Wabi-sabi

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese phrase that doesn't translate easily, but on a simple level it refers to a culture that finds true beauty in imperfection. The philosophy accepts the cycle of growth, decay and death we try not to think about in the West.  Wabi-sabi celebrates the marks of time on useful things. I considered this yesterday while (once again) scraping moss and crud off the brick "patio" we discovered buried under grass when we moved here in 1981.  Most people would have ripped it out long ago to make something "nice," and I've been tempted to do that many times.  There's a fine line between rustic and grungy. 

To the Japanese, having "interest" is the difference between pretty and beautiful.  It is the exact opposite of the Greek ideal of beauty, which requires total (and impossible) perfection. In Japan, if a natural or human-made object brings about a sense of "serene melancholy and spiritual longing" then it is said to be wabi-sabi. Well, I was a bit melancholy out on my knees yesterday!

From a modern design point of view, wabi-sabi means the tiny imperfect quality of an object. In America, we seek it in antique stores and try to manufacture it in distressed furnishings. It is not found at Ikea or Costco except on the faces of some shoppers, and we're usually too distracted to notice them.

The Sabi word by itself means "the bloom of time." It's the beauty of things modest, humble and unconventional. Weathered wood, an old pot, musty geraniums, a used saddle, a beloved garden structure gradually collapsing in on itself all have sabi. The natural progression of things that once sparkled new and bright take on a more profound beauty as they age: tarnish, hoariness, peeling, scuffs, wrinkles, moss, rust.  Sabi things carry the burden of their years with grace, like sabi people.

Then combine the two words-- sabi is rusty and weathered, and wabi means humble and simple.  So is the sabi-wabi home full of grimy old stuff? What makes the cut are things which are both useful and beautifully aged.  The afghan someone dear made long ago, worn books you still love to read, dishes from a passed grandma, a pretty rug-- not valuable but something you've taken care of for years. An old knife, carefully sharpened. But tattered and dusty doesn't make an object worthy of veneration.  Wabi-sabi is never messy or slovenly. It is never lazy. When a bed is neatly made, the beauty of the old quilt shines. Worn things, no matter how valuable or rich the patina, can never show their magic in a house that is cluttered or dirty.

Wabi-sabi has also been described as an "aesthetic appreciation of poverty." This is not the pitiful, frightening poverty we dread so much when thinking about having less. It is more about removing the huge burden of material concerns from our lives.  Having wabi is to be satisfied with less. The inessentials are trimmed away, and simple living is revered.