A Soft Bow in Praise of Shadows

From In Praise of Shadows, by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki. Pg. 11, 3^rd paragraph

There is no denying, at any rate, that among the elements of the elegance in which we take such delight is a measure of the unclean, the unsanitary. I suppose I shall sound terribly defensive if I say that Westerners attempt to expose every speck of grime and eradicate it, while we Orientals carefully preserve and even idealize it. Yet for better or for worse we do love things that bear the marks of grime, soot, and weather, and we love the colors and the sheen that call to mind the past that made them. Living in these old houses among these old objects is in some mysterious way a source of peace and repose.

Some time last year, I read a short essay on Japanese aesthetic sensibility written by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, titled In Praise of Shadows.¹ It is a savory read that elegantly and carefully balances reflection and explanation. It exposes an Asian —particularly Japanese— sensibility for beauty from a decidedly nostalgic (yet somehow not overly preachy) perspective. I must, like my friend Alberto, recommend it to my friends and colleagues in creative fields, but I do encourage anybody even remotely interested in aesthetics, design, Asian cultures or beauty to find a copy and devour it.

One thing that took me by surprise was how many of the things that the writer describes as being so intrinsically Oriental, or even Japanese, struck me as terribly familiar. Somewhere between the loving descriptions of dark corners, old pottery, wooden floors and moderate lighting, I was taken back over two decades to a time when, if I was lucky, the floor would creak under my feet, the shadows were rich and textured, the walls were exhaustingly full of family photos, and everything —absolutely everything— had a history that made it. It was an old house full of old things that, in some mysterious way, was a place of peace, of repose.

I grew up in a small ward near where Santurce meets OId San Juan in the island of Puerto Rico, Miramar. It is a beautiful, historical zone that owes its ever-tranquil serenity to narrow streets, remnants of turn-of-the-century architecture and a decidedly small-town feel conducive to long walks, while elsewhere in the city everyone prefers to drive. Near the apartment building I grew up in, just off 656 Miramar Ave., there was a big wood house under an overwhelmingly thick canopy of greenery that turned the harshest daylight into a dim glow casting soft shadows, and made any time of day feel like dusk. I was young, too little to now remember with any sense of certainty, but I seem to remember that the wood was so dark as to appear almost black; no doubt an effect brough upon by the rich shadows of the huge, old trees surrounding the house.

That house was always cool to the touch, always dimly lit and always full of creaks and ruffling and shuffling. Everything in it looked used and dignified, as if the years of wear and tear gave them their value. And I suppose that, in a time when the world was already well on its way towards adopting a lifestyle of disposability, the years of wear and tear did, in fact, give these objects a stoic character that was quickly becoming rare. In a word, the house and everything in it, was rich. I remember this house with a loving warmth, and —out of the so very few things I regret in life— never visiting that house as an adult before it was torn down must be in the top three things I could never forgive myself for.

I wasn’t related to the old lady that lived there. Nevertheless, she was a welcoming neighbor and I was a nosy kid, and so I spent many an afternoon inside and around the old house, with my eternally gracious hostess and sometimes her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. And no matter how many people were in the house at any one time, it always seemed —if not quiet— serene; like the weight of the old air, the old sounds and the old things inside the old house somehow gave everything an old pause. A pause I have very rarely experienced in my adult life, and one I hope to find again eventually.