“Light” and “shadow,” which breathe life into Grand Seiko, are the founding stones of the Japanese sense of aesthetics. Opposite yet reliant on each other to exist, how do Japanese people look upon them, and how have they elevated them to the status of beauty? This column will try to elucidate this sense of aesthetics toward “light” and “shadow,” which have taken root in Japan, through the words of experts in various fields.
Large expanses of shadow have long featured prominently in Japanese architecture. As expressed in Junichiro Tanizaki’s "In Praise of Shadows," the Japanese people have long lived in darkness, but you could say they have rather enjoyed the duskiness and beauty of the shade born from the pale natural light barely filtering into rooms, or from the paper lanterns inside the rooms.
The reason architecture in Japan is overwhelmed with shadows has a lot to do with the frequent showers of rain here. As Japanese buildings are made of wood, their support pillars would soon rot due to the rain falling on them. Therefore, roofs need to completely cover them, and deep eaves of two to three meters are required to prevent the rain from coming inside. As a result, light has no choice but to come in horizontally from underneath these long eaves. This created a stark contrast to the European architectural style, like that of Rome’s Pantheon built between BC and AD, where light can enter directly from above. The Japanese style of building in which the light slides in from the sides can be found nowhere else in the world but in Japan. In Japanese architecture, where shadows are prominent, the device most effective in diffusing light is the shōji, a moveable paper screen.
Shōji, made of a wooden lattice covered by washi, a traditional Japanese paper, is used in Japanese housing for windows, doors and outdoor walls. Natural light coming in from the sides is captured by the shōji to create a stable and beautiful “light surface.” Through this, light is diffused gently and widely into a room, brightening all of it. This coexistence of “large shadows” and “a pale light surface” is intrinsic to Japanese architecture.
One could say that the room that leverages the effect of the shōji to its full potential is the chashitsu, or a Japanese tearoom. It has been a tradition since the age of Sen no Rikyū (1522-1591), a legendary tea master, that the only light allowed in the chashitsu should be one that was filtered in through shōji. Jō-an, a teahouse designated a National Treasure, epitomizes the full application of lighting effects achieved through the use of shōji. There are numerous varieties of small shōji—not just for walls but also for ceilings—focusing multiple sources of pale light on surfaces to illuminate this tight space overwhelmed by shadows. Delicately split bamboo is arrayed and fastened to the outside, allowing in just enough light to create an urakumado—a type of window named after Uraku Oda (1547-1622), who designed the room—hence creating a halation effect on the shōji, where light appears as a rainbow pattern. The tea ceremony is held in this space of interwoven “light” and “shadow.” I feel that this is a truly Japanese way of enjoying both light elements.
You can find buildings that incorporate large areas of shadows and shōji-like lighting effects to counter them even in modern architecture. For example, the Ogasawara Museum in Iida City, Nagano Prefecture, one of the first works of Kazuyo Sejima of the architectural firm SANAA. Light is not brought inside directly, but instead enters via the spaces among meticulously painted lines on glass windows, thereby creating an ambiguous light surface. Reminiscent of the shōji, it is quite an interesting piece of architecture. Like this, the style of architectural utilizing “pale light surfaces” upon “large shadows” is an unbroken tradition continued to this day in modern Japan.