Hailed as an “essay on aesthetics,” In Praise of the Shadows by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki is not the typical read for an architecture student. You’d expect in the third year of architecture school, I’d read something more conventional, like Corbusier, Venturi, or even Mondrian. Those were also my thoughts going into the book. I’d picked it up from ArchDaily’s list of the top 126 architecture books. However, by the time I put it down, I’d gained much insight into not just the Japanese culture but also the art of architecture. From an architectural lens, here is a review of the book In Praise of the Shadows.
Gist of In Praise of the Shadows
To give you a taste of Tanizaki’s writing style, let me say that for Western readers (and I consider myself among them), it will appear to be haphazard. The author skips from topic to topic like a grasshopper. First, we read about the difficulties of building a Japanese-style house in modern-day Japan, then about the inspirational role of toilets in a poet’s life, then about the merits of shoji screens, then about the traditional dances of Japan, and so on. This was the initial impression. But when I probed deeper, I found a clear underlying theme. And that was darkness.
As the name of the book suggests, Tanizaki idolizes shadows and is adamant about their role in beauty. Where there exists light, shadows must be cast. If we forcefully remove this darkness, as the author states modern electric lights do, we go against the grain of nature and end up in ugliness. Time and again Tanizaki comes back to the criticism of electric lights and how their excessive use in almost every scenario strips away the core of the Japanese lifestyle.
The author narrates the incident of Waranjiya, a popular restaurant in Kyoto. It had a tradition of using candles for lighting till the 1920s. When the author visited it for the second time, everything was different. Electric lights were everywhere in the restaurant. The light was forceful and penetrated every pocket of darkness usually passed over by candlelight. Now there was no mystery in the food. Everything was laid bare. And that was highly unappetizing.
Tanizaki describes how lacquerware is most suitable for food utensils. The experience of drinking soup in a lacquer bowl is almost trance-like for him. The weight of the soup in the hand and its shifting weight, the enticing aroma, the condensation around the edges. All of these effects combine to create a sensual experience like no other.
Moving over to more architectural matters, Jun’ichiro Tanizaki describes the Japanese house as an ink-wash painting. Everything is just degrees of black and permits little light inside. The shadows of the alcove, an indispensable part of the house, shroud it. The overhanging eaves allow the bare minimum of light inside. Moreover, deep verandahs obstruct the light into the sitting room. The traditional shoji paper screens are translucent. All this accentuates the darkness.
Japanese temples are another marvel. They have no intention of honoring light as the symbol of the heavens, as churches do. Everything is set up so that its true beauty comes out in darkness. For instance, the gold brocade of a priest’s vestments shines the brightest when darkness submerges it.
Tanizaki’s view on women deserves mention. According to him, women’s rightful place in Japanese culture had been inside the darkness of the house. It is here that her beauty is revealed in the brightest light. Traditionally, a curvaceous woman did not constitute beauty. In fact, clothing was such that it covered every single contour of a woman’s body, everything but the face of the woman. Every ornament she wore sought to direct attention to the face, even the blackening of the teeth. And so it is that in the darkness of the house, her face shines out as the brightest beacon, her true beauty revealed.
I could go on giving you examples from the book, but I think you get the point. Tanizaki’s obsessed with darkness. And yes, his ideas are a little traditional and he will almost certainly be taken for a prejudiced man at first glance. But let’s give the guy a break and try to look at things from his angle. Values governing lifestyle were truly different in earlier times. Anyone growing up in a society where old values are being replaced by modern ones has the right to mourn what they see as they absolute.
To be sure, Tanizaki is not against modernity. I’ll give you an example of this. The architect hired by Tanizaki to build him a house proudly proclaimed, “I’ve read your In Praise of the Shadows, Mr. Tanizaki, and know exactly what you want.” To this, Tanizaki replied, “But no, I could never live in a house like that.” You see, we just need to have some sympathy for the author.
An architectural perspective
In architectural school, we are always taught that light and shadow go together. It is precisely a balance of these two elements that produces good architecture. But the emphasis laid on the shadows by Jun’ichiro Tanizaki was unusually high, in my opinion. Nevertheless, it was welcome because it pushed me to see one essential fact. Darkness is always there, light is something added. The very natural state of space is darkness.
Experience is everything in architecture. Say you design a very pretty facade for a building using strict mathematical proportions and whatnot. But if this facade were in a very narrow street wherein there was no good vantage point to experience this facade due to the narrowness of the street, it would be useless. Furthermore, Tanizaki picks up on this principle very well in all aspects of life. And I admire this very much in In Praise of the Shadows. All experiences described here are lived and not merely on paper.
Let me give you two examples where I identified darkness as being the supreme importance for the beauty of a scene. The first example is that of a cluster of trees standing beside a road visible from my fourth-floor apartment balcony. Two solitary lamp posts stand there half shrouded by the foliage. At night, they cast weak white light onto the road, lighting up scarce parts of the trees. Everything else is shrouded in darkness. To me, this scene takes on a supernatural, almost eerie, beauty.
But now and then, a car passes by, headlamps pouring bright yellow lights. As it passes this cluster of trees, everything is exposed, and suddenly, they are ordinary again. It is as if the scene is denuded, that too with vulgarity. I realized then that the overbearing shadows lent this scene its power.
The second example happened when the power was out in my building. It was dinner time when this happened. Suddenly, everything went pitch black. My mother lit a candle that cast flickering pools of light onto my food. However, the experience of eating was different now. I couldn’t see clearly what I was eating, though I knew what it was. This barely visible bite of food was now highly delectable. The diminishing of sight had made my other sense super alert.
My takeaway from this book is to start thinking of light as the added ingredient rather than darkness. I will try to start my design not from a figurative blank white canvas now but from a blank black canvas. I will try to chisel out the cavities from the mass, and not the other way around. Darkness will now find a dedicated space and light will be directly very intentionally, never breaking into the sacredness of darkness. At least, this is the hope.
Well, enough of me blabbering on. I want to hear what you think about this way of thinking and how it is applicable today.
