Beauty and the Bento Box

(Photos not mine)

Today I came across an interesting discussion in the New York Times entitled, "Beauty and the Bento Box." It was a follow up to an article on these artful Japanese lunch boxes featuring several experts weighing in on the question:

"What does the care devoted to the visual details in a packed lunch suggest
about the culture? Why is such value placed on aesthetics in everyday life
in Japan?"

Due to recent travels I've developed an interest in the beautifully delicate Japanese aesthetic, so I've decided to make a short exploration of my own.

It seems that the Japanese aesthetic permeates nearly every aspect of culture on the island. It's concepts are rooted in a set of fundamental principles which are deeply ingrained in the collective consciousness. These principles manifest themselves in infinite forms, reaching all the way from the elaborate tea ceremonies to the aisles of the supermarket. Identifying these elements of style have allowed me to better understand the feelings of harmony, restraint and elegance I experienced even in the most unexpected places in Japan, as well as a method to introduce them into my own life.

Central to the appreciation of beauty in Japan is the concept of impermanence. Everything in this world, whether lovely or terrible will eventually fade away. Dwelling on this idea can lead to feelings of melancholy, but it also inspires gratitude for the moment. If all the world is ephemeral, then we must cherish it all the more. In the Bento Box we can see quite obviously a celebration of the fleeting. Just because food is impermanent is not a reason it should not and must not be beautiful. Everyday deserves wonder, no matter how routine.

Another important stylistic element is "simplicity" (known as wabi to the Japanese). The subtle grace of an object can add infinitely to its beauty. Additionally, this concept dictates moderation and restraint. One of the strengths of the Bento Box is that it makes food appear much more copious. Ginger curls into delicate flowers, salad is shredded and layered in contrasting hues, and each element is housed in its own space. When the lunch plate is an art form there is much more enjoyment in the process and therefore less need for abundance.

Finally, we come to the concept of mono no aware, or, "awareness of things." In the Japanese aesthetic there is an interconnectivity between all forms of art and intellectual pursuit. The cultivated individual must be skilled in many areas to truly attain greatness. Calligraphy, gardening, Haiku, cinema, and painting all depend upon and borrow from one another. Preparing food in such an elaborate way can show off such skills and be a credit to the one who has prepared it. And it appeals to the part of every person that reveres the beautiful.

These are just a few examples in a complex web of concepts which make up the Japanese artistic style and they are based upon my limited understanding. Even so, I can now look upon the iconic flower of Japan and Korea, the Cherry Blossom, with a new vision. It seems to be a perfect representation of these stylistic elements: beauty in grace and simplicity, imperfect and impermanent, unfurling to the height of loveliness before falling to decay. A perfect allegory for nearly everything.

References:

1. Parkes, Graham. "Japanese Aesthetics." Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2008). Edward N. Zalta (ed).

2. Aesthetics in Asia - Japan a>

A Musing

• Squat toilets: the Asian toilet of choice. Being on the fourth floor of my school means using the kiddy toilets or walking up and down three flights of stairs every time I have to pee. They are tiny - either my aim is going to be legendary or one day I am going to pee all over my pants.



• I'm convinced that the Beatles were ESL teachers in another life.



• Statement I really hate: "You don't have to help him, he's slow."



• I get paid overtime for work done during my normal school hours.
  
  
• Yes. The answer is yes, they definitely eat dog in Korea.



• I'm really glad my co-teacher isn't into hitting students with sticks... although sometimes I would like to.



• Turns out drinking bottles of whiskey and eating dried fish with Korean business men is a really fun way to pass the time.



• While passing the time in the manner listed above I found an in with Korean Air... in the cargo department. So what if I can't get free tickets? I have been assured that if I ever need to ship my body home I can get a discount. Sweet.



• In Korea I am actually 24 years old. Here you are born one year old and everyone turns another year old at the new year. Therefore, on the new year in 1987 I turned two. I don't like this.



• It's been a month and I still only know about three Korean words. It's a bit pathetic but I swear I'd do better if Korean words weren't each one hundred syllables long! Case in point: hello - annyeonghaseyo thank you - kamsahamnida Ooo and here's a new favorite! excuse me - shillehagessumnida (I have NOT learned this one yet)


• I really love how you say hello on the phone in Korea - it sounds like YO-BO-SAY-O but you have to say it with the right tone. I wish people called me more just so I could say it...


• I really enjoy writing random lists, although figuring out how to end them is hard.

Nothingness

Awareness unfolds like petals and I climb slowly out of my sleep, emerging reluctantly from my subconscious. I crawl through that first instant of awareness, the moment when neither time or space or self exist, until I find myself tangled in bed sheets, face down on my pillow. Peering out of the haze filling my mind, I recognize the edges of sensation - softness, dimness, silence. I am anywhere in the world, or I am nowhere, for nowhere exists to me yet. In this moment before I recognize my existence, I am without place or time and I am no one. Standing on the peripheral of consciousness, it always feels the same.

The daylight melts away outside my window, casting shadows in orange and blue on my walls. I emerge on the other side and as far as I know I have awoken the same person who fell asleep an hour ago in her quiet apartment in Korea. I have woven this life, this person, from dreams however, just as surely as if I'd been the creation of an hour's sleep. I think about this moment for a long time, where everything and nothing are exactly the same, and I imagine there is some great truth lying in its shadow. I am drawn to that instant because deep down I seek nothing. There are things I want, surely, but I have no idea what they are. When waking I find contentment in the idea that seeking nothing will bring me everything, because in the end, it's all the same. And, if I don't know what I want for the future, my everything is after all, nothing to me yet.