Whenever I see the alcove of a tastefully built Japanese room, I marvel at our comprehension of the
secrets of shadows, our sensitive use of shadow and light. For the beauty of the alcove is not the work
of some clever device. An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so that the light
drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness. There is nothing more. And yet, when we gaze into the
darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know
perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the
atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility
holds sway. The "mysterious Orient" of which Westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of
these dark places. And even we as children would feel an inexpressible chill as we peered into the
depths of an alcove to which the sunlight had never penetrated. Where lies the key to this mystery?
ultimately it is the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its comers, the alcove would
in that instant revert to mere void.
This was the genius of our ancestors, that by cutting off the light from this empty space they imparted
to the world of shadows that formed there a quality of mystery and depth superior to that of any wall
painting or ornament. The technique seems simple, but was by no means so simply achieved. We can imagine
with little difficulty what extraordinary pains were taken with each invisible detail-the placement of
the window in the shelving recess, the depth of the crossbeam, the height of the threshold. But for me
the most exquisite touch is-the pale white glow of the shoji in the study bay; I need only pause before
it and I forget the passage of time. The study bay, as the name suggests, was originally a projecting
window built to provide a place for
reading. Over the years it came to be regarded as no more than a source of light for the alcove; but
most often it serves not so much to illuminate the alcove as to soften the sidelong rays from without,
to filter them through paper panels. There is a cold and desolate tinge to the light by the time it
reaches these panels. The little sunlight from the garden that manages to make its way beneath the eaves
and through the corridors has by then lost its power to illuminate, seems drained of the complexion of
life. It can do no more than accentuate the whiteness of the paper. I sometimes linger before these
panels and study the surface of the paper, bright, but giving no impression of brilliance. In temple
architecture the main room stands at a considerable distance from the garden; so dilute is the
light there that no matter what the season, on fair days or cloudy, morning, midday, or evening, the
pale, white glow scarcely varies. And the shadows at the interstices of the ribs seem strangely
immobile, as if dust collected in the corners had become a part of the paper itself. I blink in
uncertainty at this dreamlike luminescence, feeling as though some misty film were blunting my vision.
The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the alcove, is instead
repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable.
Have not you yourselves sensed a difference in the light that suffuses such a room, a rare
tranquility
not found in ordinary light?
Have you never felt a sort of fear in the face of the ageless, a fear that
in that room you might lose all consciousness of the passage of time, that untold years might pass
and
upon emerging you should find you had grown old and gray?
How, in such a dark place, gold draws so much light to itself is a mystery to me. But I see why in
ancient times statues of the Buddha were gilt with gold and why gold leaf covered the walls of the
homes of the nobility. Modem man, in his well-lit house, knows nothing of the beauty of gold; but
those who lived in the dark houses of the past were not merely captivated by its beauty, they also
knew its practical value; for gold, in these dim rooms, must have served the function of a
reflector. Their use of gold leaf and gold dust was not mere extravagance. Its reflective properties
were put to use as a source of illumination. Silver and other metals quickly lose their gloss, but
gold retains its brilliance indefinitely to light the darkness of the room. This is why gold was
held in such incredibly high esteem.