Beyond the Japanese Garden, Autumn

This article was first published in the UK Japanese Garden Society Journal, 2019.

Beyond the Japanese Garden, Autumn  Bill Tingey

What goes on beyond the bounds of a Japanese garden? Needless to say there is a bountiful pageant of nature and life itself in many guises. However, the iconic gardens of moss, gravel, boulders and minimal planting often choose not to compete with nature.  It must be remembered that climate, weather, history, culture, geography and much more provide a backdrop against which Japanese gardens perform—yes, actively perform for out delight.

Designers of such a singular garden art seem reluctant to whole-heartedly trespass on the magnificence of nature.

“Why compete with nature”. This is how one Japanese garden designer justified the spartan and yet highly engaging arrangement of stones at Ryoan-ji—what I am inclined to call a piece of themed abstract art.

So, let us just glimps what goes on beyond a Japanese garden.

Designed and made by Toshiaki Nagakusa, acer leaves tumble from branches to settle on calm waters in a very naturalistic manner.

In Autumn

After the long, hot humid summer, the people of Japan are relieved when autumn comes.

While still clinging to the tree, this spray of autumn colours inspire and delight.

People all over the country grin and bear the conditions during the summer and that is no easy task.  In Tokyo, for example, it is common for the nighttime temperature to drop no lower than 25˚C for three months. With 70% humidity or more combined with a daytime temperature of 35˚C or hotter day after day it is gruelling. And that does not take into account any recent effects of climate change. 

But before the coming of autumn proper, an ordeal by typhoon is always a possibility.

This display of insect work is what becomes a reality for Kaga Yuzen dying.

My wife and I lived in a timber framed two-story apartment building.  In 1979 a strong typhoon with roof-tearing winds and biblical rains raced up the mountainous spinal column of the archipelago having made landfall over Okinawa and again at the Kii peninsula.  Fortunately our home flexed with every whinnying gust but stood firm.

The glowing white of a regular Imperial chrysanthemum.

By 1979 we had been living in Japan for just three years and were becoming skilled at reading the strength and character of earth tremors. 

Seismic activity would rattle the glass in the wooden frames of the sliding windows and as long as the sideways movements of a quake gradually diminished, our Japanese friends told us not to be too alarmed.  If however the movement was in the perpendicular, then we were told to worry. Don’t panic! First turn of the gas main and stand in a part of the building with a number of supporting columns like a toilet or a doorway.

A frivolous hybrid of the species.

So, whether it was a typhoon or a quake, it was all new to use and began to change our perception of many things, including nature as a whole.

The first autumn we lived in Japan was a revelation of a very different kind.  While the mornings and evenings were chilly, daytime conditions were exceptionally pleasant.  Humidity levels were low and temperatures might be 20˚C or so and the air was crisp and clear.  Needless to say the autumn colours were wonderful. It is said that a sharp drop in temperature at night followed by high daytime temperatures makes the leaves redder.

A gathering of work by a dedicated grower.

The acers found in Japan have fine delicate leaves.  And, skill-fully pruned play into the hands of any designer who is bound to be inspired by the glorious of nature.

Their approach to developing a design from a spray of acer foliage is naturalistic.  And a good deal different from the geometric arrangements of flowers and leaves by William Morris, for instance.  Japanese designers often seek to borrow from nature instead of rearranging it.

More standard but equally engaging

The city of Kanazawa is famous for its extensive garden, Kenroku-en.  It is also well known for its gold leaf, and seafood. Slightly less well known is the dyeing technique called Kaga Yuzen―simply speaking a freehand dyeing craft.  The designs for silk kimono cloths rival those of Kyoto with realistically rendered floral designs, but with a difference. On occasions even insect-nibbled leafs are depicted.

The chrysanthemum is a symbol of autumn and the country’s Imperial flower.  Displays of chrysanthemums can be found sometimes in autumn tucked away in a corner of a large stately garden like highly treasured jewels of the horticulturalist’s art.

Hybrids abound but the symbolic essence of the flower is pure and timelessly engaging. Just as the Imperial Household holds cherry-blossom-viewing parties in spring, there is a chrysanthemum-viewing event in autumn for civic leaders, members of the government and the diplomatic corps.

Grown in pots the plants represent hours of loving care. As well as the magnificent standard flowers it often seems as though the Japanese favour the bizarre forms, something quite different from the characteristically modest and restrained nature of their growers.

Higan-bana—Although native to China, Korea and Nepal, it can be found growing wild in Japan too.

The cluster amaryllis on the other hand is often seen in the wild and is decidedly flamboyant. These growing on a slope behind a folk house catch the dappled autumn sunlight gleefully. Others can be found along the ridges between rice fields, not a profusion but more of a firework display in celebration of the harvest of their neighbour.

Their name in Japanese is higan-bana, meaning the flower that blooms at higan—the date of the autumn equinox when day and night are of equal length on 20th. September. It is also the date at which Japanese Buddhists visit the graves of their ancestors.

The way in which the islands of Japan sit on the lines of latitude and longitude make it difficult to speak of the climate in an all inclusive and general way.  The situation is compounded by geographic idiosyncrasies, such as altitude or parcels of land in a basin like Kyoto.

Even the way in which the sun shines and casts shadows is modified by the time of year and latitude.  Insects, however, know instinctively when to alter their behaviour.

With the change in temperature and humidity in autumn, crickets and other small critters become very vocal. The custom of catching such crickets as the suzumushi or bell cricket dates right back to the Heian period spanning a period of almost four hundred years from 794.

Bamboo can be skilfully fashioned into a home for a chirruping cricket.

Courtiers and others of noble birth would venture out from their palatial dwellings and do their best at catching a cricket or two and placing them in a small bamboo cage. This indulgent pastime was perhaps an expression of a certain intellectual inquisitiveness but also a sign of simply delighting in an insect ensemble, which in turn might inspire a haiku or provide lyrics to a song. Later such insects were “farmed” to satisfy a demand from ordinary folk.

Although people nowadays are perhaps more reluctant to keep a bell cricket captive in a cage, its a wonder that these delicate masterpieces are still being made.  And haiku still resonate with us regardless of whether they are old or new.

「菊の香や奈良には古き仏たち」

きくのかや　ならには　ふるき　ほとけたち

Kiku no kaya  Nara niwa  furuki  Hotoketachi

Scent of chrysanthemums . . .

And in Nara

All the ancient Buddhas.

Matsuo Basho 

Photos by Bill Tingey except as noted.

Research:  Kaori Yamaki

Then under the insect cage:

静岡竹工芸協同組合 Shizuoka Bamboo Craft Co-operative

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