Sukiya Living—The Garden
A Japanese Garden Aesthetic
Japanese-Garden-Artists
At the beginning of the 21st
century in America, what is a Japanese garden and how is it executed?
What criteria might be brought to bear regarding aspects of its nature,
meaning and evaluation?
Every significant garden in
Japan has "an aesthetic;" furthermore, gardens designed by the
same person will have a similar or recognizable aesthetic. Also,
the few respectable Japanese gardens in America have a particular aesthetic;
and often American-Japanese gardens are weak in virtue of an aesthetic
shortfall. This also applies to many public gardens otherwise
regarded as "good;" we see the potential of a significant garden to
loose its aesthetic, e.g., San Francisco's garden in Golden Gate
Park. How does a garden acquire its "aesthetic"? One answer
is: an aesthetic garden can only be created by a "Japanese-garden-artist."
While somewhat circular, this claim may not be entirely vacuous.
What is such an artist, or what does s/he do? The description
here may be from the positive or negative—desirable and defeating
properties. Good Japanese gardens in America are not plentiful;
and it is unlikely that there are more than half a dozen Japanese-garden-artists
in this country today. Following, we will consider the diversity
of features that are assets to the garden, as well as those that are
defeating.
While many qualified American-Japanese-gardeners
were trained in Japan, their doing so is neither necessary nor sufficient
for them to produce aesthetically successful work. Are popularity
or previous accomplishments criteria of quality? This is a difficult
question; the easy answer is, a qualified no. There is a dual
problem here—assuming that a garden is good because it is popular;
or assuming that it is not for the same reason. This is complicated
by another factor—when a Japanese garden is originally created, the
extent of the designer's import is close to 100%. Within months
after the garden is completed, this percentage drops nearly in half;
the other half being upkeep and maintenance. Thus, a critical
condition for the success of a Japanese-garden-artist is that he be
succeeded by a knowledgeable, devoted caretaker. Thus, under the logic
of Sukiya Living, Artistic-Japanese-gardens consist of a crucially interdependent
relationship between its original designer and its ongoing caretaker.
Teaching Japanese-Garden-Design
Some things can be taught,
other things cannot. Regarding Japanese gardening—much of the
craft, discipline and tradition can be taught, i.e., we can learn what
stone-setting means and how it is done well; we can learn how to work
efficiently and productively; we can learn Japanese history and how
things have been done there for millennia. It is more difficult
to learn aesthetics; and it is nearly impossible to learn how to create
artistically. Critical here, whether applied to gardens or
any other art medium, is that art always trumps the craft, discipline
and tradition of what is being done. This can be given a positive
or a negative spin—as for the former: ultimately, the artistic dimension
of creation takes precedence over the other factors; the Japanese-garden-designer
must be an artist first and foremost. On the negative side, we
might say that there are weak gardens in Japan; and that even the best
Japanese-garden-designers can come up a bit short. The ground
for this will inevitably be artistic, rather than factors such as craft
or tradition. This stands to reason—the mechanics of design
are straightforward; however, artistic judgments are not easy; and while
tastes vary, a faulty artistic judgment is a liability and can be disastrous.
This is more difficult in virtue
of the fact that aesthetic standards in Japan, now and in the past,
can be out of sync with the West. Thus the question, "Is this
decision an artistic choice gone wrong; or is it an unsuccessful decision
grounded in Japanese traditions?" This is not answerable a priori;
however let's look at some examples. When I did my original garden
in Columbus, I could find no stones for the ground that resembled the
small chips of decomposed granite used in Japan for their gardens; so
I used white marble chips. These chips were too white and too
large; the latter threw off the scale critical for the aesthetic balance
of the garden. (This can be seen in the photos of the early garden.)
Both problems of size and color were corrected this spring (2008) by
replacing the marble; the difference here is not as easy to see in the
photos.
Japanese tradition is a relevant
guide here, such that if one chooses a course of action, e.g., stone
ground cover, then future choices are entailed by this decision.
We might identify this as the law of "Hypothetical Inevitability,"
(see "logic" below) i.e., having made a choice to do something, then
either: 1) you are obliged to follow the rules dictating the traditional
path, or 2) you justify your introducing an exception to the standard
practice. This may turn out to be a good general principle.
For example, my original concept of putting bonsai trees into the ground
was not a common practice. I argued that based on any reasonable
criterion this would be acceptable; that this had not been done before
was no reason that it should be disallowed.
Japanese-Garden Aesthete
Who might best be regarded
as the authority for judging Japanese-gardens? This critical task
should be placed in the hands of an individual who is a bi-cultural
aesthete, i.e., who is very well versed in the culture, history
and art of both Japan and the West. This individual is neither
simply a specialist in a single field (e.g., a garden designer), nor
a single culture; in addition, the criteria for judging contemporary
Japanese gardens, especially in America should be expanded, beyond what
is done today. New Japanese gardens, certainly diverge from their
historical ancestors. The objective for an aesthete is to apply
the standards from the background of each culture, and then to be open
to the prospect of these being expanded. American gardeners, even
those trained in Japan, generally do not have the background in general
history and other Japanese art media, nor are most knowledgeable of
Western art.
There is another requirement
essential for our cross-cultural aesthete—knowledge and background
of aesthetic theory. This is likely to be culturally asymmetric—philosophic
theory of art in the West dates from 5th century
BCE Greece; this has no analogue in Japan; the first appearance of "the
philosophic theory of art" in Japan was only introduced during the
second half of the 19th century, when German aesthetic theory
arrived. However, this brief 150 year history has been shared
by the two cultures. The poignancy here is that all "modern Western
aesthetic theory" comes from the same source at the same time.
Thus, the asymmetry fades in importance. More to the point here
is that aesthetic theory itself has become crucial today in the creative
and critical areas of art, viz., it strikes me that the contemporary
artistic tradition of Postmodernism is incomprehensible in the absence
of knowledge of the past 150 years of the theory of art's nature and
meaning.
In spite of the fact that Western
art since the Renaissance has been driven by aestheticism, during the
course of the past generation, this has lost its exclusivity, if not
its primacy. This being the case, no matter under what aesthetic
tradition one creates gardens, understanding the aesthetics of Postmodernism
is gaining in importance. Thus it behooves our garden aesthete
to be sensitive to this fact. In spite of my loathing for Postmodernism,
my garden would not be what it is, without my experience of Postmodernism.
Ironically, this includes the intentional, aestheticized nature of my
garden.
Consideration of Critical Claims to My Garden
I appreciate serious evaluation
and criticism of my garden, on one condition—the critic
must have seen the garden in person; unfortunately, but inevitably,
the photos on the web- site do not do it. It is further presumed
that the critic knows and understands the things currently under discussion.
One of the points of this essay
is to look at some critiques of my garden, attempt to find their basis,
and either answer them or commit to change them in the garden. This
process of critique and response is important in my garden experience.
During the summer of 2007, I visited a dozen well known public Japanese
gardens in North America, half of which were in the Pacific Northwest
in order to critique them for a piece I wrote for, "The Journal
Of Japanese Gardening."
An underlying objective of this project was to gain greater understanding
of the Japanese-garden phenomenon which I could then translate back
into my garden. Consequent to this exercise was that my evaluative
response time became virtually instantaneous—in a few seconds either
the garden smacked me between the eyes; or if fell flat on its face.
This happened in Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, San Francisco, Anderson
and Philadelphia. My following response then was, "What's right
or what's wrong with this picture?" This has become a serious
criterion for the experience of my garden—every morning when I go
into the garden, I attempt to experience it with "fresh eyes," as
it were, accompanied by the question, "How is this picture?"
On the other side of this coin, serious critiques of my garden provide
the conscience for this art of mine; and it offers me a barometer of
how I am communicating to the world.
Critiques
The forest and specimen trees
in my garden are set in beds whose ground is black mulch, which has
been a problem for some people. The argument here is not quite
clear to me. The inspiration and thus my intention was taken from
the "islands" at Ryoan-ji; granted the differences are obvious, viz.,
the multiple-stone groups. The question is, "Does this concept
translate to groups of small trees?" Having done the beds of
the two major forests, (Japanese maples and hinokis), the minor hinoki
forest and the large bed running in front of the garage, it seemed reasonable
to continue this "bed-theme" with the four specimen trees in this
area of the garden. I have taken the criticism to heart.
Now, with the new, gold-colored ground-stone, there is less contrast
between the black-mulch-beds and the gold ground. In the two major
forest beds, this season I have attempted to establish a green ground
cover (a combination of moss in the shade and creeping thyme in the
sun), which will take a couple of years to become established; the potential
success here remains an open question. In terms of maintenance,
the mulch beds are a nuisance; on aesthetic grounds, I do not see the
problem, which is especially so with the secondary beds. It is
not clear, if or to what extent the Ryoan-ji reference works;
it may, then again maybe not. Again, the question remains, "What
is the garden?" It is a set of small forests and specimen trees,
and a pond. This thematic primacy of the trees seems sufficient
justification to accent them in their beds.
It has been suggested that
the bloodgood maple behind the Japanese maple forest is not a good choice
because its drastic red color clashes with the exclusivity of the green
in the rest of the garden. This observation is poignant on several
levels, not the least of which is the philosophic question as to whether
the colors in nature can "clash" with one another. To the extent
they can, we proceed—the choice of the bloodgood was a central decision
in the overall design of the garden—the 11-tree Japanese Maple forest
is at the fulcrum of the garden, which is at the juncture of two strong
axes (see the introductory essay of the garden); I felt the need for
a single splash of strong contrasting color in this immediate area,
and the bloodgood accomplished this perfectly. Earlier, there
was another bloodgood in the garden, which I removed for the reason
that it weaken the force of the primary bloodgood. I take this
to be a straight-up aesthetic judgment; and I would be more than amenable
to reconsider this on the basis of a good argument.
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I might suggest one point of
potential criticism which may have merit. It is a generally accepted
practice, not to use rubber-lined ponds; only natural clay or concrete
are acceptable. The reasons for this are well taken, primary among
which is that it is too difficult to obtain satisfactory stone, pond-edging
with rubber. This does not mean that it is impossible; rather,
that it is difficult; and believe me, it is very difficult. But
here again, the ultimate criterion remains a matter of aesthetics—
either one has sufficient taste and proficiency to make the rubber lining
work, aesthetically, or not. And therein lies the tale.
Money
About the only thing that I
dislike more than money is talking about it. However, "money"
stands at a critical juncture with Japanese gardens in America; this
is no surprise in light of the fact that America and its capitalism
are defined by money. As I indicated above, there may be six or
eight garden designers of quality in America. Unfortunately, a
Japanese garden is not a luxury that most of us in the middle class
can afford; the reason being, for the services of one of these designers
we can expect to pay upwards from $120,000. This is likely too
expensive; and it is surely too American. Is such a move either
necessary or sufficient for the quality garden we want? Absolutely not.
The job will probably "read" its cost. Ironically, the product
of this endeavor will often reveal more about American capitalism than
about Japanese gardens. The American practice of Japanese gardens
in the 21st century is eons from those of Sen no Rikyu in
the 16th; and what is missing today? Even as corny
as it sounds, I cannot but say, "wabi and sabi," which not only cannot
be bought and sold, but which is likely antithetical to what we find
in the exchange using contemporary currency. The irony does
not stop—the very effect desired is undermined by that method (and
money) producing it.
American sensibilities today
has little to do with those of the traditional Japanese garden, or those
of art in any dimension. Attempting to justify American capitalism,
it has been observed that money's primary value is as an indicator
of competitive success. These values have permeated our culture,
to the point where a wealthy person's Japanese garden is given its
"quality" predicated on its cost (viz. The Anderson Garden).
Needless to say, this has little to do with Japanese garden quality
or value. Since this is a sensitive topic for me on several levels,
likely the best that I can do is convey the cost of my garden, following
which, one can make his own decision re money. With the exception
of the 100 trees I brought to Columbus from Philadelphia, the garden
cost me at most $15,000. Specific items, whose price was substantial
enough ($1,000-3,000) to mention were: the fence, the nursery stock,
the pond, the koi, the practical and decorative stone, the ground stone.
How did I do this? My son-in-law and I did %90 of the work.
If I had this garden done by "professionals," it would have cost more
than $75,000; while reasonable, this is an impressive profit margin.
Since we are considering costs,
my new Japanese room and the engawa might be of interest. Together,
these cost between $5,000 and $7500; which, done "professionally"
would have exceeded $25,000. And this price also would have been
reasonable. The killer on price here was time; everything took
forever—for the engawa: getting the 4" X 6" cedar timbers, the deck
(stone piers, water, electricity), and round roof rafters; and for the
room: the timbers for the tokonoma, the tatami, the double-sliding glass
doors and all of the finishing. Being retired, time is less expensive
than it is "on the clock."
What is the point of cost relative
to quality? Regardless of what you pay, there is no guarantee
of quality; e.g., again, the Anderson Japanese Garden, in Illinois.
The architecture alone, cost a fortune; and even the poor maintenance
on the 14 acre garden is expensive—and it is still a disaster.
A good balance of cost and quality is evident in the gardens of Seattle
and Portland. However, of direct concern here is the small residential
garden; when it comes to quality, these are few and far between, not
the least reasons being the owner's lack of inherent taste, his inability
to construct them and the outlandish cost of doing them professionally.
If someone would like to have
a Japanese garden and is unwilling or unable to spend in excess of $100,000,
how might s/he approach doing it? Consider what I would do today
if I were beginning again—research all of the recognized Japanese
garden designers in America; visit their recent gardens in person;
and then, hire one or two of them for a consultation for an hour or
two on my future Japanese garden. I would take what they said
seriously; and then go ahead and do it myself; and at an affordable
price. Advising a friend, I would recommend the same as above,
with the addition of my being present at the consultation with the professional
gardener. While this really isn't rocket-science, it is likely
rocket-aesthetics; and while you can buy the former, you clearly cannot,
the latter. And to paraphrase the old expression, "Art is too
important to be left to the artist," so too, "Japanese gardening is
far too important to be left to the Japanese gardener."
One's budget dictates what
is possible—in truth, what can you spend? While this may float
a bit in the future, one should begin with a firm number. At the
outset, major items should be done first; two candidates here are large
stone settings and the water feature, which could easily deplete more
than %75 of your budget; however, these elements are not only basic,
but they are likely the most important in the garden; in addition, structural
elements cannot be easily done later, which is not the case for cosmetics.
What criterion is there in terms of taking on substantial debt to do
the garden? I would argue that it is the same as applied to buying
a car—don't exceed the price that can be paid off in five years;
Thus, with a monthly debt-service of $300, the loan would not exceed
$18,000-20,000; with $10,000 capital to begin, this will provide a pretty
nice garden, which is predicated on your doing much of work on yourself.
Remember, that during the course of creating a garden, the option remains
open to consult with a professional at reasonable rates. This
suggests another problem that I have encountered with Japanese garden
"do-it-yourselfers"—they are resistant, to a fault consulting with
a professional. This involves a complexity of reasons, not the
least of which is there reluctance to expose their naivete; ironically,
this rarely involves financial considerations. This is a real
shame, but likely not addressable. Unfortunately, the only
other option is to pay the big bucks, pray for success and forget the
poor guy who cannot afford it.
Identity and Criteria for Deciding
Money is an inescapable consideration
for creating a Japanese garden. Once that is dealt with, the question
still remains—how does one choose among competing desires or demands
for the garden? Here are some criteria that thread through the
entire process—the medium needs to be either traditional, or such
that it can be justified using considerations from traditional gardens;
the palette must consist of elements included within the traditions
of Japanese gardening. The answer to the question, "What makes a garden
'Japanese'?" is most easily cast in terms of its elements—while
likely no single element is necessary, without several of prescribed
items, it will not likely rise to the level of being "Japanese."
While this may seem to be too basic and obvious to mention, it is important.
We might indicate a set of categories, one item from each of which could
be considered essential for most gardens identifying themselves as "Japanese."
1)Border-treatment: a) fencing and b) flora; 2) water treatment—wet
or dry; 3) flora: bamboo, trees (specimen or not, deciduous, conifers),
plants, scrubs, water flora, pragmatic (border, shade, view blocking);
4) ground, 5) path, 6) accessories, and 7) accommodation to residential
space (Sukiya Living). Pre-analytically, what would one indicate
as "expected elements" for a Japanese garden? Border, bamboo,
water, stones, hinokis, black pine, Japanese maples and a ground.
I might stick out my neck so far as to claim that a garden likely could
not be called "Japanese" in the absence of these. On the other
hand, in terms of simple identity, a garden containing all of them could
hardly fail to be. None of this has anything to do with quality.
My primary criterion governing
the process of Japanese garden design and creation is that the artistic
dimension and decisions will trump the others, including the traditions.
In other words, the garden is primarily "art-bound" not tradition
bound. Let me provide some examples of artistic choices from my
garden which are not uncontroversial—its medium of bonsai trees in
the ground; the use of suiseki stones, primarily by themselves; the
presence of three Japanese lanterns; two totally different kinds of
path; the number and kind of trees in general and specimen trees; the
beds; the signature bonsai behind the pond, the table of bonsai on the
side; the red bloodgood maple. And the placement of the elements,
which to some people "reads" as being too symmetrical; this is difficult
for me to understand in light of the fact that there is nothing symmetrical
about the garden at all. As a matter of fact, one of the most
important elements in the garden is negative space, which is not easily
interpreted symmetrically.
The Importance of Logic
The Japanese-garden-artist
begins with a particular "medium," i.e., a specific theme, plan or
structure of the garden; then he decides on a palette—what it is that
he wants to use in the garden. Then, he works out a basic garden
design—roughly what he wants to put where; this would include all
of the basic elements that will be incorporated (stone work, water,
flora, border, edge plantings, paths and possibly accessories).
Now we are in a similar position to the painter, standing before his
blank canvas, ready for the most important creative act of the eventual
work of art—putting down the first stroke. Following this move,
the critical phenomenon operative in the creative process is logic.
While it is true that art is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration, it
is equally true that it is 5% creative imagination, and 95% is simply
following the logical inevitability entailed by that 5%. As Cézanne
would tell us based upon all of the canvases that he left unfinished,
"if it is not to be, give it up because you cannot make it happen if
you missed it at the beginning."
Failures in Japanese gardens
are the result of basic design flaws or in the logic following through
on these. E.g., for a design shortfall we might consider the Portland
Japanese, which is without question is a spectacular garden; however,
one flaw that some consider fatal, is its smörgåsbord nature—it
tries to be all things for all people; and such an effort will not succeed.
The failure of the San Francisco Japanese garden is based on the fact
that during its history, it could not look a gift horse in the mouth,
or more accurately, refuse to accept it, as it should have done.
One thing after another was "donated," the result is a disturbingly
cluttered garden (Buddha, Tori gate, pagoda, brass animals for the pond).
Any one of these is sufficient to destroy the clean, simply design of
the garden's creation; and what a shame this is, because this garden
itself is quite spectacular.
Let us examine some concepts
upon which our logic is based and driven—simplicity, consistency,
unity, scarcity, clean lines, separation of elements, impeccable maintenance,
healthy and thriving flora and fauna, immaculate cleanliness.
These are not the same as are the aesthetic properties mentioned earlier.
What I have in mind here is the following—once you have a concept,
a design, a plan, then the question is how it is most efficiently executed.
These concepts are what take us from the beginning to the end; or put
slightly differently—here is a thought; how is it to be realized in
the garden? Some would answer this question by throwing money
at the idea. While this may be one way to do go, it is neither
the only way, nor even the best. In any case, what are you end
with, is the physical manifestation of an idea? There are a number
of ways that this can turn out—good idea, good execution, etc.
Then the challenge remains between creating the original idea and the
garden's general maintenance.
Is there anything to be gained
by pursuing the question, what is a Japanese garden, qua work of art?
Probably not. Then what is it, that philosophic aesthetics can
bring to the table? In philosophy, the last word is always the
question. In addition, consideration of criteria is always important.
Once we give these their due, we do what we can with answers, which
has been my objective here.
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