Zen Culture — Story, Setting & Ideas
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Japan were awed by the seemingly powerful religion of China. They were no less impressed by the manner in which the Chinese emperor ruled his land, and shortly after becoming acquainted with China they set about copying the Chinese form of government. Equally important, the previously illiterate Japanese adopted a Chinese system of writing--a confusing arrangement whereby Chinese symbols were used for their phonetic value rather than for their meaning. This lasted for several centuries, until the Japanese finally gave up and created a simplified system which included their own syllabary or alphabet.
Having borrowed Chinese administration and Chinese writing, the Japanese next decided to re-create a Chinese city, and in the year 710 they consecrated Nara, a miniature replica of the T'ang capital of Ch'ang-an. The city was soon overflowing with Chinese temples and pagodas. Newly ordained Japanese priests chanted Buddhist scriptures they scarcely understood, while the native aristocracy strode about in Chinese costume reciting verses of the T'ang poets.
Japan had never really had a city before Nara, and its population quickly rose to some 200,000. Yet less than a century after its founding it was abandoned by the court--possibly because the new Buddhist priesthood was getting out of hand-- and a new capital was laid out on the site of present-day Kyoto. This new city, founded at the beginning of the ninth century and known as Heian, was deliberately kept free of Buddhist domination, and within its precincts the first truly native high culture arose as Chinese models were gradually transcended. No longer copiers, the aristocrats of Heian turned inward to bring forth a highly refined secular civilization.
To understand the foundations of Zen beauty, it is necessary to examine this Heian culture in some detail, for many of the Zen arts and the aesthetic rules later associated with Zen arose in these early aristocratic years. If civilization may be gauged by the extent to which relations are mediated by artificiality, this would surely be the finest example in all history. Etiquette and sentimentality were the touchstones. The courtiers occupied their days with elaborate ceremonies, extravagant costumes, and lightweight versifying, and their nights with highly ritualized amorous intrigues, conducted in a fashion so formal that the courtly love of Provence seems brusque in comparison. Initially the court had modeled its behavior on the T'ang dynasty, but in the year 894, a hundred years after the founding of Heian, relations with the T'ang court were suspended. There were few formal contacts with China until the coming of Zen several centuries later. Since the country was unified and at peace, interest in affairs of state gradually disappeared altogether, freeing the aristocracy to create a misty, artificial world all its own.
This period, whose aesthetic values were the precursor of Zen art, was also Japan's great age of literature. The idleness of the court provided an abundance of free time and equally abundant boredom-- circumstances that brought into being rich, textured psychological novels, some of the earliest and most revealing diaries of the world's literature, and a concern with poetry never equaled elsewhere, before or since. These works of literature depict a society preoccupied with beauty, where life and art merged, and founded on a conviction, later to become ingrained in Japanese life and Zen art, that the ability to appreciate beauty was the most important characteristic an individual could possess.
Perhaps the most unusual aspect of this great age of literature is the fact that the work was produced almost entirely by women. Theirs was the aesthetic legacy that later became the foundation for Zen taste, including the overwhelming importance of brushstroke calligraphy, the subtle sense of what constitutes beauty and what excess, the vocabulary of aesthetics, the elaborate concern with the use of color, and the refinement of the poetic form that eventually led to Zen Haiku.
Taste in the use of color is an excellent place to begin examining the Heian heritage, for in later years the Zen arts would be characterized by muted, carefully matched natural shades whose application followed sophisticated rules of taste. The seriousness with which colors were matched by Heian courtiers is revealed in a famous diary of the era:
_One [of the court ladies' dresses] had a little fault in the color combination at the wrist opening. When she went before the royal presence to fetch something, the nobles and high court officials noticed it. Afterwards, [she] regretted it deeply. It was not so bad; only one color was a little too pale.1
Episodes in another diary reveal the importance attached to properly matched shades:
Thomas Hoover’s Zen Culture opens with a provocative claim: the ceramics of sixteenth-century Zen artists could be mistaken for contemporary craft, and ancient calligraphies recall the monochromes of Franz Kline. This framing sets the book’s central argument—that Zen values experiencing over analyzing, and that its artistic principles (asymmetry, understatement, intuitive perception) anticipate modern design. Hoover moves across a dozen art forms, from swordsmanship to flower arrangement, tracing how Zen philosophy manifests in structure and technique.
The excerpts focus on the painter Sesshu Toyo (1420–1506), a Zen priest who dismantled Sung landscape conventions and reassembled them into an individual statement. Hoover details Sesshu’s two distinct styles: shin, with angular, chiseled brushstrokes, and so, an abstraction in wash that nearly abandons line. The account is grounded in historical records—Sesshu’s travels to China, his rejection of Ming artists, his refusal to head the Kyoto academy—and avoids romanticizing his reclusiveness.
Structure as Argument: From Ceramics to No Theater
Hoover organizes the book not chronologically but by art form, each chapter a self-contained essay. This structure mirrors the Zen emphasis on direct encounter: readers move from ceramics to architecture to poetry without a linear narrative. The excerpts show how Hoover uses historical figures—Sesshu, Shubun, Kano Masanobu—to illustrate stylistic shifts. For instance, Sesshu’s shin style is described as “almost cubist,” with “angular planes framed in powerful lines,” a claim Hoover supports by citing the critic Ernest Fenollosa. The book’s architecture invites comparison across media, suggesting that Zen’s influence is not a set of doctrines but a recurring pattern of perception.
Recurring Images: The Flung Ink and the Chiseled Line
Two visual motifs dominate the Sesshu passage: the “flung ink” (haboku) technique and the “hard, angular brushstrokes” of shin. Hoover contrasts these as opposing poles—one nearly abstract, the other rigorously controlled. He traces the flung ink to Ch’an (Chinese Zen) sources, while the angular line is linked to Ma Yuan and Hsia Kuei. This duality recurs throughout the excerpts: the “rugged pots” of Zen ceramics versus the “sublime perfection” of Shubun; the “nonsense” of Zen parables versus the “limitations of language.” Hoover uses these paired images to argue that Zen art thrives on tension between discipline and spontaneity.
Movement Between Scenes: Kyoto, China, and the Seaside Studio
Hoover traces Sesshu’s career through geographic shifts: from Kyoto’s Shokoku-ji under shogunal patronage, to a southwestern port, then to China, and finally to a “western seaside village.” Each location corresponds to a stylistic development. In Kyoto, Sesshu studied under Shubun; in China, he absorbed “earthy realism” and the flung ink technique; in his final studio, he produced large decorative screens while refusing the Kyoto academy. Hoover emphasizes that Sesshu “never again returned to Kyoto,” framing his movement as a deliberate rejection of institutional centers. This pattern—departure, absorption, return to isolation—echoes the Zen trope of the wandering monk.
Evidence and Inference: What the Excerpts Reveal and Conceal
The excerpts provide detailed accounts of Sesshu’s biography and technique, but they do not cover other arts Hoover treats, such as swordsmanship or tea ceremony. The book’s claim that Zen anticipates modern design is stated in the opening but not supported in the Sesshu passage. Readers should note that Hoover’s evidence is selective: he quotes critics like Fenollosa and Kirkus Reviews, but the excerpts lack direct quotations from Zen texts or Sesshu’s own writings. The book’s strength lies in concrete descriptions of visual style—the “chiseled” lines, the “tonal mastery” of wash—rather than philosophical argument. Where the excerpts are silent, such as on the social context of Zen patronage, inference is limited.
Hoover’s book rewards readers who attend to its structure: each chapter is a lens, not a linear history. The Sesshu passage exemplifies how he moves between biography, technique, and aesthetic judgment, always grounding claims in observable features of the art. For those new to Zen arts, the book offers a vocabulary for seeing—asymmetry, understatement, the play of line and wash—that can be tested against actual works. The excerpts suggest that Hoover’s real subject is not Zen doctrine but the perceptual habits it cultivates.
Reading about Sesshu’s ink washes, I remembered sitting with my grandfather’s old pottery, how he’d trace a glaze line without explaining. That hush—where looking replaces knowing—came back later in Lincoln in Caricature — A Reader’s Guide, where a single cartoon held years of public grief, no words needed.
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