Return to Kobe, Day Five

Matt here, to try and get some mileage out of my degree in Japanese literature.  So, welcome to 倚松庵 (Ishouan -- "The hermitage among the pines," or, more literally, "hermitage resting against the pines"), home to one of the most important writers of Japanese modernity, Jun'ichirou Tanizaki.  He had the house built for himself and his third wife, whose family was the basis for his most famous novel, The Makioka Sisters (you might also have seen the 1983 film).  The construction was based entirely on his strict aesthetic principles, which he lays out eloquently in his essay, In'ei raisan (In Praise of Shadows).  The first third of the book is devoted to descriptions of his various successes and failures in trying to preserve the Japanese-ness (as he saw it) of his living space while still utilizing the modern conveniences coming to Japan from the West.  It's a worthwhile read, if you can ignore the slight xenophobia that peaks through at points.  (His story "Aguri" and novel Naomi show the full depth of his conflicted attitude toward the West's contact with Japan.)  I would go so far as to say that In Praise of Shadows is the best introduction there is to a kind of beauty that is quite alien to anyone raised in the Western tradition.

One of the main tasks he set himself was building a visually pleasing yet usable heater.  He agonized over the construction of an indoor fire pit, and in the end he considered it a success.  You can see it in back of me, paved over and with an electric space heater sat atop it.  (I'm holding up a copy of In Praise of Shadows because I am not a very nice man.)


The other thing on which he spared no expense was the bath/toilet, which he considered of the utmost aesthetic importance.  (That section alone is worth the price of the book.)  You can see the bath above, ringed with the very tiles he raged against in the book.  The toilet had long since been replaced in favor of guest lavatories.  It was the saddest a bathroom has ever made me feel.  Which, now that I think about it, makes me feel pretty good about my life to this point.

And then we climbed the stairs, and the space opened up so pleasingly there was no more making fun.  Tanizaki's design had provided room for living, as well as room for light and shadow to play for the delight of those lucky enough to be spending time there.  The trees and the nearby river whisper through the windows in the room, and the world seems finally to spin at a speed you can keep up with.

To the left, a hallway that felt a factor of ten larger than it was.  To the right, the master's writing desk.  A housekeeper brought us seaweed tea (very good for one's health, apparently) and told us to drink at our leisure. And just like Tanizaki said, it was the hidden bottom of the cup, the shadows lining the dark lacquer that gave the liquid its taste.

There is a framed scroll in the genkan, calligraphy reading 倚松庵 that Tanizaki's wife penned.  They didn't start referring to the house by that name until three years after it had been built.  However, there is a refinement in the scroll that suits the house perfectly.  Tanizaki had worried most about the paper on his doors: whether he'd be letting in too much light through glass or too little through paper, and he wasn't happy at first with the balance he'd achieved through a combination.  As we walked out through the genkan I imagined them hanging that paper there, and Tanizaki finally feeling like the light and shadow in his house were, at last, exactly the way he wanted them.