The Timeless Gardens of Mirei Shigemori

It’s hard to find a spot in Kyoto that feels all your own. The city is dotted with famous temples and their gorgeous grounds, but it’s impossible to find one that isn’t crowded year round. What’s more, while each boasts historic sculptures of Buddha or painted screens, when you go for a look you find them roped off and placed in musty chambers dark enough to blur their venerable outlines.

Last fall, I followed a page in my guidebook to a place near Toufukuji Temple and discovered a cozy corner of the old capital that had previously eluded me. It was here that I first discovered Kyoto’s quiet charms intact, undiscovered by busloads of tourists who come to see the Autumn colors. It was not long before I realized what had captured my imagination: these were the creations of Mirei Shigemori (1896–1975), the greatest garden artist of the Showa Era (1926-88).

I photographed in hopes of capturing some of the scenes that captivated me that day. They are Shigemori’s gardens, and the house where he  spent his final years. I had the kind assistance of Mitsuaki Shigemori, the grandson of Mirei Shigemori.

Mirei Shigemori (1896-1975) was an avant-garde designed and garden historian who deconstructed and modernize the Japanese garden. He studied painting at the Japan School of Art (now Tokyo Art University) where he became fascinated with the traditional Japanese arts of tea ceremony (sadou), flower arrangement (ikebana) although it was the studies of landscape design which led him to visit and document Japan’s famous gardens, a project that yielded more than twenty books. Shigemori first debuted as a garden designer at the Toufukuji Houjou garden, which was completed in 1938 when he was 43 years old. He went on to design and create many more original gardens and used his expansive knowledge of gardening history to restore many that had fallen victim to neglect.

The origins of the Japanese garden can be found in Shinto, Japan’s ancient indigenous religion. Shinto gods descended from the mountains and inhabited rocks. A maritime people from the Korean Peninsula then arrived in Japan with a belief in sea gods that floated across the ocean and inhabited islands. The teachings of Buddha were eventually incorporated as well and the three beliefs combined to become Japan’s uniquely syncretic religious system. To the Japanese, a garden was originally a desire to become one with nature and commune with the gods.

Kare-sansui are dry, un-irrigated gardens. This style of garden descends from the worship of mountains gods and emphasizes the arrangement of rocks, and the belief in maritime and mountain gods is evidenced by the “oceans” of sand up on which sacred mountains stand.

A brief history of Japanese gardens begins with the Asuka Nara Period  when ponds with islands at the center were dug and used for worship. During the reign of Shotoku Taishi, Umako Sogano created an “island floating in a pond garden” which earned him the title of “Island Minister.” During the Heian Period, large pond gardens would contain piles of rocks that created constituted islands. Zen influences flourished in Japan during the Kamakura and Muromachi Periods, and dry rock gardens became common. During the war-torn Momoyoma Period, many wonderful gardens emphasizing rock groupings were created in the midst of great violence. Beginning in the middle Edo period, Daimyos (warlords) used gardens to display their financial power and the art of gardening fell into decline.

Artist Dan Graham (ed. in 2002) is in residence at the Shigemori House and has installed his artwork in the study that faces the garden. This installation was part of the Shima Project, a series of contemporary art exhibitions staged at the Shigemori House four times between 2000 and 2002.

I met Dan Graham in New York early last summer (ed. in 2002) where he shared with me some of his famously cynical remarks delivered in a trademark rasp: “The damage created by the deer running around in Nara is dreadful,” he said. The deer have their fans, but yes, they do create a lot of damage. “The suburbs that you pass on the train between Kyoto and Nara look horrible!” Can’t say that I recall but in closing, however, Graham says, “the best thing about Kyoto is the gardens.” This is a sentiment with which I definitely agree.

Graham’s urgings fanned the flames of my growing interest in Japanese gardens that were ignited last autumn. though it was still August and local monks warned me that the summer heat had plunged Kyoto’s gardens into a terrible condition, I began to research and arrange for a photo shoot. My thirst to learn more was too great to postpone.

I hope visitors to Kyoto, wheter Japanese or otherwise, will not limit their itineraries to the usual destinations such as Kinkakuji and Ginkakuji. Instead, it is my wish that the stray from the beaten path and take the time to discover Mirei Shigemori’s backyard universes.

Nakako Hayashi‘s text originally appeared in Paper Sky No. 3 (The Netherlands, 2002) accompanied with photos by Takashi Homma.