Seeing the Past: Out of the Treasure House: How Tea Utensils Inform the Japanese Perception of Historicity

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Out of the Treasure House: How Tea Utensils Inform the Japanese Perception of Historicity

By Jennifer L. Anderson

San José State University

University of California at Davis

I. Introduction

The Japanese think of themselves as a sophisticated people with a long and glorious past who are particularly sensitive to visual aesthetics, poetic nuance, and religious subtleties. While many Japanese may subscribe to this idealized vision of their national identity, it is far from their personal experience. Fortunately, there is a time-honored solution to the problem of the disjunction between the mundane and dreams of an illustrious yesteryear—that is to appoint a keeper (or keepers) of the flame, a group of ritual practitioners who will embody and communicate the cultural ideal while everyone else goes about their daily business unencumbered. For Japanese, practitioners of chadō, “The Way of Tea,” perform this function.

One of the most interesting aspects of studying this high-profile, ritual display of national identity is the way in which Tea’s material culture, in the form of a plethora of utensils—bowls, scoops, tea containers, etc.—is used to make the past tangible and to substantiate a variety of messages important to Japanese self-image and cultural continuity. This paper will explore the way in which tea utensils are used individually and in combination to signify meaning, construct a participant’s knowledge of Japanese heritage, and inform specific visions of individual historical events. We will also examine the way in which practitioners are trained to use tea utensils as symbolic vocabulary and how knowledge of the physical manipulation and care of these treasures serves to foster positive ethnic self-images. By creating a physical environment which does not simply replicate the past, but wordlessly engages modern participants in a dialogue with their predecessors, tea practitioners strive to create a seamless experience which incorporates both their vision of the past and their present cultural ideals.

II. Giving Tea Students a Vision of the Past

One of the first things a novice learns is that watches are not worn in the tea room. Teachers accompany this proscription with the formulaic explanation: “There is no time in the tea room.” Spatially, the tea room is a model universe. The “ideal” tea room is a four-and-one-half mat room (yojōhan) said to have been modeled on the dwelling of Vimalakīrti, a Buddhist lay mystic who supposedly accommodated the entire universe in his nine-foot square hut. Okakura Kakuzō, author of the famed Book of Tea, which introduced Japanese tea ritual to the West, interpreted Vimalakīrti’s miracle as “an allegory based on the theory of non-existence of space to the truly enlightened.” (Okakura 1956, 60).

In fact, the Vimalakīrti Sutra also presents a paradigm for the non-existence of time, because in addition to encompassing the universe in his dwelling, Vimalakīrti was also able to cause others to re-experience the various existences which had formed the “roots of their virtue.” This is exactly the kind of vicarious encounter with the past Japanese hope to undergo in the tea room. They are seeking, among other things, the fundamental sources from which the common vision of national goodness emanates.

The tea room is modeled on the boundless Void, but it is very clearly contained within four walls. Doors and the directions of movement are symbolically important for their relationship to Taoism (ommyōdō, the “Way of Yin and Yang”) and because entrances and exits are important events on the ritual stage. When a beginning student enters the tea room, he or she is confronted with a bare space. The floor is covered with tatami mats. Some of the walls are plastered in clay and others are formed of sliding shoji screens or panels (fusuma). The most sacred part of the room is the tokonoma, an alcove which contains, at a minimum, a hanging scroll or vase of flowers. The student will soon learn that directions in the tea room are described in terms of movement toward or away from the tokonoma and that his or her every step must reflect an awareness of this fact.

The tea room is dominated by the presence of the sensei, the teacher whose title literally means “born before.” He or she sits in a traditionally designated position at the base of the tokobashira , the main pillar of the house: For two thousand years, the spirit of the house has been believed to reside in the tokobashira. The sensei is the root of the tree. An experienced teacher never moves from this position. Complex movements are verbally described, never demonstrated. The illusion of permanence must not be dispelled. It is visual and concrete.

During the first few months of instruction, the student learns to move in the past. The model is geographical as well as temporal. Tōkyō people are known to move faster than Kyōto people: They wrap their kimono shorter so they can walk faster. The pace of life in the old capital, Kyōto, is popularly recognized as being slower than that of the modern commercial hub, Tōkyō. The main tea schools also have their headquarters in Kyōto and most of the important events in tea history took place there. Its eternal ambiance permeates Japan’s aesthetic self-image, because Kyōto was the center of arts and literature for more than a thousand years.

The slow pace of the tea room represents a real change of tempo for most Japanese. It is a step backwards in time. Most young Japanese, heavily influenced by the modern, rapid-fire images emanating from Tōkyō-based media outlets, have little experience with old-style, formal social scenarios or a traditional Japanese physical environment. At most, they have seen such situations on television or briefly encountered them at family weddings or funerals. Beginning students must learn how to execute a variety of standing and sitting bows, how to open and close sliding doors properly, and even how to move across tatami on their knees. If they have kimono, they are taught how to manage their garments gracefully. (In general, tea teachers do not teach students how to put on kimono, although senior students may help them.) Repetition and the presence of senior students skilled in these matters makes the unaccustomed postures seem natural. Students soon learn that the complex choreography of the tea room cannot be memorized: It must be internalized. One of the most important aspects of tea training is learning to synthesize knowledge acquired by observation with that “remembered with the body” (karada de oboeru). Detailed drawings of the placement of utensils in the tea room have been handed down for hundreds of years, but information conveyed orally is more important. Neither the most detailed written description nor a series of photographs is adequate to teach even the simplest procedure. (Imagine trying to learn to dance the tango from written instructions: It cannot be done.) There is no alternative to carefully observing other students and being skillfully instructed by the teacher. As time goes on, the student learns a new way of perceiving both movement and objects in the tea room. To “see” an object is not enough—the student must also “feel” a utensil, that is, develop a kinesthetic sense of manipulating the objects.

Lessons begin with learning how to handle basic utensils, particularly how to ritually purify them. One of the first things that a student discovers is that every tea utensil is significant. Regardless of whether an object is a National Treasure (kokuhō)1 or an inexpensive practice piece, there is a proper and respectful way to handle each item. Its status is not based on monetary value. Its meaning is more important: An individual tea utensil can represent a famous person or group of people. It can also signify specific moral and aesthetic qualities associated with them and their historic milieu (in addition to eliciting seasonal feelings and poetic imagery). To illustrate, certain utensils were the favorites (konomi) of famous figures in tea history and are handled in a particular manner out of respect for that individual. Thus, a thin tea container of the jujube shape (natsume) preferred by Sen Rikyū (1522–1591), the focal ancestor of the Sen tea lineages, is manipulated in a semi-formal (gyō) manner, while less distinguished tea containers receive an informal (sō) treatment. Neither handling is casual. Both are strictly choreographed, but the intent is to make it clear that one utensil outranks the other because of its historical connotations. Copies are treated as if they were originals.

Ranking tea utensils is a complicated matter. One system of ranking utensils formally (shin), semi-formally (gyō), and informally (sō) began in the Muromachi era, when the artistic companions (dōbōshū) of the Ashikaga shōgun were charged with cataloguing their lord’s extensive collection of Chinese scrolls. Scrolls were classified according to their religious content: Those designated most formal had the most serious religious meaning. The custom of assigning rank to precious objects was eventually extended to tea utensils such as incense containers, vases, and tea stands. The origin and material of the object forms the basis of this system. Chinese works usually outrank Japanese utensils. Bronze and celadon are considered more formal than other materials. Furthermore, plain, highly polished lacquer ware is designated formal, while decorated lacquer, wares revealing wood-grain, and unlacquered objects, are considered semi-formal or informal. Finally, the status of the maker and the age of the object can affect a utensil’s rank. For example, a tea bowl by a master of the Raku line would usually outrank a tea bowl from another Japanese kiln, and a piece by an earlier generation Raku master would have greater status one made by a later generation.2 The aesthetic quality or monetary value of an object does not contribute to its rank. Rank is important because it determines the way the utensil is physically handled and where it is placed in relation to other objects within the tea room.

To complicate matters, individual tea preparation procedures or temae (literally, “point in front”) are also ranked formal, semi-formal, and informal. But, the rank of the utensils employed during a procedure does not always correspond to the rank of the tea preparation itself. In other words, a formal utensil may be used in an informal procedure under certain circumstances. To elaborate, on one end of the formality spectrum we find tea offerings made at temples and shrines which employ formal utensils and formal procedures. These rituals are considered Chinese in origin and are associated with the routine of the Zen temples. The atmosphere of such gatherings is formal in the sense of being solemn. On the other end of the spectrum we find informal gatherings which employ informal utensils and procedures, creating an informal ambiance. This being said, note that it is perfectly proper to use formal utensils and procedures at events which are less formal, in the sense of being celebratory rather than sedate. For example, formal utensils and procedures would be perfectly appropriate for a tea gathering which takes place at a happy time such as the New Year or a wedding. The atmosphere of such an event might well be gay and relaxed and, thus, relatively informal in tone.

After a few months of studying the handling of diverse utensils and observing more senior practitioners, the student will begin to combine what he or she has learned in a simple temae. Over the years, a tea practitioner will study hundreds of temae which vary according to the season, the utensils used, the ritual’s function, and the degree of formality. The idea that what the student is seeing and hearing is part of an unbroken (and, in theory, faithfully accurate) tradition stretching back centuries is critical to creating the ritual’s historicity. Although it is acknowledged that various procedures have been modified in small details over the centuries and that other temae are of recent vintage, modern practitioners think, for the most part, that they are replicating the exact movements of their predecessors. When tea people witness or participate in a temae, they believe they are “seeing” the past faithfully re-enacted. But, even more importantly, they are unconsciously negating the passage of time. It does not matter whether outsiders view their environment as archaic and their movements as ritualistic: Repetition and total immersion in the “Way of Tea” creates a totally natural atmosphere for participants—it is their current reality.

In Urasenke, the largest tea lineage in Japan (and the one with which I study), students first learn a basic tray ceremony of relatively recent origin, ryaku bon. Each procedure is located in the historical matrix by the teacher. For example, ryaku bon was created by Ennōsai (1872–1924), the thirteenth generation grand master of Urasenke. Attributing each individual type of tea preparation to a focal ancestor in the school conveys the message that each procedure has a provenience within the specific tea tradition and emphasizes the fact that only grand masters can create temae.

A conscientious teacher may also tell his or her students about an individual tea master’s accomplishments or regale them with appropriate historical anecdotes. Ennōsai, for example, is known for both a refined sense of design and extending tea practice to a wider, and more socially inclusive, audience. By promoting the inclusion of Tea studies in girls’ school curriculum, he liberated the tea lineages from their traditional dependence on the feudal lords and made practicing tea ritual a popular pastime. Interestingly, women seldom made tea in public before the Meiji era. As Japanese men turned to western business and military models, women were invested with the responsibility of maintaining many aspects of traditional culture. By using utensils designed by Ennōsai and replicating the movements he intended for their use, modern tea students recreate the sense of a particular era in tea practice and national history.

The next stage of tea instruction involves studying the basic procedures for preparing thin and thick tea, upon which all other temae are based, the hirademae. In the tea room, both hosts and guests have roles to learn and prescribed ways of interacting. An important feature of this stage of instruction is learning how a guest asks to view certain utensils more closely and how the host prepares them for close examination. This is called haiken. The word means to look at something with reverence.

At a designated point at the end of the tea procedure, the guest asks to view certain utensils. In the case of a thin tea preparation (usucha), these would be the tea container and the tea scoop (chashaku). The host acknowledges the request, purifies the utensils, and puts them out on the tatami for the guest. The guest takes them back to his or her seat and examines them in a specifically choreographed manner. Each subsequent viewer will look at these objects in the same way. No object is lifted more than a few inches off the mat. Objects are handled with two hands and particular care is taken in removing the lid of the tea container. The positions in which the utensils are placed as they move from host to guest and among guests are specially designated to avoid possible accidents.

After the tea container and scoop are returned to the host, the main guest will ask about them. Even when dealing with practice utensils, students learn to attribute certain shapes to the tea masters who favored them, ascribe the lacquer work to a family of artisans associated with their tea school, and give a poetic name to the tea scoop. For example, the host might say that the tea container is a medium-sized container in a shape preferred by Rikyū and the lacquer was done by the current generation Nakamura Sōtetsu, one of the senke jisshoku, ten families of craftsmen that have traditionally served the Sen tea lineages.

The significance attached to tea scoops is representative of the attention devoted to other important utensils, such as tea containers, tea bowls, and incense receptacles. The scoops used in most tea preparations are simple lengths of bamboo with a curve at the tip. (Ivory scoops are used in the most advanced temae.) Bamboo scoops are supposedly made by individuals of great virtue and historical import, such as Zen masters and tea adepts. Each tea master has a preferred shape. They vary in formality according to the treatment of the node of the bamboo. Formal (shin) scoops have no node. Semi-formal (gyō) scoops have the node at one end, and informal scoops (sō) have the node in the middle. The carving at the tip of the scoop which enters the tea identifies it with a particular tea master.

In practice, the student learns to give a seasonally appropriate name to the tea scoop. These are often allusions to poetry or traditional seasonal events. Some have a historical association. For example, an informal tea scoop might be named “Jeweled Hare” (tama usagi) as a reference to the rabbit seen pounding rice cakes on the face of the moon. (This is the Japanese equivalent of “the man in the moon.”) It would only be appropriate to use this name at the time of the tenth full moon, as it alludes to the Chinese moon festival. Cognoscenti might also know that the fourteenth generation Grandmaster of Urasenke, Tantansai (1893–1964), made a tea scoop of this name. There are books of appropriate seasonal names that students study, informally and outside the tea room. (It is not permitted to take notes in the tea room or to consult reference materials there.)

At non-practice events, the tea scoop ideally used is one which has a name given to it by the maker or a respected individual with whom it is associated. The name will be documented on a bamboo tube in which the scoop is stored. The tube will bear the artistic signature (kao) of the maker. This receptacle will be stored inside a wood box. The inside of the box lid will bear the poetic name of the scoop and the name of its maker written in the maker’s own hand. Sometimes a poem is brushed on the tube. If the scoop has great importance, it may be contained inside a series of nested boxes written on by a sequence of owners. The poetic names of tea scoops may be simple references to their shapes, as in the case of the Mushikui (“worm-eaten”) and Arigoshi (“ant-waisted”) tea scoops by Rikyū. Tea scoops may also refer to historical events: For instance, Satogaeri (“Homecoming”) was made by Urasenke fourth generation grand master Sensō (1622–1697) to commemorate his return to Kyōto after teaching tea to a feudal lord in Kaga. The name of the scoop may also be associated with values as is Gojō (“Five Constant Virtues”), a scoop preferred by the eleventh generation grand master, Gengensai (1810–1877). (The five nodes of this scoop recall the five Confucian virtues.) Some scoops refer to works of literature such a Nō plays.

A tea scoop without a name or historical provenience is meaningless. Thus, a new scoop of some distinction will soon acquire a name. But, unless a tea practitioner is one of exceptional status, such as a Zen monk or prominent member of a tea lineage, he or she will not name a scoop of his or her own making. It is more appropriate to ask a respected acquaintance to name the utensil. It is also considered immodest for ordinary tea people to use scoops they have personally carved. If necessity requires the use of a home-made tea scoop, it is appropriate to give the implement to the main guest as a gift and ask him or her to name it.

Even though a student may be learning the most rudimentary tea procedures and handling practice materials, the teacher will make a consistent effort to expose the novice to utensils with seasonal and historical associations. A tea teacher must collect a variety of implements in order to teach different procedures. Some will be copies of famous pieces; others may have been acquired in the course of the teacher’s travels, or as gifts. To the extent the teacher’s collection permits, he or she will vary the utensils used in class to express seasonal themes and to commemorate historical events important to tea practitioners. For example, a thin tea container in the shape favored by Sen Rikyū would be traditionally used around the time of his death day memorial in March. The combination of utensils is called toriawase, and it reflects the personal taste of the practitioner as well as the season. Students learn aesthetics by observing the toriawase of their teacher. Japanese museums often arrange displays featuring combinations of famous utensils used by famous tea masters or particular to a certain era in tea history.

One of the greatest opportunities a tea teacher provides for his or her students is the chance to become familiar with the Japanese festival calendar and its cultural history. The decoration of the alcove is central to creating a unique atmosphere for each lesson or tea gathering. The scroll may be normative and associated with a significant historical figure, as would be a scroll bearing the inscription such as Mu ichi motsu, “Not a thing exists,” a phrase attributed to the sixth Zen patriarch Hui-neng (Enō Daikan, 638–713);3 alternatively it may be seasonal such as the line Hana o rō sureba, ka e ni mitsu, “Play with the flowers and their fragrance scents your garments,” which alludes to a famous poem by the Kidō Chigu (1185–1269). The letters of famous historical figures, tea masters, poets or ecclesiatics may also be hung. Sometimes, poems on smaller pieces of paper (tanzaku or shikishi) are mounted or displayed in specially designed holders. These tend to be seasonal in character. Often only the first line of a poem is given, the assumption being either that knowledgeable guests will enjoy identifying the poem and supplying the missing lines, or that the host will cite the complete work.

In any case, the sentiment manifested in the alcove should have been written by a person of virtue and, hopefully, historical import. Such writings are stored in a wooden box or a series of boxes which detail their provenience. The writing on the box is called hakogaki. If a tea utensil is new (or discovered without a box), the owner, dealer, or artist may ask a tea master to certify its quality by writing on the box. This guarantee is called a kiwame. A tea utensil without a box is one of questionable origin. At tea gatherings, the guests may ask to see the box of a particularly interesting item, such as a tea scoop or scroll. The idea is not that they wish to confirm the piece’s authenticity (although this happens, of course). The reason to view a box is that the calligraphy is interesting and may provide some additional information about the object in question.

It is important to understand that tea utensils have played significant roles in Japanese history which are well-known outside the circle of tea practitioners. The histories of certain utensils have been conveyed in collections of tea anecdotes for centuries. For example, when the victorious warlord Oda Nobunaga (1534–1582) entered Kyōto in 1568 to help assert the questionable claims of the fifteenth Ashikaga shōgun, Yoshiaki (1537–1597), the leader of the opposition, Matsunaga Hisahide (1510–1577), prudently surrendered a famous thick tea container called Tsukumo4 to Nobunaga. The gesture of appeasement saved Hisahide’s head and allowed him to retain his fief. The gesture was significant because the tea container had previously belonged to both shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimitsu (1358–1408) and Ashikaga Yoshimasa (1436–1490). Thus, even though Nobunaga was putatively Yoshiaki’s henchman, Hisahide’s gift made it clear that the warlord was the real heir to the shogunate. The gift also inspired Nobunaga to embark on a “famous utensil hunt” (meibutsu-gari). As he consolidated his hegemony, the tyrant systematically acquired the famous tea utensils of defeated lords and potential allies. Some he passed on to retainers, in effect, redistributing power and prestige throughout his territories. When copies (utsushi) of such famous utensils as Tsukumo are used in modern tea rooms, practitioners are quite literally “seeing” a selectively edited (and, usually, positively interpreted) vision of the past.

The way in which the past is presented is carefully prescribed. When the teacher displays a scroll, flowers, and an incense container in the alcove at a lesson, he or she is visually communicating a great deal of information about seasonal imagery, history, and art history. Students are taught how to examine a scroll and its mounting and to inquire about the shape, maker, and kiln or carver of an incense container. They also learn which flowers are seasonally appropriate and about the various ranks and types of flower vases. (Chinese vases of bronze and celadon are the highest ranking.) Of course, many incense containers and flower vases are copies of famous pieces. But, they are accorded the same respect as the originals and, hopefully, inspire the student to do further research in the copious literature on tea utensils or view the originals at museums. Diligent practitioners learn to recognize the products of various kilns and artists and familiarize themselves with the history associated with each.

Lessons are only one part of the student’s experience. The teacher periodically holds a variety of tea gatherings celebrating seasonal themes or memorializing focal ancestors in the tea lineage. Sometimes, teaching associations hold collective tea events which give the novices their first initiation into the larger tea world. The most common are memorials for Rikyū and his grandson Sōtan (1578–1658), the third generation grand master of Urasenke, and celebrations of the first tea of the Year (Hatsugama).

In Japan, some tea gatherings have historic events as their theme. For example, a tea gathering focusing on Kyōto’s Gion Festival, would not only celebrate the city’s rescue from a plague in 970 A.D. but incorporate a number of symbols from the procession of huge, sacred carriages held annually to commemorate the event. One might see a tea bowl with a design of a halberd, since that is the emblem of the main float, or a boat-shaped cake bowl, evoking another well-known carriage. There are no hard and fast rules for incorporating the symbols. It is the host’s personal form of expression (also called toriawase). Moreover, it is extremely entertaining for the guests to try to identify allusions to as many of the seasonal themes, such as the sacred carriages, as possible—the host may include dozens. The symbolic exchange between host and guest is a variation on the type of cultured guessing games beloved by the Japanese throughout the ages. Of course, at a Gion Festival tea gathering, the inclusion of so much symbolism associated with the Heian era (794–1185) also creates an atmosphere evocative of the quintessentially, Japanese refinement associated with the period.

Not all tea gatherings are retrospective looks at Japanese history. Some are dramatically modern. In fact, Urasenke has sponsored a series of competitions aimed at identifying modern designers of utensils. Thus, the form of the gatherings and the order of the preparation might be hundreds of years old, but the water jar could be a free-form creation of stainless steel and the tea scoop made of laminated plastic. Even so, no matter whether Taishō (1912–1926) chic or today’s edgy Tōkyō style is evoked, each utensil makes its own statement about the continuity of past and present.

III. Preserving Tea Utensils for Future Generations

Tea practitioners are able to create an aura of historicity because they take the curatorship of utensils seriously. An experienced tea practitioner never knows when he or she may be called upon to unpack, pack, clean, or otherwise handle a piece of history. The work which takes place behind the scenes at a tea gathering requires every bit as much training and discipline as preparing tea.

Like the tea room, the physical layout of the ideal preparation room or mizuya is timeless. At its most basic, a series of shelves line the upper part of an alcove approximately six feet long and two feet deep. Below the shelves, the floor is composed of a kind of copper-lined sink with a drain. A strong bamboo mat is placed over the drain, so that utensils can be washed and placed to dry completely on its surface. Water for this purpose is dipped out of a ceramic jar. Pegs for towels, tea whisks, etc. are positioned conveniently around the alcove. Areas with similar layouts were in use as early as the Muromachi period (1333–1568).

At Urasenke, a preparation room in the family home, Konnichian, presents the standard. Pictures of this Ōmizuya (“Great Preparation Room”) are often published, and its layout is copied. Students learn to place utensils in conventionally designated positions along the shelves. Some of the positions are decided by practical considerations and others by the rank of the utensil. All in all, a contemporary specialist in time and motion studies could find no more convenient way to arrange utensils in preparation for a tea gathering. But, the layout is part of a particular tea tradition: It, too, forms a link with the past.

From the first day of practice, the student is initiated into the proper care and curatorship of tea utensils. There is a particular way of cleaning and storing each item. For example, a tea scoop is wiped with a tissue (a piece of silk in the case of a very valuable piece) several times and stored in its bamboo tube and box. It must never be touched with water. Tea bowls are never washed with soap and must be left to dry for a few days before being returned to their boxes. Scrolls must be hung to air several times a year to prevent mold. Kettles are rinsed with hot water, scrubbed on the bottom with a natural fiber brush, and returned to the heat to avoid rust. This careful routine makes the novice aware of his or her responsibility to past and future generations of tea practitioners, and, it teaches them to really “see” the condition of the utensil.

In a very real sense, the utensils are independent of individual ownership. They are temporarily entrusted to individuals, but they belong to the tradition. Mizuya training is also culturally significant, in that it instills a sense of responsibility and perfectionism which is highly valued in Japanese society at large. The implication is that such individuals have a laudable, old-fashioned respect for fine things and pay meticulous attention to detail. They can be trusted to get a job done discretely and efficiently. This is one reason, many Japanese businesses sponsor tea lessons for their employees.

As opposed to the tea room, where a utensil may be handled in a certain way to distinguish its rank, all tea utensils are treated with equal care in the preparation room. The time-honored procedures for cleaning and storing utensils are practical in nature, but they are the product of centuries of experience. The fact that fragile bamboo scoops have been preserved for centuries is testimony to the care with which they are treated. Real experts in tea identify each other by their skill in the preparation room. Because the procedures and physical layout of the mizuya are standardized, practitioners can count on being able to function as a team under pressure and with perfect timing whether or not they have previously met and regardless of whether the event takes place in Japan or elsewhere. This enhances their sense of belonging to a tradition with historical depth and geographical breadth. In fact, someone who is competent in the preparation area could be transported back hundreds of years in time and feel completely comfortable with the mizuya arrangements of the day.

Just as they have been for centuries, boxes are of great significance. Most are never displayed in the tea room. Their first function is protective. Because there are many natural disasters such as earthquakes in Japan, tea utensils are removed from their boxes only for use. They are not routinely displayed on a shelf. The boxes are mainly made of unlacquered paulownia, known for its resistance to bugs and for having the capability to breathe, expand, and contract. Durable cotton or silk strings on the boxes are tied in a standard manner. Their color may signify the tea lineage affiliation of the owner or the person who signed the box. Such boxes are meant to last for centuries. As mentioned earlier, really fine articles may have a series of nesting receptacles.

The writing on the boxes, hakogaki, is a cataloging method as well as a guarantee of the object’s value and provenience. Practitioners of one tea lineage tend not to buy utensils signed by masters from other lineages—the organizational tie is too remote. The utensil is not part of their past. Consequently, in the case of something like a tea bowl made by one of the masters of the Raku lineage,4 a dealer may have multiple boxes constructed, each destined to go to a different grand master for inscription. The practice is expensive since a monetary gift accompanies each request for hakogaki. But, in this way, the potential pool of purchasers is broadened, and the value of the utensil increased.

Some tea masters will only sign boxes which have been constructed to certain quality standards. For example, the corners of the part of the inner lid which frames the writing must be mitered, not butted. Making a fine quality box is also an art form. Unfortunately, unscrupulous dealers have learned that putting an inferior bowl in a good box is one way to make a sale. Conscientious tea masters will not sign a box for such an item, because it calls their judgment and integrity into question. And, it is commonly believed that well-known tea masters sign fewer utensils because they are more discriminating. Sadly, famous tea masters tend to sign a smaller number of articles as they get older, knowing that dealers become more aggressive in requesting box inscriptions in anticipation of the utensil’s value increasing with the death of the signer.

IV. The Timeless Experience of Tea Ritual

There are many different kinds of tea gatherings ranging from picnic-like outdoor gatherings to solemn tea offerings at temples and shrines, but the most challenging and rewarding event for the host to prepare is an intimate, three and a half hour event where three to five guests are invited to share food and tea—the chaji. At other kinds of tea gatherings, the size and venue of an event can easily dominate, but it is most feasible to create an atmosphere of timelessness at a chaji.

Chaji are not held as commonly as they used to be. I have noticed over the last twenty-five years that utensil stores are carrying fewer of the items particular to performing this kind of tea ritual. One reason is that preparing for a chaji is usually thought of as requiring a traditional venue and scores of specialized tea utensils. This is true, because the paradigmatic event includes preparation of thick and thin tea, two charcoal procedures, and an elaborate meal. This being said, I would like to note that one of the finest chaji I have ever attended was held in a tool shed, and the meal was served on paper plates. Nevertheless, most Japanese are reluctant to deviate from the standard model for a full tea gathering. The contemporary solution is to rent a tea room in a specialized restaurant and have its staff prepare the meal.

One of the most important things to understand about tea ritual is that it is a kind of ensemble playing. It is different from the kind of non-participatory ritual where a group of people passively watch a ritual specialist perform, perhaps punctuating the experience with formulaic responses or performing some kind of token action. A chaji requires the active involvement of experienced guests. Thus, the first thing to do when planning a gathering of this type is to determine the guest list. The main consideration is the selection of the first guest (so-called because of his or her position of precedence in the tea room). He or she is the honoree and the other guests are selected with the first guest’s pleasure in mind. If the first guest is not an experienced tea practitioner, he or she will be seated next to someone who is and can guide him or her through the complex ritual. The last guest (i.e. the one who will be seated in the lowest position in the tea room) must also be very experienced, because this individual must know the complex etiquette involved in returning tea utensils to the main guest, and sometimes, the host. There are ideally from three to five guests, although as many as ten can be accommodated in a large room.

After the guests have been chosen and a date agreed upon, the host selects the utensils. Seasonal considerations and the pleasure of the first guest are primary considerations. The utensils are usually not from a single historical period, unless the host wants to make an aesthetic statement particular to the era. If the host does not own all the utensils ideally suited to the situation, he or she may borrow some from friends or, even, utensil dealers. (The fact that the host does not own all the utensils is not mentioned. Great collectors often mix their own utensils with those from dealers or even museums in public situations, partially to obscure the extent and value of their personal treasures from the taxing authorities, but mainly to give the guests the experience of using a variety of fine things.) The sequence of the chaji, its choreography, and the form of its individual segments constitute the grammar of tea ritual, but the utensils, food, and flowers are its vocabulary. Ideally, the assemblage of utensils chosen for a chaji will have seasonal, historical, literary, and personal references.

Just as the guests are chosen for their compatibility and expertise, so the “back-stage crew,” the mizuya is selected. The word mizuya designates both the preparation area and the people who work there. (In Japan, people are often referred to by the place they occupy. A fish dealer, for example, may be called sakanaya san, literally, “Mr. Fish Shop.”) The assistants are usually students of the host. Several days before the event, they thoroughly clean the tea room, garden, toilet, and preparation area, unpack utensils from boxes, wash them, and lay them out on clean gauze on the mizuya shelves. Scores of dishes are required just for the formal meal which accompanies the event. Detailed lists of the utensils to be used (kaiki, “record of the gathering”) are kept. In addition to this, ash must be sifted and arranged in the brazier or fireplace, and food must be prepared.

On the day of the gathering, guests arrive to find the street in front of the gate freshly sprinkled with water, in a Shintō gesture of welcome and ritual purity. The guests let themselves in and remove their outer clothing in a specially prepared waiting room. Then, they enter another waiting room where they will sign the guest book, see some kind of seasonal painting, and sample the hot water, or (o)sayu, which will be used to make the tea. The hot water is served by the host’s assistant: The guests will not meet the host until they enter the tea room. The traditional atmosphere of the waiting area, the kimono of the guests and the host’s assistant, and the preliminary formal exchanges anticipate a graceful transition to the timeless world of tea ritual.

After they have signed the guest book—a reminder that their participation in the day’s events will form a small part of tea history—and enjoyed tasting the hot water to be used in the tea; the guests leave the waiting area and walk along the garden path to an outdoor waiting bench. The garden path is called the rōji, a word which may be written with characters meaning as “dewy path.” This interpretation may have been suggested by a verse in the Lotus Sutra which reads “Escaping from the fire-stricken habitations of the Three Phenomenal Worlds, they take their seats on the dewy ground” (Sadler, 1962, 19). It is said to be a parable about individuals who flee from earthly passions and find salvation in enlightenment. The journey through the rōji is intended to create the sensation of finding sanctuary in a timeless realm: The path is cool and mossy. There are seasonal elements, such as the color of maple leaves, but overt statements about the time of year, such as showy flowers, are kept to a minimum. Rocks and stones are seated naturally—giving a sense of permanence. Eccentric or artificial garden decorations are inappropriate.

Arriving at the waiting bench, the guests find that straw cushions and an old-fashioned smoking tray (tabako bon) have been provided for their use. The long, thin pipes and thread tobacco in the tray are seldom smoked, but their presence contributes to a nostalgic sense of relaxation. Seated on the bench, discussing the scene in a quiet way, the guests await the appearance of the host.

The first time the guests see the host is when he or she brings a traditional wooden bucket of fresh water to refill a stone basin outside the tea house. After the bucket is returned to the tea house, the host opens the gate to the inner garden adjacent to the tea house and everyone bows in silence. There will be no more casual conversation until the meal is presented. The ritual atmosphere intensifies as the guests individually purify their hands and mouths at the stone basin before entering the tea room. The gesture is identical to the ritual purification undertaken outside shrines.

The guests enter the tea room through a small door which is a little more than three feet square, the nijiriguchi. This particular feature of tea house architecture is said to have been suggested to Rikyū when he saw people crawling in and out of the hatch of a river boat. It is thought that he found the restricted entrance an ideal way to prevent pompous samurai from strolling into a tea room fully armed. The awkwardness of such a tiny door enforces humility. The nijiriguchi is sometimes symbolically linked to the Taoist tale of the man who enters a magic gourd and finds a timeless fairyland within: He thinks he has been inside the gourd for only an afternoon, but emerges to discover a hundred years have passed. The mouth of the gourd and the tea room door are both magic portals to sacred spaces not subject to the usual constraints of time.

Once inside the tea room, the experienced guest is in familiar surroundings. Most tea rooms are built around one of eight standard tatami mat arrangements. The guest moves from the point of entrance to the alcove, where he or she views the scroll. Then he or she proceeds to the preparation mat where the ash and lighted charcoal arranged in either the brazier (furo) or fire pit (ro) and their attendant utensils are displayed. Every step is choreographed and the guests carefully time their entrances to allow each one of them just enough time to enjoy each feature of the initial arrangement without delaying the host’s unspoken agenda. Even if the guests have never been in this particular tea room, they feel at home because of their training. Their teacher’s tea room was undoubtedly similar in some aspects. Moreover, most practitioners have visited historic tea rooms or seen pictures of them in tea publications, which give them a basis for comparison. Even new tea rooms have features which evoke those of their predecessors, but, for the most part, the only commonly found feature which would place standard tea room in a twenty-first century context is electric lighting.

After the guests have been seated, the host enters the room and greets each person individually. The host and first guest (the latter represents the other participants in most conversations) discuss the seasonal aspects of the waiting area and garden bench. The last item discussed is the most important—the scroll. The main guest asks the host to interpret its inscription, even if all present read Japanese: This is because the writings of Zen and Tea masters are notoriously difficult to decipher and because the host may want to volunteer some additional commentary.

In winter, the first order of business is to add charcoal to the fire in the fire pit. The use of charcoal to heat the water in the kettle is old-fashioned, but it has practical components which remove it from the sphere of pure ritual. The charcoal itself is a very clean-burning kind of oak with no odor. This is essential to prevent unpleasant smoke and also because the smell would interfere with the aroma of the incense soon to be burned. The charcoal is arranged on a bed of carefully washed ash. The ash itself has a faint, pleasant odor. Moreover, the standard size and placement of the charcoal result in an ideal fire, perfect for the timing of the meal and the ensuing tea preparation.

The highlight of the initial charcoal preparation, or shozumi, is the burning of kneaded incense (nerikō). Kneaded incense has been used since Heian times and its appreciation is another important Japanese art form. The scent is compared to that of Buddha’s paradise. The sensation is ageless, but the guests are also aware that the choice of incense has been made particularly for the occasion, and no effort has been spared to purchase it from the finest source available. At the end, the incense container is passed among the guests for their appreciation. When the host returns from the preparation area, the main guest comments that he or she has “sensed” the incense using an archaic usage of the verb kiku or “hear.” The poetic name and maker of the incense are requested, as is the provenience of the incense container. The host subsequently retires to the preparation room door and announces that a light meal will be served. (In summer, the meal is served before the first charcoal preparation to keep the tea room cool.)

The meal which follows is ancient in form, but absolutely contemporary in its freshness. This kind of meal and style of cooking is called kaiseki, which means “breast stones.” It is said to have been modeled on the routine of Zen temples: During long hours of meditation, the monks were said to have put warm stones (seki) in the breast (kai) of their kimono to keep their stomachs from growling. The meal served at a tea ritual is supposed to perform the same function—it should be just enough food for comfort, but nothing so elaborate as to distract attention from the tea itself.

Based on a Momoyama precedent which decreed “One soup and three side dishes” (ichijū sansai), the kaiseki meal has developed into a multi-course feast served on exquisite utensils. Hundreds of years of kaiseki menus have been dutifully inscribed in the tea records. Occasionally, famous meals are replicated; but, in general, the emphasis is on serving the finest available seasonal ingredients. The food is usually served on classic black lacquer trays with soup and rice bowls resembling those of the nested sets used in the monasteries. Although the etiquette is precise, there is no solemnity accompanying the meal’s consumption.

In accord with Japan’s oldest culinary tradition, one of feasting on the food offered at Shintō shrines (naorai), saké is almost invariably served. The ethos is that embodied in the famous Zen phrase Ichigo ichie (“One moment, one chance”) associated with the famous tea master Ii Naosuke (1815–1860), but the symbolism and sensations are drawn from centuries of Japanese tradition. In a very real sense, the guests see, smell, and taste the past.

After completing the meal with seasonal, Japanese sweets, the guests leave the tea room to stretch their legs. When they return, the scroll has been replaced in the alcove by a simple flower arrangement. The most solemn portion of the ritual follows; it is the preparation of thick tea (koicha).5

Though no one is exactly sure when the custom began, the guests usually drink thick tea from a shared bowl. It may have started with the practice of imbibing a commensal bowl of tea in Zen monasteries: This is considered by many the most likely antecedent for sharing one tea bowl, since the Japanese elite usually ate and drank from separate trays and dishes. Some have postulated that Sen Rikyū modeled the practice on his observations of the Catholic mass (which was being routinely performed by the Jesuits in sixteenth century Japan). Whatever its origin, the practice is a ritual of great antiquity, as well as one of spontaneous immediacy. The guests are aware that they are emulating a long line of predecessors and, at the same time, conscious that the moment is never to be repeated.

As they have been trained, the guests ask to closely inspect the tea container, the tea scoop, and the tea container’s brocade covering. The charcoal fire is then repaired, if necessary, and thin tea (usucha) is served. The atmosphere during the portion of the gathering devoted to preparing thin tea is more casual than that associated with making thick tea, the dramatic high point of the chaji. During the thin tea portion of the gathering, there is more discussion—often of seasonal topics and tea utensils. Smaller and lighter sweets are served, and more tea utensils are used and carefully inspected. The lighter atmosphere serves to prepare the guests for their return to everyday life. At the end of the gathering, the host and guests exchange thanks and the guests leave the room after one last formal appreciation of the alcove, the fire, and the remaining tea utensils.

The final encounter between host and guests takes place after the participants have left the tea room: The guests wait just outside the closed, crawl-in, entrance (nijiriguchi). The host opens the door once more from inside the tea room and all make a final silent bow. Framed by the small door of the tea room, the host watches the guests as they walk slowly down the garden path. He or she does not see the guests off at the house gate as Japanese traditionally do—the illusion of continuity between past and present is sustained by the lingering image of the host in the tea room door.

This description of what takes place at a tea ritual has been perfunctory but hopefully adequate to make the point that tea practitioners are not re-enacting the past in the sense that a Civil War buff participates in a mock battle. Years of training, seeing and handling tea utensils, and conversing about them, coupled with associated tastes and smells, acculturate tea practitioners to the past in the same way that a person from one country becomes familiar with the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of an adopted land. While outsiders may wonder at the archaism of the ritual, the participants are completely comfortable with their surroundings. Etiquette and movement have become second nature. The combination of historic and seasonal symbolism and sensation seamlessly blend past and present.

V. Conclusion

One of the most interesting things about modern tea practice is that there are many non-Japanese tea practitioners. These tea students and teachers are not reconstructing the culture of their forebears. They are, however, experiencing a tradition in which they have invested years of training and whose values and aesthetics they have internalized. For them, the extent to which a conceptual blending of past and present takes place is a matter of training rather than ethnicity. It is important to realize that non-Japanese tea practitioners are not trying to be Japanese; they are simply following the “Way of Tea.” The iconic position tea ritual occupies in the Japanese national consciousness makes this hard for some to understand. But, the perceived disjunction is in the eyes of the beholder: The rigorous, shared training which prepares practitioners for participating in tea ritual creates a bond which obliterates considerations of time and space—including ethnicity. Most people understand best if one compares the experience to performing in an orchestra—a musician does not have to be an eighteenth century German to play Beethoven.

Even so, the majority of the world’s twenty million tea practitioners are ethnically Japanese. For them, tea practice takes place in a special niche removed from time and place. There, kindred spirits cooperate to create an ideal world of pleasant sensations and shared heritage far removed from the turbulence of modern life, yet reliably part of their weekly routine. Tea rooms and tea gardens are cultural sanctuaries, meaningful even to non-practitioners. Tea utensils provide a tangible link to an ideal past where everyone is a knowledgeable member of the cultural elite. The cruelty, hard work, and privation suffered by the great majority of Japanese throughout their history are conveniently forgotten. Tea utensils are essential tools used to create this satisfying illusion—in this sense, every one of them is a “National Treasure.”

Notes:

1. A system of designating “National Treasures” was created in 1887 by the Japanese Ministry of the Interior under the Cultural Properties Protection Act. As of 1989, there were about a thousand “National Treasures” which included buildings, sculptures, ceramics, paintings, etc. The choices of art works included on the list may be somewhat politically motivated as the Japanese government is said to have selectively chosen articles which embody the orthodox vision of Japanese history. Some tea utensils and tea houses are included among the “National Treasures.”

2. The Raku lineage was formally established when Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–1598) conferred the name Raku (which means “pleasurable”) on the second generation master, (Jokei, d. 1535) of a family of Korean tile makers. The patriarch of the family, Chojiro (dates unknown), made low-fired tea bowls for Rikyū. Chojiro was brought to Japan to make roof tiles for Hideyoshi’s famous palace, the Jurakudai. The family continues to make tea utensils to this day. Tea bowls made by the Raku family are not reduced in straw or other materials as has become the custom in the low-fired ware commonly called “raku” in the West.

3. When the fifth Zen patriarch, Hung-jen, (Gunin Daiman, 601–674) was ready to select an heir, he asked several disciples to write verses. The leading candidate, Shen-hsiu wrote:

The body is the Bodhi tree,
The mind is like a clear mirror.
At all times we must strive to polish it,
And must not let the dust collect.

Hui-neng was an illiterate monk employed in treading rice in the barn, but hearing Shen-hsiu’s verse recited, he responded:

Salvation is nothing like a tree,
Nor a clear mirror;
Essentially not a “Thing” exists;
What is there then for the dust to fall on?

On the basis of the depth of understanding revealed in this verse, Hung-jen made Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch. (Dumoulin, 1988, pp. 132–133)

4. Tsukumo means “Ninety-nine.” It was given this name by one of its previous owners, tea master, Murata Shukō (d.1502), because it cost him ninety-nine copper kan. (One kan could buy two koku of rice, enough to feed two people for a year.) It is also called Miotsukushi , ”Seaweed Salt”.

5. Koicha (thick tea) differs from usucha (thin tea) in that the former is a viscous beverage in which approximately fourteen grams of tea are suspended in 175 ml. of water for five people. The latter is a less viscous combination of 1.75 grams of tea in approximately 100 ml. of water.

Selected Bibliography

Anderson, Jennifer. 1991. Introduction to Japanese Tea Ritual. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.

Anderson, Jennifer. 1987. Japanese Tea Ritual: Religion in Practice. Man: Journal of the Royal Anthropological Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 22: 475–498.

Cort, Louise Allison. 1985. Looking at White Dew. Chanoyu Quarterly, 43:36-48.

Dumoulin, Heinrich. 1988. Zen Buddhism: A History. Vol. 1. Translated by James W. Heisig and Paul Nitter. New York: MacMillan.

Okakura, Kakuzo. 1956. The Book of Tea. (1906 Reprint). Tokyo and Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle Company.

Pitelka, Morgan, ed. 2003. Japanese Tea Culture. London and New York: Routledge Curzon.

Plutschow, Herbert E. 1986. Historical Chanoyu. Tokyo: The Japan Times, Ltd.,

Sadler, A.L. 1962. Chanoyu: The Japanese Tea Ceremony. (1933 Reprint). Tokyo and Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle Company.

Varley, Paul and Kumakura Isao, eds. 1989. Tea in Japan: Essays on the History of Chanoyu. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

Watson, Burton, translator. 1997. The Vimalakīrti Sutra. New York: Columbia University Press.

Sen Soshitsu, ed. 1988. Chanoyu: The Urasenke Tradition of Tea. New York: Weatherhill.

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