Design by Juliana Qiu
I possess no specialized knowledge of architecture, but I understand
that in the Gothic cathedral of the West, the roof is thrust up and up so as
to place its pinnacle as high in the heavens as possible-and that herein is thought to
lie its special beauty. In the temples of Japan, on the other hand, a roof of heavy tiles is first laid out, and in the
deep, spacious shadows created by the eaves the rest of the structure is built. Nor is this true only of temples;
in the palaces of the nobility and the houses of the common people, what first strikes the eye is the mas-
sive roof of tile or thatch and the heavy darkness that hangs beneath the eaves. Even at midday cav-
ernous darkness spreads over all beneath the roof's edge, making entryway, doors, walls, and pi-
llars all but invisible. The grand temples of Kyoto-Chion'in, Honganji-and the farmhouses
of the remote countryside are alike in this respect: like most buildings of the past their
roofs give the impression of possessing far greater weight, height, and surface
than all that stands beneath the eaves. In making for ourselves a place to live, we first
spread a parasol to throw a shadow on the earth, and in the pale light of the shadow we
put together a house. There are of course roofs on Western houses too, but they
are less to keep off the sun than to keep off the wind and the dew; even from without it is apparent that they are
built to create as few shadows as possible and to expose the interior to as much light as possible. If the roof of a Japanese house
is a parasol, the roof of a Western house is no more than a cap, with as small a visor as possible so as to allow the sunlight to
penetrate directly beneath the eaves. There are no doubt all sorts of reasons-climate,
building materials-for the deep Japanese eaves. The fact that we did not use glass, concrete, and bricks,
for instance, made a low roof necessary to keep off the driving wind and rain. A light room would
no doubt have been more convenient for us, too, than a dark room. The quality
that we call beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our
ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty
in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty's ends.And so
it has come to be that the beauty of a Japanese room depends on
a variation of shadows, heavy shadows against light shadows-it ha-
s nothing else. Westerners are amazed at the simplicity of Japanese
rooms, perceiving in them no more than ashen walls bereft of orna.
Their reaction is understandable, but it betrays a failure to compreh
the mystery of shadows. Out beyond the sitting room, which the rays
of the sun can at best but barely reach,we extend the eaves or build on a veranda, putting the sunlight at still greater a remove.
that in the Gothic cathedral of the West, the roof is thrust up and up so as
to place its pinnacle as high in the heavens as possible-and that herein is thought to
lie its special beauty. In the temples of Japan, on the other hand, a roof of heavy tiles is first laid out, and in the
deep, spacious shadows created by the eaves the rest of the structure is built. Nor is this true only of temples;
in the palaces of the nobility and the houses of the common people, what first strikes the eye is the mas-
sive roof of tile or thatch and the heavy darkness that hangs beneath the eaves. Even at midday cav-
ernous darkness spreads over all beneath the roof's edge, making entryway, doors, walls, and pi-
llars all but invisible. The grand temples of Kyoto-Chion'in, Honganji-and the farmhouses
of the remote countryside are alike in this respect: like most buildings of the past their
roofs give the impression of possessing far greater weight, height, and surface
than all that stands beneath the eaves. In making for ourselves a place to live, we first
spread a parasol to throw a shadow on the earth, and in the pale light of the shadow we
put together a house. There are of course roofs on Western houses too, but they
are less to keep off the sun than to keep off the wind and the dew; even from without it is apparent that they are
built to create as few shadows as possible and to expose the interior to as much light as possible. If the roof of a Japanese house
is a parasol, the roof of a Western house is no more than a cap, with as small a visor as possible so as to allow the sunlight to
penetrate directly beneath the eaves. There are no doubt all sorts of reasons-climate,
building materials-for the deep Japanese eaves. The fact that we did not use glass, concrete, and bricks,
for instance, made a low roof necessary to keep off the driving wind and rain. A light room would
no doubt have been more convenient for us, too, than a dark room. The quality
that we call beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our
ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty
in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty's ends.And so
it has come to be that the beauty of a Japanese room depends on
a variation of shadows, heavy shadows against light shadows-it ha-
s nothing else. Westerners are amazed at the simplicity of Japanese
rooms, perceiving in them no more than ashen walls bereft of orna.
Their reaction is understandable, but it betrays a failure to compreh
the mystery of shadows. Out beyond the sitting room, which the rays
of the sun can at best but barely reach,we extend the eaves or build on a veranda, putting the sunlight at still greater a remove.