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The beauty of imperfection and impermanence

More than anything else in this book, wabi-sabi as a worldview, an aesthetic and a way of life has been the hardest to pin down and translate.

The original meaning of wabi referred to the feeling of remote loneliness that comes with living in nature, and the paradoxical beauty of imperfection (like a broken cup fixed with gold, through kintsugi).

Sabi, depending on the context, can mean ‘withered’, ‘lean’ or ‘cooled’, but more often refers to the beauty of ageing – like the changing hue of wood, the comeliness of rust, the delicate droop and drying of roses in the sun.

In many ways, it’s simpler to convey the essence of what wabi-sabi is in contrast to what it isn’t:

Asymmetry, not conformity or evenness

Humble and modest, not arrogant, conceited or proud

Growth, not stagnation

Natural decay, not synthetic or preserved

Slow, not fast

Abstemious, not gluttonous

Not hampered by materials, not materialistic

Dignified, not indecorous

Minimal, not ostentatious

Rustic, not polished

Withered, not fresh

Fluid, not inflexible

Unfinished, not complete

Small moments, not grand gestures

Wabi-sabi, to me, is being inside when it’s raining outside; the laughter lines on a face; or feeling pleasantly sated after a simple lunch.

In Beauty

The wabi-sabi aesthetic and approach to beauty means accepting the natural ageing process – wrinkles will come, creases will appear – and being able to recognise, remember and find happiness in the moments that have passed.

There is a dental-surgery trend to which many Japanese women subscribe in order to attain their version of a ‘perfect smile’. It is called yaeba, and paradoxical though it may be, it is actually a smile that is crooked, out of line. The beauty in yaeba is that it represents the vivacity of youth, and the idea that an imperfect, snaggle-toothed smile is endearing and beautiful as a result of its flaws.

In the Home

In terms of bringing the wabi-sabi aesthetic into the home, it’s worth thinking about it in this way: it’s about the threadbare couch, not the white leather sofa; the mucky fingerprints on the wall; the port wine stain on the new carpet. Home is a lived-in space, not a showroom. Minimalist, free of clutter, and natural; it has a place in our world, makes reference to nature, but is not sterile, bland and without character or humour.

Many Japanese homeware stores sell items that are rustic and simply decorated – where the wood is unpainted, and is the central feature. Like a fine wine, wood gets better and more interesting over time, as it begins to tell stories and takes on a character of its own.

In Objects

I always find using brand new objects, particularly things like new leather bags, somewhat unsettling and uncomfortable. I have to get used to things, and they have to get used to me – they need to become part of my narrative, in the same way that I need to become part of their life cycle.

At a music festival several years ago, a bottle of hand sanitiser leaked all over a new designer wallet I had saved up and purchased for myself as a birthday gift. I was disappointed, frustrated and angry at the time, but it has ended up as a reminder of dancing by my tent in the sweltering heat, staying up until 5 a.m. listening to incredible artists and making questionable decisions fuelled by misjudged shots of rakija – all stories woven into the fabric of my life and physically manifested in a dark stain on a battered old purse.

In Time

Whenever anyone asks me the best time of year to go to Japan, I never know how to answer – because every season has its unique advantages. The cherry blossoms are out in the spring, but the summer offers shaved ices, Bon Festival and fireworks. The autumn boasts incredible foliage while the delights of Japanese winters include warm sake, snow and, if you’re lucky, red-crowned cranes.

The passage of time, of growth, decay and death, and appreciating the natural order of events, is also a key part of wabi-sabi. Finding contentment, mindfulness and appreciation for all of this is at the heart of what wabi-sabi is as a concept and mindset; it is a way of life and of understanding the world around us.

In What We Already Have

Wabi-sabi is not about having the latest thing or acquiring new objects; it’s about rediscovering an old top at the back of your wardrobe or making a tasty meal with the detritus in your fridge. In fact, it’s not about material possessions, or owning anything at all. Frugal doesn’t seem like the most appropriate word to use here, and nor does thrifty – because it’s more about being canny and prudent and making do. And it’s about finding satisfaction, contentment and happiness by doing so.

Part of this has to do with the mentality that comes with living in a place so fraught with earthquakes, tsunamis and other natural disasters. Quite simply, you learn to let go.

In Ageing

Perhaps because of the large (and growing ever larger) elderly population, the concept of ageing in Japan isn’t something that is shied away from quite so much as it is, perhaps, in the West. Life in Japan seems to be a bit more inclusive for the older generation. This even happens in a digital context, where the group and demographic are better catered for. There is an extensive and constantly evolving selection of smartphones designed specifically with the older user in mind, for example.

The older generation hold a position of respect within the community, and caring for them is viewed as a communal, societal responsibility. Perhaps this is why the concept of ageing well and gracefully is so clearly apparent in Japan – because of the way caring for the elderly is approached culturally.

This relates closely to the concept of fureai – the mutual connection or bond that is formed between generations, or across different professions or vocations within society. Fureai, which means ‘a close mutuality’, is different from a more traditional relationship or friendship. It is used to describe the relationship a kindergarten teacher might have with their charges or a nurse might have with the patients under their care.

It is within this kind of environment that things like fureai kippu (a ‘caring relationship ticket’) can take hold and flourish. Introduced in the early 1990s, a fureai kippu became a form of social currency or credits representing an hour of community service that can be earned, credited or exchanged. This could be peer-to-peer, within the same generational group (where friends might help each other out with tasks like popping to the pharmacy, for example), or between generations in return for errands, like being driven somewhere, or assisted with certain chores. So a younger person might earn these credits by driving someone to the shop, helping with weeding the garden or physical or manual labour that an elderly person is unable to do themselves.

People with elderly family elsewhere are able to assist in their own local community and then transfer their credits to their relatives so that they, in turn, can access similar services that traditionally might have been provided by their family, had they lived closer.

Fureai kippu is, ultimately, a physical, tradeable manifestation of altruism, in a bankable, swappable form. Some beneficiaries of the fureai kippu system prefer services obtained through the community, rather than those driven by purely financial means, due to the perceived (if not slightly contrived) personal connection.

The bottom line is that ageing isn’t something to be scared of or to shy away from – it happens to all of us. The lessons here that can be learned are about respect, compassion and helping to build a stronger, more thoughtful and welcoming community for everyone, at every stage of their journey.

In Living Life Unfiltered

Japonisme: Ikigai, Forest Bathing, Wabi-sabi and more

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