Since rice cultivation started in the Yayoi period, the settlements were in the plains, which left mountain tops, small islands off the coast or other similar areas removed from human activities. These became the seats of the gods, the realm of deities, forbidden, sacred zones, known as go-shintai. Villages were often aligned to one of these seats, to a mountain top for example. If in the Western World, humans brought the seat of the deity, the mountain top, into the settlement, reproducing it in the form of the church for example, centring and building the village around its “mountain top” (in this case the church tower), the Japanese villages were built aligned to a religious axis, leading to sacred zones.
“In Japan people were looking for something invisible instead of a visible centre. This imperceptible centre seems to have been realised in the concept of the oku as the innermost, hidden zone of a special constellation surrounded by several layers of outer special areas.” Wolfgang Fehrer, The Japanese Teahouse
Since these sanctuaries were not visited, as usually far away and obviously forbidden of access, the concept of oku was developed. This is only a theory however, developed by Fumihiko Maki (Japanese City Spaces and the Concept of oku).
“Oku describes a hidden centre, a core or the innermost part of a spatial formation that seeks its symbolism in depth and concealment and unfolds primarily in a horizontal direction.” Wolfgang Fehrer, The Japanese Teahouse
This concept of “wrapping” spatial realms can be found in the relationship between the teahouse and tea garden as well. The teahouse, hidden in the midst of the garden which directs its approach and regulates the experience of the visitor, is the invisible centre around which the different layers, inner, outer areas and stations of the garden is “wrapped”. Gradually, the further one ventures into the garden, the teahouse becomes more apparent.
This journey the visitor finds itself on represents another aspect of oku in the context of the teahouse. Indeed, along with being a journey in the discovery of the inner sanctum, emulating the approach of shrines fenced off, this journey also expresses the psychological cleansing the visitor goes through when approaching the teahouse. And even beyond that, it’s also used to “express psychological depth as an abstract and esoteric concept. The view into the interior of the teahouse thus represents not only the direct sensual experience but also a view into the interior of the human self.” (Wolfgang Fehrer, The Japanese Teahouse). This is also why guests of a tea ceremony will follow a certain path in the tea garden before entering the teahouse, cleansing themselves both physically at different stations, like a fountain, and psychologically, through the just elaborated process.
It’s a perfect example, if not somewhat bombastic, of the Buddhist ideal of a journey. The temple itself is not physical, it’s the movement, the journey of the visitor which is the sacred element. Other religions seek out a physical element to pray before. This exists in Buddhism as well, but the real sacred element is the journey there, both psychological, and represented physically by this approach. (istockphoto.com)
Because of oku, the factors of approaching and passage have a long tradition with building. Even the shrine buildings in Shintoism are all about the approaching, since the centre is forbidden and cannot be seen anyway (much like the hashtag in our structure now). Indeed, these buildings are symbolic objects, remote places that can be approached but never reached, never entered.
“A torii (Japanese: 鳥居, [to.ɾi.i]) is a traditional Japanese gate most commonly found at the entrance of or within a Shinto shrine, where it symbolically marks the transition from the mundane to the sacred.” (Wikipedia)
Maki and Bognar thus theorize the concept of oku as a convergence towards zero.
Here we can begin the explanation of the shape of our anchoring structure in the natural knot: not only a trou de boulin, its shape is to delimit it as the zero, the forbidden oku centre of our structure, around which all the other elements are wrapped and depend on, statically as well as symbolically. We already mentioned its significance in relation to kukan and ma. Furthermore, the anchor structure lets a glimpse through, only symbolic fencing, which allows approaching, but never entering, thus in coherence with oku, and indeed, its ancient history relating to the earliest Shinto shrines.
Beyond that, the journey of the tea guest in the tea garden emulates the quest for Buddhist enlightenment, which can only be attained by a laborious stony path. This is why the approach to shrines and temples is a slow and gradual process, resulting from a build deep in the woods, the paths leading there being remote and entwined. Once again, this is why neither the teahouse or Japanese buildings in general are designed to be viewed as a whole from a distance. The spatial-temporal approach making it possible to perceive the building is designed to be step-by-step.
The roji, the garden path, refers to the first stage of meditation as well, the tea masters trying to inspire an uplifting above ordinary thoughts by the outlay of the garden. Some aimed at utter loneliness, like Rikyu, others for more complex feelings. The following citation from Okakura’s The Book of Tea puts this into words more virtuously than I could ever:
“[Rikyu] claimed the secret of making a roji as contained in the ancient ditty:
Others, like Kobori-Enshiu, sought for a different effect. Enshiu said the idea of the garden path was to be found in the following verses:
[…] he wished to create the attitude of a newly-awakened soul still lingering amid shadowy dreams of the past, yet bathing in the sweet unconsciousness of a mellow spiritual light, and yearning for the freedom that lay in the expanse beyond.” Kakuzo Okakura, The Book of Tea
On our site, we opted not to intervene in the natural disposition of vegetation, but rather, use the trees to create a unique roji ourselves. Indeed, to enter our ROOM, one has to use the fallen tree as path, a natural hanamachi, though we did not further dive into this notion, since the tree is natural, without any intervention on our side.
“More than just the way to a certain goal, the conscious experience of space under a time parameter is one of the most essential components of the Japanese spatial concept. Japan’s insularity and a high density of Japanese settlements may also have contributed to this development. A tradition of paradoxical aesthetics was the result, in which infinite expansion is represented by an extremely compressed space, suggesting eternity for a moment.” Tadao Ando
This citation is the fundamental theory behind our anchoring structure around the natural knot, emphasising its importance and status. For indeed, if it wasn’t for that all encompassing empty space, our ROOM would be impossible. Eternity is suggested in it, for a moment.