our vanity even self-regard is apt to become monotonous.

In the tea-room the fear of repetition is a constant presence.

The various objects for the decoration of a room should be so

selected that no colour or design shall be repeated. If you have

a living flower, a painting of flowers is not allowable. If you

are using a round kettle, the water pitcher should be angular.

A cup with a black glaze should not be associated with a tea-caddy

of black lacquer. In placing a vase of an incense burner on the

tokonoma, care should be taken not to put it in the exact centre,

lest it divide the space into equal halves. The pillar of the tokonoma

should be of a different kind of wood from the other pillars, in order

to break any suggestion of monotony in the room.

Here again the Japanese method of interior decoration differs from

that of the Occident, where we see objects arrayed symmetrically

on mantelpieces and elsewhere. In Western houses we are often

confronted with what appears to us useless reiteration. We find

it trying to talk to a man while his full-length portrait stares at us

from behind his back. We wonder which is real, he of the picture

or he who talks, and feel a curious conviction that one of them must

be fraud. Many a time have we sat at a festive board contemplating,

with a secret shock to our digestion, the representation of abundance

on the dining-room walls. Why these pictured victims of chase and

sport, the elaborate carvings of fishes and fruit? Why the display

of family plates, reminding us of those who have dined and are dead?

The simplicity of the tea-room and its freedom from vulgarity

make it truly a sanctuary from the vexations of the outer world.

There and there alone one can consecrate himself to undisturbed

adoration of the beautiful. In the sixteenth century the tea-room

afforded a welcome respite from labour to the fierce warriors and

statesmen engaged in the unification and reconstruction of Japan.

In the seventeenth century, after the strict formalism of the

Tokugawa rule had been developed, it offered the only opportunity

possible for the free communion of artistic spirits. Before a great

work of art there was no distinction between daimyo, samurai, and

commoner. Nowadays industrialism is making true refinement more

and more difficult all the world over. Do we not need the tea-room

more than ever?