>Japanese aesthetics was first introduced to the non‐Japanese audience around the turn of the twentieth century through now classic works, such as Bushidō (1899), The Ideals of the East (1904), and The Book of Tea (1907), all written in English and published in the United States.1 Since then, Japanese aesthetic concepts, such as wabi, sabi, yūgen, iki, and mono no aware, have become better known, some even popularized today.2 Some traditional Japanese art media, such as flower arrangement, Noh theater, haiku, martial arts, and, perhaps most prominently, tea ceremony, are now widely studied and sometimes practiced outside of Japan. The authors of all these studies generally characterize Japanese aesthetics by focusing on aesthetic concepts and phenomena that are “unique to” Japan and “different from” non‐Japanese aesthetic traditions, the Western aesthetic tradition in particular.
Meanwhile, recent scholarship in Japanese studies examines the historical and political context during the rapid process of Westernization (late nineteenth century through early twentieth century) that prompted Japanese intellectuals at the time to rediscover and reaffirm the character, and sometimes superiority, of their own cultural tradition and values, particularly aesthetics. Some argue that, whether consciously or not, this promotion of cultural nationalism paved the way for the political ultra‐nationalism that was the ideological underpinning of colonialism.3
Despite recent efforts to introduce, popularize, or contextualize Japanese aesthetics, uncharted territories remain. In this paper I explore one such area: the moral dimension of Japanese aesthetics. I characterize the long‐held Japanese aesthetic tradition to be morally based by promoting respect, care, and consideration for others, both humans and nonhumans. Although both moral and aesthetic dimensions of Japanese culture have, independently, received considerable attention by scholars of Japanese aesthetics, culture, and society, the relationship between the two has yet to be articulated. One reason may be that there is no specific term in either Japanese or English to capture its content. Furthermore, although this moral dimension of aesthetic life is specifically incorporated in some arts, such as the tea ceremony and haiku, it is deeply entrenched in people's daily, mundane activities and thoroughly integrated with everyday life, rendering it rather invisible. Similarly, contemporary discourse on morality has not given much consideration to this aesthetic manifestation of moral values, despite the emergence of feminist ethics, ethics of care, and virtue ethics. Although they emphasize humility, care, and considerateness, discourses on feminist ethics primarily address actions or persons, not the aesthetic qualities of the works they produce.
Japanese aesthetics suggests several ways for cultivating moral sensibilities. In what follows, I focus on two principles of design: (1) respecting the innate characteristics of objects and (2) honoring and responding to human needs. Exploring them is important not only to illuminate this heretofore neglected aspect of Japanese aesthetics, but also to call attention to the crucial role aesthetics does and can play in promoting a good life and society, whatever the particular historical or cultural tradition and artistic heritage may be.
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The Japanese aesthetic tradition is noted for its sensitivity to, respect for, and appreciation of the quintessential character of an object. This attitude gives rise to a guiding principle of design that articulates the essence of an object, material, or subject matter, regardless of whether it is considered artistic.4 In this section, I show how this attitude is embodied in Japanese garden design, flower arrangement, haiku composition, and painting, as well as cooking and packaging.
The earliest expression of such a guiding principle of design can be found in the oldest extant writing on garden design, Sakuteiki[Book on Garden Making], written by an eleventh‐century aristocrat. The author states that the art of garden making consists of creating the scenic effect of a landscape by observing one principle of design: “obeying (or following) the request” of an object (kowan ni sh*tagau). Referring specifically to rocks here, this principle suggests that the arrangement of rocks be dictated by their innate characteristics. For example, the gardener “should first install one main stone, and then place other stones, in necessary numbers, in such a way as to satisfy the request… of the main stone.”5
In later centuries, the same design strategy extended to the placement and maintenance of plant materials. Instead of allowing unmitigated growth, inevitable death, or destruction by natural processes, Japanese gardeners meticulously shape and maintain trees and shrubs by extensive manipulation.6 Unlike topiary in European formal gardens, however, where shapes are imposed on the plant materials regardless of their own characteristics, a tree or a shrub in a Japanese garden is shaped according to its individual form. A fifteenth‐century manual, for example, instructs the gardener to “observe the natural growth pattern of the tree, and then prune it to bring out its inherent scenic qualities.” The gardener should express the essential features of a particular material through elimination of inessential and irrelevant parts.7 The whole art making here requires the artist to work closely with, rather than in spite of or irrespective of, the material's natural endowments.
Similar principles also govern the art of flower arrangement (ikebana), which was elevated to an artistic status during the sixteenth century. Although this art form begins, paradoxically, by cutting off a living flower or branch, thereby initiating its death, its primary aim is to “let flower live,” the literal translation of ikebana, or to “let flower express itself” (ikasu).8 This can be achieved by further cutting of branches, leaves, and blossoms so that only the essential parts defining the particular plant can be clearly delineated. One contemporary commentator summarizes that “the ultimate aim of floral art is to represent nature in its inmost essence.”9
The same design principle applies to the art of representation, such as haiku, a 5‐7‐5 syllable verse form, established in the seventeenth century by Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694). According to Bashō, the raison d'etre of poetry is to capture the essence of nature by entering into and identifying oneself with it, summarized in his well‐known saying: “Of the pine‐tree learn from the pine‐tree. Of the bamboo learn from the bamboo.”10 For this, he calls for “the slenderness of mind,” as one has to overcome one's personal feelings and concerns in order to grasp and appreciate the qualities of the objects for what they are. Sometimes described as “impersonality,” the ideal of haiku making should be object centered, rather than subject governed.11 When successful, the poet's effort will “‘grow into’ (naru) a verse,” rather than “‘doing’ (suru) a verse.”12
Bashō's contemporary, Tosa Mitsukuni (1617–1691), developed a similar theory regarding the art of painting. For him, mimesis is the main purpose of a painting, but it is “the spirit of the object” that the painter must grasp and present.13 Toward this end, the painter can and should omit certain elements, making the overall effect “incomplete” and “suggestive,” facilitating more readily the presentation of the essential characteristics of the subject matter, such as bird‐ness. Exhaustively faithful, realistic renditions, as found in both Chinese painting and his rival Kanō School paintings, according to Mitsukuni, are like prose, which contrasts with the poetry of Tosa School paintings.14 Probably conscious of the teachings by Bashō and Mitsukuni, another painter, Tsubaki Chinzan (1800–1854), claims that “even when painted with black ink, bamboo is bamboo; with red ink, bamboo is also bamboo. If the spirit of bamboo is embodied in the brush, the ambience of bamboo will naturally arise. This is the essence of painting.”15
This principle for respecting a natural object also applies to producing objects of everyday life. From lacquerware to pottery, paper to textile, woodwork to metalwork, Japanese crafts are transmitted generation after generation, firmly rooted in respect for the materials, methods, tools, and traditions of each craft. Jack Lenor Larsen writes: “Craftmakers working within Japan's ancient traditions respond to the generations of passed‐on knowledge. This collective memory includes a deep respect for material and process, and respect too for the intended user.”16
Packaging and food can be used to illustrate these principles.17 Traditional Japanese packaging is well known for its aesthetic and functional use of materials. Various packaging materials are designed not only for protecting the content, but also for emphasizing their innate characteristics. The design is suggested by the qualities of the material itself. For example, Japanese paper lends itself to folding, twisting, layering, tearing, and to being made into a cord by tight twisting. A bamboo stalk can be sliced into thin strips that are both flexible and strong, which can then be woven, or it can be cut into sections in order to take advantage of its natural section dividers. Bamboo leaves and bark can be used for wrapping food items because of their thinness, flexibility, and gentle aroma. Similarly, some woods, such as cedar, impart a distinct, pungent aroma to a package's contents. Straw can be tied, woven, or bound. Examples of Japanese packaging that creatively utilize these native characteristics of materials include ceremonial envelopes made with layers of folded paper tied with paper cord, bamboo baskets, cedar boxes for pound cake and preserved seafood, bamboo leaf wrappers for sushi, and straw strings woven to hang eggs.18 These designs are not only practical and economical; they also express an attitude of quiet respect and humility toward the material.
The aesthetics involved in Japanese food, which engages all the senses, is also well known. In addition to various forms of sensory attraction, such as picture‐perfect arrangement and choice of container, an important focus of Japanese food is the preparation of ingredients. In general, each type of ingredient is cut, cooked, and seasoned so that the best of its inherent qualities can be brought out. For example, fish may be presented without having been cooked or having been grilled whole with a skewer weaving through the length of the body in order to create a wavy shape suggestive of its movement in the water. Various condiments and ornaments, such as herbs, blossoms, leaves, and seaweed, are arranged so that their individual characteristics are retained and showcased. In nimono, a Japanese version of vegetable stew, each vegetable is cooked and seasoned separately to retain its respective color, taste, and texture. They are then all arranged carefully in a bowl together, but in a way such that each can be presented in the best light, instead of being dished out as a heaping mound of mixture. The outcome of such labor‐intensive fussiness is that each ingredient retains and expresses its own characteristics, while also serving as a complement to the others, and the consumer enjoys the symphony with each instrument playing its own tune, as it were.
Taking the Japanese lunchbox as a microcosmic illustration of this Japanese aesthetic sensibility and worldview, Kenji Ekuan, a noted industrial designer, describes its contents as follows: “Our lunchbox … gathers together normal, familiar, everyday things from nature, according to season, and enhances their inherent appeal. … The aim of preparation and arrangement revealed in the lunchbox is to include everything and bring each to full life.” In short, the mission of Japanese “culinary artifice” is “to render fish more fishlike and rice more ricelike.”19
This attitude of respect toward the innate characteristics of objects and materials is not limited to the Japanese aesthetic tradition. Partly influenced by this Japanese aesthetic sensibility, the arts and crafts movement that began during the late nineteenth century in Britain also upholds the notion of “truth to materials.” In calling for “honesty” in materials, John Ruskin, the initiator of the arts and crafts movement, claims that “the workman has not done his duty … unless he even so far honours the materials with which he is working as to set himself to bring out their beauty, and to recommend and exalt, as far as he can, their peculiar qualities.”20 The subsequent arts and crafts movement continued to advocate respecting and working with “the very essence of things.”21 Referring to textiles, William Morris, for example, advises: “Never forget the materials you are working with, and try always to use it for doing what it can do best.”22 This attitude, according to one commentator, has been handed down to contemporary craftspeople: “These modern designers uphold aesthetico‐moral principles such as ‘truth to materials,’ and try to bring out the unique quality of that material.”23
Some contemporary artists also embrace this respectful attitude toward their materials. British artist David Nash, who works with wood and trees, is described as engaging in “consistent efforts to tap nature's initiative.”24 Working with materials available on site, Andy Goldsworthy and Michael Singer emphasize the materials' inherent beauty and sense of place, as well as celebrating the ephemerality of their creations, one essential feature of objects located outdoors. Another environmental artist, Alfio Bonamo, describes a particular challenge and lively tension when “working … directly with natural materials,” primarily felled trees, “not knowing exactly where the process will lead you, feeling and listening to what they have to say” and trying to maintain “the essence of its (each component's) identity.”25
Whether in regards to traditional Japanese arts, crafts, or contemporary art projects, this principle of artistic production has an important moral dimension. If prerequisites for our moral life include understanding, appreciating, and respecting the other's reality, the capacity to experience and appreciate things on their own terms can contribute to applying this principle. As Yi‐Fu Tuan puts it, “one kind of definition of a good person, or a moral person, is that that person does not impose his or her fantasy on another”; instead, such a person is “willing to acknowledge the reality of other individuals, or even of the tree or the rock” and “to stand and listen.”26 The sensitivity and respect for the objects' essential characteristics, underlying the attitude toward design and creation discussed above, help cultivate this moral capacity for relinquishing the power to impose our own ideas and wishes on the other.
Japanese art and design practitioners, whose vocation determines their way of life in general, have been deeply influenced by Zen Buddhism, transmitted to Japan in late twelfth century to early thirteenth century by priests Eisai (1141–1215) and Dōgen (1200–1253). Zen Buddhism's thorough‐going admonishment of egocentric and anthropocentric viewpoints is summarized by Dōgen as follows: “acting on and witnessing myriad things with the burden of oneself is ‘delusion.’ Acting on and witnessing oneself in the advent of myriad things is enlightenment.” Dōgen continues, “studying the Buddha Way is studying oneself. Studying oneself is forgetting oneself. Forgetting oneself is being enlightened by all things.”27 This transcendence of ego is facilitated by our recognizing and overcoming all‐too‐human schemes of categorizing, classifying, and valuing. Unlike Immanuel Kant, who was skeptical about the possibility of experiencing a thing‐in‐itself (the noumenal world), Zen is optimistic about our ability to experience directly the thus‐ness or being‐such‐ness of the other (immo). In this direct, unmediated encounter with the raw reality of each object and phenomenon, our ordinary valuation and hierarchy disappear, rendering “a horse's mouth,”“a donkey's jaw,”“the sound of breaking wind,” and “the smell of excrement” equally expressive of their respective realities, or Buddha nature, as other more noble or elegant objects and phenomena.28 We are thus encouraged to recognize and appreciate a diversity of objects, not just those that we ordinarily enjoy and cherish. Thus, the respectful attitude toward the object, material, or subject matter inherent in Japanese artists' and designers' practice, guided by the Buddhistic transcendence of ego, is not only an aesthetic strategy, but also a moral virtue that characterizes enlightenment.
Evidence suggests that the principle of “truth to materials” advocated by the arts and crafts movement and contemporary artists derives its inspiration from this Japanese design philosophy and its spiritual roots in Buddhism. Despite William Morris's disparaging remarks on Japanese art, one commentator on the arts and crafts movement remarks: “Many designers from the 1860s onwards were to see in Japanese work a logic, fitness and control that European design lacked.”29 Among contemporary artists, David Nash's approach to his work is often characterized as “Zen‐like.”30 Furthermore, it is reported that, while working in Japan, Nash quickly developed “a remarkable sense of mutual self‐recognition” with his Japanese hosts.31
This respectful attitude toward materials expressed aesthetically also has pragmatic ramifications, particularly today as we struggle to find an alternative to our problematic attitude toward nature evidenced by our indifference to “unscenic” aspects of nature, such as invertebrates, weeds, and wetlands, leaving them vulnerable to destruction. Since the aesthetic appeal of an object is a powerful incentive for its protection, many environmentalists, beginning with Aldo Leopold, are concerned with cultivating a different aesthetic sensibility toward those seemingly unattractive aspects of nature.32 The willingness to cast aside our ordinary standards and expectations for aesthetic value and appreciate each object and material for its own sake can thus contribute to nurturing this sorely needed sensibility.
There is a further pragmatic benefit in appreciating each natural object on its own terms. Today's designers, committed to promoting sustainable design, work on the same principle of listening to and working with the materials. For example, Sim Van der Ryn and Stuart Cowan, early advocates of sustainable architecture, encourage “listening to what the land wants to be,” rather than imposing a design upon nature irrespective of its own workings and patterns.33 The same principle underlies an agricultural practice that mimics the working of the native land, such as the prairie, in designing a sewage treatment system that assimilates wetland, and a program of re‐meandering de‐meandered streams. Commenting on their river restoration project, Marta González del Tánago and Diego Garcia de Jalón stress the importance of engaging in a “dialogue” with the river, and developing a grasp of “what the river wants to do” and “the aesthetic canon of ecological processes.”34
These “green designers” derive inspirations from the moral outlook shared by Taoism and Buddhism. Van der Ryn and Cowan, for example, emphasize the importance of “humility” in design practice and point to Taoism as providing them with a model.35 Victor Papanek, another early advocate of green design, also recommends that designers “find sorely needed humility,” and derives his own inspiration from Buddhism.36
The Japanese aesthetic activities described in this section are intended to articulate and enhance the inherent characteristics of materials. This respectful attitude toward the other, in this case the nonhuman, is valuable not simply for sharpening aesthetic sensibility but also for developing a moral perspective, particularly needed today as we struggle to formulate a morally sound relationship with nature.
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In this section, I discuss another way in which Japanese aesthetics contributes to moral life: cultivation of a respectful, caring, and considerate attitude toward others, in this case other humans. Of course, cultivating such an attitude toward other humans is not limited to the Japanese tradition. In the Japanese tradition, however, it is often practiced through aesthetic means. I will illustrate this aesthetic cultivation of moral virtues in tea ceremony, garden design, and, once again, food arrangement and packaging.
The Japanese practice of expressing one's sensitive, caring, and considerate attitude through artifacts and actions has a long tradition, dating back to the court culture of the Heian period (794–1185). Dubbed the “cult of beauty” by Ivan Morris, Heian aristocrats' lives revolved around communicating their moral status aesthetically, as expressed in the composition and writing style of poems, attire, and customs surrounding lovemaking.37 Exchanging poems was the primary vehicle of courtship in this culture, and a person's moral worth was assessed aesthetically, not only by the content of the poem but also by its style of calligraphy, type of paper, accompanying fragrance, and adornment, such as a branch or a flower. Sei Shōnagon, a court lady writing in the tenth century, for example, describes one such courtship letter that “is attached to a spray of bush‐clover, still damp with dew, and the paper gives off a delicious aroma of incense.”38 She also contrasts a lover's elegant leave‐taking with a clumsy one, criticizing the latter as “hateful.”“Elegant” behavior consists of taking time and lingering as he prepares to leave the lady, with wistful longing. In contrast, a man's behavior is “charmless” and “hateful” if he makes a big commotion as he looks for things when getting dressed and hurriedly gets ready for the day; in short, he is concerned only with what he has to do (get up, get dressed, and leave) and shows no regard for the lady's feelings. Sei Shōnagon thus declares that “one's attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave‐taking.”39
It is true that aesthetic choices involved in letter writing and lovemaking are motivated by one's desire to win the prospective partner's heart. It may also be the case that the specific content of aesthetic choices, such as the color and fabric combination of a lady's many‐layered kimono to indicate her suitability as an object of love, can be dismissed as historical trivia.40 However, the foundation of such sensibility is the other‐regarding nature of aesthetic choices. This requires us to go outside our ego‐oriented world and to put ourselves in the other's shoes by imagining what it would feel like to receive a letter written in a certain style and infused with a certain incense, or to see the lover leave with a certain manner after lovemaking. Exercising such capacities to imagine what others feel is seen as an indispensable requirement of moral life, not merely a psychological possibility.41
The communication of one's caring attitude through aesthetic means also underlies the art of tea ceremony, usually credited with providing the model for civilized behavior and rules of etiquette that are still alive and well in Japan today. The almost excessive fussiness of the host's preparation for the ceremony is guided by the host's desire and obligation to please the guests. This includes not only the obvious, such as preparing tea and snacks and choosing the tea bowl, but also such considerations as (1) when to refill water in the stone basin and sprinkle water on plants in the garden; (2) what implements and decorations to choose for providing a cool feeling in the summer and warmth in winter; (3) whether or not to brush off the snow accumulated on trees, rocks, and basins; and (4) how to leave water droplets on the kettle's surface to allow for appreciation of the way they gradually dry over the hearth.42
Decisions regarding these minute details are guided by imagining what would make the guests feel most comfortable and entertained. Interpreting Nambōroku, the compilation of teachings by Master Sen no Rikyū (1521–1591) by his disciple, Nambō Soseki, a contemporary commentator, Kumakura Isao, notes Nanbō's frequent use of the term ‘hataraki,’ literally meaning function. Kumakura explains that it refers to the way the host's heart and intention are expressed in his or her body movements, manner of tea making, and in various objects' appearance.43 Another Japanese philosopher, Hisamatsu Shin'ichi, comments on the moral dimension of tea etiquette: “Inherent in the way of tea is the morality that goes beyond everyday life. Thoughtfulness toward the guest is the foundation of tea manners, which realize this attitude in the formal manner. This heartfelt consideration is both profound and elevated in its moral dimension.”44 What is relevant for our purpose here are not the specifics of the host's aesthetic decisions, but rather the fact that the host's concern for the feelings of guests is expressed through aesthetic means.
Heian court sensibility and tea ceremony illustrate the way this care and consideration are embodied in the aesthetic choices regarding discrete items, such as the paper chosen for a letter or a rustic‐looking tea bowl used in an autumn tea ceremony. Japanese aesthetic tradition also provides examples of how these other‐regarding concerns are expressed by design that responds to the temporal sequence of our sensual experience. Although material objects, whether garden, food, or packaging, are spatial entities, our experience of them necessarily takes time. Their spatial arrangements and composition affect, or even dictate, the sequential order in which our experience unfolds. Some sequences, such as those accentuated by anticipation, surprise, or fulfillment of expectation, are more likely to satisfy us by holding our attention and interest than are other sequences characterized, for example, by repetition and monotony. Designing a spatial arrangement that is experientially satisfying requires not only a sophisticated aesthetic sensitivity and skill but also the ability to imagine how the experience unfolds for its user, recipient, or viewer. In other words, such a design process also engages the moral capacity of care and respect for other people. Let me illustrate this sensitivity to the temporal sequence of our experience by describing aspects of Japanese garden design, food serving, and packaging.
First, in Japanese gardens, the direction of visitors' movements is determined by the placement of stepping stones and bridges. Made with rocks of varying sizes, shapes, textures, and colors, stepping stones are arranged in an irregular manner, making strolling at times awkward and inconvenient. Besides forcing us to slow down and savor each stone's characteristics, which we sense not only through our eyes but also with our soles, the irregular positioning of each stone controls both the direction and speed of our stroll, providing changing vistas and a varied pace. A similar effect is achieved by bridges, often made with two planks or slates placed in a staggered manner, an application of suji kaete (changing the axis), another design principle specified in the aforementioned Sakuteiki. This arrangement makes us pause in the middle of the bridge and turn slightly before continuing to cross. If we look at these paths and bridges from a purely functional point of view, that is, simply as devices to get us from point A to point B, we would judge that they are not designed well. However, functional efficiency is not the goal. Both devices make our stroll and crossing more engaging, enriching, and stimulating than a straight walk by providing different angles and distances from which to experience different parts of the garden.
Additionally, the strategy of miegakure, literally meaning “now you see it, now you don't,” sometimes also referred to as “Zen view” by Western designers, intentionally blocks or partially obscures a scenic view or a tea hut by dense planting, giving us only hints and glimpses of what is to come.45 Anticipating a full view excites us and invites us to proceed, and the final, usually sudden, opening of the full vista is quite dramatic. A series of gates found in tea gardens as well as in temple or shrine compounds also accentuates the sequentially ordered spatial experience. Gates make us conscious of the unfolding layer of spaces along the passageway into oku, translated as the innermost, the remote depth, or deep recess, invoking a sense of “unwrapping.”46 The choreography of these devices that enhance the temporal dimensions of our experience in Japanese gardens can produce stunning effects.
Sensitivity to the temporal nature of our experience expressed by spatial arrangement is also a feature of food serving. In addition to accentuating the innate characteristics of each material, as noted earlier, the meticulous arrangement of various ingredients invites us to dismantle it by chopsticks one morsel at a time in our desired sequence. Furthermore, the consumer often has to decide in what order to eat the food. A typical Japanese meal consists of several dishes, including a bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, a pickle plate, and two or three other plates of vegetables, fish, and meat, all served at once. Sometimes, in a resort hotel or an upscale Japanese restaurant, dinner is served on one, sometimes two, individual tray table(s), holding so many dishes that one must stare at them for a moment before deciding with which plate of food to begin the feast. Even when there is one container holding everything, as in a lunch box, the Japanese version of “fast food,” so many ingredients are packed in with thoughtful arrangement that it is necessary to take time to survey the entire box in order to decide on the order of eating.
The overall effect of such a spatial arrangement is that it accentuates the temporal sequence of the eating experience. The cook's sensibility is reflected in the spatial arrangement on the plate or in the box, which sets the stage for the diner to compose his or her own gustatory symphony. Such an experience would not be possible if the food were haphazardly mixed or heaped onto one plate, or, paradoxically, if each dish were served in a Western “linear” manner. Graham Parkes explains that “most of the meal is served at one time, rather than course by course as in the West. The advantage of this ‘nonlinear’ way of eating is a remarkably wide range of tastes, as one gradually works one's way through the various combinations of flavors afforded by a large number of small dishes laid out at the same time.”47
Japanese gift packaging is another example of design attuned to the temporal sequence of the recipient's experience.48 In addition to the respectful use of materials discussed above, Japanese packaging provides aesthetic experience by inviting us to engage our bodies and to take care and time in unwrapping it. Sometimes, the maneuver needed for opening consists of one step: untying the cord made of straw, opening a bag of bamboo sheath, peeling off bamboo wrapping, or removing the lid of a wooden box. However, often more than one step is needed. A gift is sometimes wrapped in furoshiki, the traditional square‐shaped carrying cloth, so the first thing to do is to untie its corners to reveal a gift inside, which itself is also housed in a box. To get at some candies, one may then open a box and untwist the thin paper inside that wraps the individual candies. A piece of pottery is usually first wrapped in a cloth, then placed in a wooden box with the potter's signature in calligraphy on the lid, which is then tied by a cloth cord, requiring at least three steps for opening. Finally, when opening a ceremonial envelope containing money, the ornamental paper cord must be removed first and then, carefully, the envelope, made with a distinctive fold, opened, only to find another piece of paper that needs to be unfolded. Joy Hendry characterizes these “layers of wrapping” as “a way of expressing care for the object inside, and therefore care for the recipient of the object.”49
Of course, other kinds of packages also require time to open, such as the familiar plastic blister packaging that wraps everything today from pens and scissors to toothbrushes and batteries, and at times require skill or sheer strength, engaging our bodies. However, we normally do not derive an aesthetic satisfaction from opening these packages. One difference between this experience and opening Japanese gift packages is that the task required for the former can be rather taxing, as we wonder whether the thick plastic protecting its contents is meant not only to be child‐proof but adult‐proof as well. Furthermore, opening these packages sometimes requires tools, such as scissors and a staple remover, whereas opening Japanese gift packages requires only gentle movements of our hands, inviting us to take care in opening. Finally, because force is often necessary for opening blister packages, its aftermath is messy: packaging materials are ripped and torn apart. In contrast, Japanese gift packages are aesthetically pleasing after opening because nothing is destroyed, prompting us to save and savor them either for their own sake or for some other use. Although it is possible to destroy those Japanese gift packaging materials just as we destroy plastic bubble packaging, we are led to feel that the respectful sensitivity toward the material and the recipient embodied in the beautiful packaging requires reciprocal respect and sensitivity on our part during and after opening.
Care and sensitivity evident in the design of Japanese packaging, aesthetically manifested, carries over to an unlikely dimension of everyday life: disposal of garbage. A Japanese manual for non‐Japanese businesspeople, for example, when discussing “aesthetics and perfectionism,” notes that “when eating a mandarin orange, many Japanese will remove the peel in one, unbroken piece, and place segment membranes inside the outer peel, so that the leftover materials end up in a neatly wrapped little package.”50 I find the same sensibility underlying this familiar practice in the way my parents stuff their garbage bags for pickup. Because their municipality mandates that garbage bags be transparent, they try to hide unappetizing‐looking contents, such as food debris, by using innocuous‐looking garbage, such as unrecyclable plastics and papers, as a buffer between the bag and the food debris. (In Japan, unlike in the United States, the garbage bags are placed in a designated community spot.) This seemingly superfluous gesture is motivated by their thoughtfulness in not giving an unpleasant visual experience to the neighbors and passersby, even for a short time.51
Of course, this other‐regarding attitude toward materials and people is hardly unique to Japanese tradition. Particularly in the field of design today, there is an increasing attention to and call for “care” and “thoughtfulness,” paralleling the aforementioned demand for respect for nature and materials. It is noteworthy that such a plea is a reaction against the prevailing design process that the designers themselves admit has not paid enough attention or respect to users' or inhabitants' experiences. They take recent designs to task for exuding the qualities of “arrogance,”“narcissism,”“impudence,”“formal authority,”“showiness,” and as “ego trips.”52 Juhani Pallasmaa, an architect, criticizes the contemporary architectural profession as encouraging the super‐stardom of individual “geniuses” whose creations are for the sake of self‐aggrandizement, alienating the users and inhabitants.53 Similarly, Victor Papanek writes that designers and architects tend to think of themselves as artists whose mission is to make artistic “statements.” As a result, he observes that “a good deal of design and architecture seems to be created for the personal glory of its creator.”54 Van der Ryn and Cowan express a similar sentiment by criticizing the architect in Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, who is depicted as a hero committed to the “‘pure’ process” that is not “‘contaminated’ by any real‐world constraints or needs: social, environmental, or economic.”55
These critics offer an alternative model of design process that reflects other‐regarding attitudes, such as “courtesy,”“responsiveness,”“humility,”“patience,” and “care.” These qualities are embodied in an appropriate size for human scale, spatial arrangement sensitive to the bodily‐oriented experience as well as its temporal sequence, or design features that are simply delightful to the senses. Resultant design not only provides a positive aesthetic experience, but also leads to a pragmatically serious consequence, such as a healthy environment instead of a “sick” building. The degree of healthfulness is commensurate with the way our sensory experience is affected. For example, consider the recently emerging “green” buildings that utilize the benefits of such sustainable materials as sunlight, fresh air, breeze, rainwater, and vegetation. Such a building “honors” the senses, one critic points out, and it is “comfortable, humanising and supportive,”“healthy and healing,”“caring for the environment,”“nourishing to the human being”; in short, it is where we feel “at home.”56 Humans are sensory, as well as conceptual, creatures, and designing and creating objects and environments that respect the users and inhabitants would necessarily have to respond to their bodily experiences. Papanek quotes the Zen adept's teaching to “think with the whole body” and reminds us that “we need to come to our senses again.”57
The aesthetic value of designed objects and built environments that respond to our multisensory and temporary sequential experiences is not only in the enhancement of pleasure. It also communicates a moral attitude affirming the importance of others' experiences. “Good design,” Donald Norman writes, “takes care, planning, thought” and “concern for others.”58 Similarly, in discussing the importance of “care” in architecture, Nigel Taylor points out that a building that appears to be put together thoughtlessly and carelessly, without regard to our experience as users or its relationship to the surrounding, “would offend us aesthetically, but, more than that, part of our offense might be ethical. Thus we might reasonably be angered or outraged, not just by the look of the thing, but also by the visible evidence that the person who designed it didn't show sufficient care about the aesthetic impact of his building.”59 He cites Roger Scruton's discussion of “appropriateness” as a criterion of architectural criticism, which Scruton calls “an embodiment of moral thought.” Commenting on Scruton's praise of a railway wall in London, Taylor points out that “the anonymous designers of this wall cared about the wall they designed” and “‘caring’ is a moral concept.” He concludes by stating that “to care like this for how something looks, and thereby for the people who will look at it, is to exhibit not just an aesthetic but also a moral concern. Or rather, it is to exhibit an aesthetic attentiveness which is itself moral.”
We should note that this other‐regarding attitude expressed aesthetically, whether in traditional Japanese culture or in today's design practice, requires a corresponding sensibility on the part of those who experience the object to recognize and gratefully appreciate the sensitivity and considerate‐ness embodied in the object and the act of producing it. As noted above, a beautifully and thoughtfully wrapped gift encourages respect and care in opening it. The aforementioned manual for people doing business in Japan correctly advises that “if the situation makes it desirable for the receiver to unwrap the gift, he or she will do so carefully, keeping the wrapping paper in a hypothetically reusable condition before admiring the gift. This derives from a concern for appearance as well as an expression of gratitude to the giver.”60 Writing in the same vein on the etiquette of eating a Japanese meal, another author first establishes the cardinal principle of etiquette: “the most important rule is to be grateful for the cook's thoughtfulness and consideration … and to humbly acknowledge the cook's sincere heart while savoring the food … Failure to do so would not only diminish the taste but also ignore the thoughtfulness of the host.”61 Of course, “thanks‐giving” for food is hardly unique to Japanese culture, but in Japan this “thanks‐giving” is not simply directed toward the nourishment provided by the prepared food, but also toward its sensuous dimension.
From the Japanese aesthetic point of view, a person who rips apart a beautifully wrapped gift or gobbles up a Japanese lunchbox meal without savoring each ingredient is considered not only deficient in aesthetic sense and manner but also lacking in moral sensibility. In this sense, thoughtful design, such as in the Japanese gift package and food presentation, functions as a vehicle of communication. Communication here, however, is not that of a certain emotion, idea, ideology, or religious feeling, as in the communication or expression theories of art espoused by Leo Tolstoy and R. G. Collingwood. It is instead moral virtues, such as thoughtfulness and consideration, which are conveyed and acknowledged through specific design features. For this communication to occur, the experiencing agent must possess both a keen aesthetic sensibility and a moral capacity to gratefully acknowledge, and reciprocate, the consideration and respect conveyed aesthetically.
In all these examples, the distinction between the aesthetic and the moral is blurred. A person's aesthetic sensibility, whether in providing or receiving an aesthetic experience, can be an important measure of his or her moral capacity. The aesthetic considerations in our lives are thus neither mere dispensable luxuries nor, to borrow Yrjö Sepänmaa's phrase, “high cultural icing.”62 Nor are they confined to works of fine arts that tend to encourage or facilitate our disengagement from everyday life. Rather, promotion of and support for sensitively designed objects and environments is an indispensable ingredient of what Sepänmaa calls “aesthetic welfare.”63 He points out that a true welfare state should guarantee not only “health care, education, and housing,” but also “an experiential aspect of welfare. An aesthetic welfare state should offer a beautiful living environment and a rich cultural and art life” because they provide “the basic conditions of life.” Such environments and artifacts provide an experientially verifiable indication that people's needs and experiences are taken seriously and responded to with care. They exemplify moral qualities such as respect, care, sensitivity, and considerateness through their color, texture, size, arrangement of parts, smell, and acoustics. To the extent that these moral qualities are expressed by sensuous means, it is an aesthetic matter, and cultivating those moral virtues aesthetically, I believe, is as important as practicing them through our actions.64
What would happen if we succeeded in cultivating some moral virtues but failed to develop an accompanying aesthetic sensibility? We would become a person Marcia Eaton describes as leading “a moral/unaesthetic life,” who “may litter streets or deface buildings” and “destroy beautiful buildings only after taking care that there are no people in them.”65 Such a person, Eaton continues, “fails to see that a world with fewer beautiful buildings is less worth inhabiting.” I think most of us believe that something is lacking in such a person's character or life. Or, put differently, we may have a difficult time imagining such a person, as we may consider littering and defacing a building to be incompatible with moral goodness even if (hypothetically) those acts do not harm other people. However, the problem is not simply a deficiency of one's character or impoverishment of one's aesthetic life. The cumulative effect of neglecting this dimension of our aesthetic life is that it undermines the core of what a good life and an ideal society should be. It is important to have laws protecting our rights, freedom, equality, and welfare. However, in a good society we should also be able to experience moral values in our everyday environment. Care, respect, sensitivity, and consideration toward the other, whether human or nonhuman, should be the moral foundations of a good society, as well as of a good life. Being able to enjoy the ease, comfort, and aesthetic pleasure provided by artifacts induces a sense of belonging. It confirms that our needs, interests, and experiences are important and worthy of attention. In turn, it encourages us to adopt the same attitude toward others, not only in our direct dealing with them, but also in creating an environment that is reflective of care, thoughtfulness, and mindfulness.
People surrounded by poorly designed artifacts will despair that nobody pays attention to or cares about their experiences. They will be demoralized and feel that it does not make any difference if they remain indifferent and insensitive to other's experiences. “Why bother? Nobody else seems to care,” they will say.66 This attitude is not conducive to developing moral sensitivity and civility. Or, alternatively, they might be spurred to become activists for cleaning up the surroundings and promoting a more humane environment and better artifacts. If they react in this second way, it is because they feel that the creation of aesthetically sound artifacts and environment is an important social agenda.
Concern for the aesthetic in our everyday life is neither frivolous nor trivial. It has a close connection to the moral dimension of our lives. Eaton points out that, ultimately, there is a “connection between being a person who has aesthetic experience and being a person who has sympathies and insights of a kind required for successful social interaction.”67 Arnold Berleant characterizes a “humane” urban environment as one that “assimilates human perceptual characteristics, needs, and values to a functional network of human dimensions, that engages our imaginative responses, that symbolizes our cultural ideals and evokes our unspoken understanding, … that, in short, enlarges the range, depth, and vividness of our immediate experience.”68 He then observes that “such an urban environment acts at the same time as an aesthetic one” and points out that in this instance “the moral and the aesthetic join together.” Japanese aesthetics provides a rich tradition and diverse examples of this morally sensitive dimension of our aesthetic lives.69
1 The first was written by Nitobe Inazō and the other two by Okakura Tenshin. In this paper, I observe the Japanese custom by putting a Japanese author's family name first and the given name last, except when quoting from a contemporary Japanese author's work that is written in English or from an English translation.
2 Wabi refers to simplicity, imperfection, and forlornness celebrated in the art of tea ceremony. Sabi, literally meaning both loneliness and rusticity, is the aesthetic ideal of haiku. Yūgen is the sublime loftiness of Noh performance, while iki, sometimes translated as “chic” or “stylishness,” was identified as a unique Japanese aesthetic sensibility by Kuki Shūzō in his seminal work, Iki no Kōzō[The Structure of Iki] (1929). Mono no aware refers to the sympathetic sensibility toward things, nature in particular, also identified as a “pure” Japanese aesthetic sensibility uncontaminated by foreign (specifically Chinese) influence, by a nativist philologist, Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801). In recent years, wabi and sabi have become popularized outside Japan, mostly through manuals for interior decoration that celebrates minimalism, imperfection, and aging surface.
3 Here is a list of recent works on this research area available in English (given name first here). Kōjin Karatani, “Japan as Museum: Okakura Tenshin and Ernest Fenollosa,” in Japanese Art After 1945: Scream Against the Sky, ed. Alexandra Munroe (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1994), and “Uses of Aesthetics: After Orientalism,” in Edward Said and the Work of the Critic: Speaking Truth to Power, ed. Paul A. Bove (Duke University Press, 2000); Leslie Pincus, Authenticating Culture in Imperial Japan: Kuki Shūzō and the Rise of National Aesthetics (University of California Press, 1996); Michael F. Marra, ed., Japanese Hermeneutics: Current Debates on Aesthetics and Interpretation (University of Hawai'i Press, 2002); Yumiko Iida, Rethinking Identity in Modern Japan: Nationalism as Aesthetics (London: Routledge, 2002); Emiko Ohnuki‐Tierney, Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms: The Militarization of Aesthetics in Japanese History (The University of Chicago Press, 2002).
4 I explore this aspect of Japanese aesthetics further in “Representing the Essence of Objects: Art in the Japanese Aesthetic Tradition,” in Art and Essence, ed. Stephen Davies and Ananta Ch. Sukla (Westport: Praeger, 2003).
5 Tachibana‐no‐Tosh*tsuna, Sakuteiki: The Book of Garden‐Making, Being a Full Translation of the Japanese Eleventh Century Manuscript: Memoranda on Garden Making Attributed to the Writing of Tachibana‐no‐Tosh*tsuna, trans. S. Shimoyama (Tokyo: Town & City Planners, 1985), p. 20, emphasis added. The other places with reference to the notion of “obeying the request” are pp. 7, 10, and 13. I explore this principle of Japanese garden design in “Japanese Gardens: The Art of Improving Nature,”Chanoyu Quarterly 83 (1996): 40–61.
6 The methods of manipulation include: pruning, clipping, shearing, pinching, plucking, the use of various gears such as wires, ropes, poles, and weights, and even the application of retardant to stunt the growth of some parts.
7 Zōen, “Illustrations for Designing Mountains, Water, and Hillside Field Landscape,” trans. D. A. Slawson, in D. A. Slawson, Secret Teachings in the Art of Japanese Gardens: Design Principles, Aesthetic Values (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1991), § 56, emphasis added. Allen Carlson uses the expression, “a look of inevitability,” to refer to this design principle for the Japanese garden, in his “On the Aesthetic Appreciation of Japanese Gardens,”The British Journal of Aesthetics 37 (1997): 47‐56. It is interesting to note that William Morris refers to the same term in his instructions on how to design a pattern after a plant: “above all, pattern, in whatever medium, should have the inevitability of nature.” William Morris, “Textiles,” in Arts and Crafts Essays (Bristol: Thoemmes Press, [1893] 1996), p. 36.
8 For the paradox involved in the art of ikebana, see Ryosuke Ohashi's entry on “Kire and Iki” in Encyclopedia of Aesthetics, ed. Michael Kelly (Oxford University Press, 1998), vol. 2, p. 553.
9 Makoto Ueda, Literary and Art Theories in Japan (The Press of Case Western Reserve University, 1967), p. 86.
10 Recorded by Bashō's disciple, Hattori Dohō, in “The Red Booklet,” first published in the eighteenth century, in The Theory of Beauty in the Classical Aesthetics of Japan, ed. and trans. Toshihiko and Toyo Izutsu (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), pp. 162–163.
11 Makoto Ueda explains this notion of impersonality as follows: “The poet's task is not to express his emotions, but to detach himself from them and to enter into the object of nature. A pine tree has its own life, so a poet composing a verse on it should first learn what sort of life it is by entering into the pine tree: this is the only way by which he can learn about the inner life of the pine.” Ueda, Literary and Art Theories in Japan, p. 158.
12 Dohō, “The Red Booklet,” p. 134.
13 Ueda, Literary and Art Theories in Japan, p. 137.
14 Ueda, Literary and Art Theories in Japan, pp. 138–139. Ueda explains Mitsukuni's view by stating that “the painter can give spirit to his painting only by growing into the object of the painting himself—that is to say, by identifying his spirit with the spirit of the object in his painting” (p. 138, emphasis added).
15 Tsubaki Chinzan, “Chinzan Shokan”[“Correspondence of Chinzan”], from the nineteenth century, my translation, in Nihon no Geijutsuron[Theories of Art in Japan], ed. Yasuda Ayao (Tokyo: Sōgensha, 1990), p. 251, emphasis added.
16 Jack Lenor Larsen, “The Inspiration of Japanese Design,” in Traditional Japanese Design: Five Tastes (New York: Japan Society, 2001), p. 12.
17 I explore the aesthetics of Japanese packaging further in “Japanese Aesthetics of Packaging,”The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 57 (1999): 257–265.
18 The discussion here is best accompanied by the visual images from Hideyuki Oka's How to Wrap Five Eggs: Japanese Design in Traditional Packaging (New York: Harper and Row, 1967) and How to Wrap Five More Eggs: Traditional Japanese Packaging (New York: Weatherhill, 1975), as well as images from Shigeru Uchida, ed., Package Design in Japan (Köln: Benedikt Taschen Verlag, 1989).
19 Kenji Ekuan, The Aesthetics of the Japanese Lunchbox, trans. Don Kenny (MIT Press, 2000), pp. 6 (the long passage), 77 (“fishlike … ricelike”), emphases added. Short of actually experiencing Japanese lunchbox, Ekuan's book has abundant photographic images of Japanese lunchboxes, as does Junichi Kamekura et al., Ekiben: The Art of the Japanese Box Lunch (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1989). Kamekura shows not only the food arrangement but also various forms of packaging for box lunches sold on train stations. This Japanese design principle of respecting and taking advantage of the materials' native characteristics is not limited to more traditional, natural materials. Contemporary designers apply it to new materials. For example, Tadao Andō's architecture often emphasizes the concrete‐ness of concrete, while Issey Miyake, in his apparel design, explores synthetic materials and rubber.
20 John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice, Vol. II (1853), cited by Nigel Whiteley, “Utility, Design Principles and the Ethical Tradition,” in Utility Reassessed: The Role of Ethics in the Practice of Design, ed. Judy Attfield (Manchester University Press, 1999), p. 192.
21 Cited by Gillian Naylor, The Arts and Crafts Movement: A Study of its Sources, Ideals and Influence on Design Theory (MIT Press, 1971), p. 106, emphasis added. Although Morris generally favors handicraft over mechanized production, he does advocate the same principle for the latter as well, summarized in his recommendation: “let your design show clearly what it is. Make it mechanical with a vengeance … Don't try, for instance, to make a printed plate look like a hand‐painted one” (Naylor, The Arts and Crafts Movement, pp. 106–107).
22 Morris, “Textiles.” pp. 37–38.
23 Nigel Whiteley, Design for Society (London: Reaktion Books, 1993), p. 92, emphasis added.
24 Ann Wilson Lloyd, “David Nash,”Sculpture (1992): 22–23. In light of this commitment, Nash himself is critical of his own project, Ash Dome, a planting and training of twenty‐two ash trees to form a dome‐like structure. “Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't have done it. It's actually manipulating the trees more than I feel comfortable with” (cited by Lloyd, p. 22).
25 Alfio Bonanno et al., “Materials,” in Ecological Aesthetics: Art in Environmental Design: Theory and Practice, ed. Heike Strelow (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2004), pp. 96, 98.
26 Yi‐Fu Tuan, “Yi‐Fu Tuan's Good Life,”On Wisconsin 9 (1987), emphasis added. I develop the aesthetico‐moral implication of this view as it applies to nature appreciation in “Appreciating Nature on Its Own Terms,”Environmental Ethics 20 (1998): 135–149.
27 Dōgen, Shōbōgenzō: Zen Essays by Dōgen, trans. Thomas Cleary (University of Hawaii Press, 1988), p. 32.
28 The specific examples of a donkey's jaw and a horse's mouth come from the chapter on Busshō[Buddha Nnature], the sound of breaking wind and the smell of excrement from the chapter on Gyōbutsu Iigi [The Dignified Activities of Practicing Buddha] from Dōgen Zenji, Shōbōgenzō: The Eye and Treasury of the True Law, trans. Kōsen Nishiyama (Tokyo: Nakayama Shobō, 1986).
29 After praising Japanese draftsmanship for its skillful naturalism, Morris claims that “with all their brilliant qualities as handicraftsmen, … the Japanese have no architectural, and therefore no decorative, instinct. Their works of art are isolated and blankly individualistic, and in consequence, unless where they rise, as they sometimes do, to the dignity of a suggestion for a picture (always devoid of human interest), they remain mere wonderful toys, things quite outside the pale of the evolution of art, which … cannot be carried on without the architectural sense that connects it with the history of mankind” (“Textiles,” pp. 34–35). The passage in the text is from Naylor, The Arts and Crafts Movement, p. 117.
30 Lloyd, “David Nash,” p. 22.
31 John Beardsley, Earthworks and Beyond: Contemporary Art in the Landscape (New York: Cross River Press, 1989), p. 50.
32 I explore this challenge to environmental aesthetics in “The Aesthetics of Unscenic Nature,”The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 56 (1998): 101–111.
33 Sim Van der Ryn and Stuart Cowan, Ecological Design (Washington, DC: Island Press, 1996), p. 35.
34 Marta González del Tánago and Diego Garcia de Jalón, “Ecological Aesthetics of River Ecosystem Restoration,” in Ecological Aesthetics, p. 192, emphasis added.
35 Van der Ryn and Cowan, Ecological Design, pp. 7, 136. Zen Buddhism incorporates many aspects of Taoism.
36 Victor Papanek, The Green Imperative: Natural Design for the Real World (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1995), p. 12, emphasis added. This attitude underlying ecological design raises an important question, which I will simply mention without trying to answer. How can one decipher “what the river wants to do” and “what the land wants to be”? These metaphorical expressions need to be supported by riparian hydrology and prairie ecosystem, so that specific design strategies can be formulated. Whether such knowledge comes from formal scientific investigation or local wisdom accumulated over many generations, it is based on some kind of human organizational scheme.
37 Ivan Morris, The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan (New York: Kodansha International, 1994), ch. VII. See also Donald Keene, “Feminine Sensibility in the Heian Era,” in Japanese Aesthetics and Culture: A Reader, ed. Nancy Hume (SUNY Press, 1995), pp. 109–123.
38 Sei Shōnagon, The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon, trans. Ivan Morris (Hammondsworth: Penguin Books, 1981), p.62. The next two passages are both from page 49. Readers learn the extent to which these aesthetic concerns permeated the aristocrats' daily life by the description of a fictional princess who rebelled against them. This “lady who admired vermin” in Tsutsumi Chūnagon Monogatari[The Riverside Counselor's Stories], written between the end of the Heian period and the beginning of the Kamakura period that marks the age of warriors, is depicted as breaking all the codes of proper behavior in aesthetics. She uses “very stiff and coarse” paper on which she writes poems full of imagery of “vermin and caterpillar fur” with katakana script that is more angular and reserved for male courtiers and monks rather than “the beautifully flowing hiragana.” Her attire and appearance are also the opposite of what were considered to constitute feminine beauty at this time. See Michele Marra, The Aesthetics of Discontent: Politics and Reclusion in Medieval Japanese Literature (University of Hawaii Press, 1991), pp. 63–64.
39 During the Heian period, female aristocrats were supposed to remain hidden inside their residence or inside a carriage, allowing only a glimpse to the male suitors. This required the male suitor to gain entry into the lady's residence, as well as her heart, by showing his aesthetic sensibility in poems. Even after the relationship began, couples never lived together and the man had to commute to her place for the night of lovemaking. This makes the time of morning leave‐taking another test of his moral‐aesthetic sensibility. In a way, when it came to love affairs and setting the aesthetic standard, women at this time had an upper hand.
40 For this point, see Liza Crihfield Dalby, Kimono: Fashioning Culture (Yale University Press, 1993), p. 222; Morris, The World of the Shining Prince, pp. 194–195.
41 I thank the editor and anonymous referees for pointing out that what is important is the exercising, rather than the mere possession, of such capacities.
42 These items were culled from remarks scattered throughout Nanbōroku in Nanbōroku wo Yomu[Reading Nanbōroku], ed. Kumakura Isao (Kyoto: Tankōsha, 1989).
43 Nanbōroku wo Yomu, p. 242.
44 Hisamatsu Shin'ichi, Sadō no Tetsugaku[The Philosophy of the Way of Tea] (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1991), pp. 53–54, my translation, emphasis added. He means by “formal” sensuous, rather than the contrary of “informal” or “casual.” Eiko Ikegami makes a sociological interpretation of the social and political role served by the aesthetic expression of hospitality, sociability, and civility in the tea ceremony and other traditional Japanese arts, in Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge University Press, 2005).
45 Donald A. Norman, Emotional Design: Why We Love (or Hate) Everyday Things (New York: Basic Books, 2004), pp. 109–110. He derives his discussion of “Zen view” from Christopher Alexander et al., A Pattern Language: Towns, Buildings, Construction (Oxford University Press, 1977), pp. 642–643.
46 See Fumihiko Maki, “Japanese City Spaces and the Concept of Oku,”The Japan Architect (1979): 51–62, on the discussion of the concept of oku. A good, general discussion and various examples of oku can be found in Joy Hendry, Wrapping Culture: Politeness, Presentation and Power in Japan and Other Societies (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993).
47 Graham Parkes, “Ways of Japanese Thinking,” in Japanese Aesthetics and Culture, p. 80.
48 The examples discussed here are primarily gift packaging, not packaging for everyday items that we buy for ourselves, such as pens, toothpaste, noodles, coffees, and the like. However, Japan is a gift‐giving culture. In addition to two annual gift‐giving seasons, Japanese give gifts for every conceivable occasions; hence, gift packaging does not occupy a special place in people's lives. Its frequency and prevalence make it a common occurrence.
49 Hendry, Wrapping Culture, p. 63, emphasis added.
50 Yasutaka Sai, The Eight Core Values of the Japanese Businessman: Toward an Understanding of Japanese Management (New York: International Business Press, 1995), p. 56.
51 This other‐regarding sensitivity expressed in design is not free from criticism. In comparing Japanese and Western automobile designs, designer Hara Kenya admits that the former invites a criticism that it lacks strong self‐expression and manufacturer passion. The reason is because the auto design is made to accommodate Japanese consumers' desires, rendering it warm, kind, and obedient. However, ultimately, he is more critical of European and American design for being “egotistical” and “selfish.” See Hara Kenya, Dezain no Dezain[Design of Design] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2003), pp. 133–134.
52 These terms are culled from Juhani Pallasmaa, “Toward an Architecture of Humility,”Harvard Design Magazine (1999), Van der Ryn and Cowan, and Papanek.
53 Pallasmaa, “Toward an Architecture of Humility.”
54 Papanek, The Green Imperative, p. 203.
55 Van der Ryn and Cowan, Ecological Design, p. 147.
56 David Pearson, “Making Sense of Architecture,”Architectural Review 1136 (1991): 68–70, see p. 70.
57 Papanek, The Green Imperative, pp. 76, 104.
58 Donald A. Norman, The Design of Everyday Things (New York: Doubleday, 1990), pp. 25, 27, emphasis added.
59 Nigel Taylor, “Ethical Arguments about the Aesthetics of Architecture,” in Ethics and the Built Environment, ed. Warwick Fox (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 201–202. Citations in the next three sentences are from pp. 203, 205.
60 Sai, Eight Core Values of the Japanese Businessman, p. 57, emphasis added.
61 Shiotsuki Yaeko, Washoku no Itadaki kata: Oishiku, Tanoshiku, Utsukushiku[How to Eat Japanese Meals: Deliciously, Enjoyably, and Beautifully] (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1989), p. 12. The awkward, but literal, translation of the title is mine.
62 Yrjö Sepänmaa, “Aesthetics in Practice: Prolegomenon,” in Practical Aesthetics in Practice and in Theory, ed. Martti Honkanen (University of Helsinki, 1995), p. 15.
63 Sepänmaa, “Aesthetics in Practice: Prolegomenon,” p. 15.
64 Tangible examples of “aesthetic welfare” can be seen in a number of projects by Auburn University's Rural Studio. Building or restoring structures in one of the most impoverished communities in the United States, the students have to make do with a low or nonexistent budget, forcing them to come up with creative solutions by reusing available materials. However, instead of cheap‐ and crude‐looking structures that are common among impoverished communities, their efforts often result in stunning results that also respond sensitively and humanely to the residents' and communities' needs and lifestyles. Those structures embody respect and celebration, rather than a patronizing attitude, toward the economically disadvantaged residents' humanity and dignity. Descriptions and photos of their projects are compiled by Andrea Oppenheimer Dean and Timothy Hursley, Rural Studio: Samuel Mockbee and an Architecture of Decency (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2002) and Proceed and Be Bold: Rural Studio After Samuel Mockbee (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2005).
65 Marcia Muelder Eaton, Aesthetics and the Good Life (Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1989), p. 179. The next passage is also from p. 179.
66 This may happen in a run‐down neighborhood where there is no attempt at cleanup or beautification either by the residents themselves or the municipality.
67 Eaton, Aesthetics and the Good Life, p. 165.
68 Arnold Berleant, The Aesthetics of Environment (Temple University Press, 1992), p. 80.
69 I thank the editor and anonymous referees for their helpful comments on the first draft. I also thank Steve Rabson for editing the final version of the manuscript as well as for his insightful suggestions.
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