So here we find ourselves, in a realm of contradiction once again. But my next inquiry is now questioning, whether this truly is contradiction. I am beginning to wonder if it is less so contradiction but more so a notion of balance. Perhaps it is more so tension that is achieved between two polar opposites. I would even venture forth to say that perhaps the phenomenon Koshiro is referring to is synthesis, a fusion allowing an exchange and dialogue to take place between simplicity and complexity.

A typical framework in the understanding of two extremes is that in a middle point where two radicals come together, instead of culminating in a greater combination, one often reaches dilution. The end result is not greater but a grey area that is a certain percentage of this component and an even lesser percentage of the other component. However, it is my belief that in the spectrum between simplicity and complexity, there is a point of tension and balance that exists that facilitates both of these extremes equally. One may dub this perhaps, a fine line between both catalysts. So in his preference for simplicity, I believe Koshiro was actually seeking just enough complexity to hold that balance. He too perhaps was seeking a middle point that occupied a simple space yet facilitated just enough complexity to keep it rich and compelling.

So I continue to wonder out loud, how exactly such a contradictory case can take place. The paradox of appreciating a simplicity that ultimately is very complex seems a daunting notion to approach. But I believe that understanding and articulating this synthesis has many implications for design, art, and the practice of shaping experiences for others. It is in this careful yet contradictory balancing point that I feel exists an encounter simultaneously engaging and powerful.

Returning to the notion of simplicity, I wonder now, is it truly a simple simplicity Koshiro is referring to? I think there is a natural tendency to assume that in allowing nature to take its course, things can remain simple. This was a large tenet of the Zen Buddhism that fueled Koshiro’s philosophy and even more so, a larger notion of Japanese aesthetics as a whole. It often manifests itself into a process of letting things happen as opposed to forcing them. It is about letting growth take place as opposed to forced creation. But I think the actual phenomenon of letting nature take its course, is actually fantastically complicated. It is truly simple, yet extremely complicated. There are many simple illustrations that may aid in explaining this. If one were to let their garden grow unattended to for an extended period of time, depending on how one views it, one will come across a growth that may often defy explanation. The end result may consist of a complex network of growth that happened naturally as opposed to being treated, cured or forced. Another example may be the natural decay and erosion that takes place over time in any situation, neighborhood, residence, or city. Overtime, life will do what it does. And it seems to me that this is where that balance may be seen. It is truly simple to allow life to take its course, but this course often times is more than doubly complicated.

It seems though, even this may tip the scale too far in one direction. Complexity unleashed also creates chaos generating perhaps a sense of un-control. So thus, we return to our words tension and balance. As seemingly powerful as the simplicity found in the natural is, chaos and turbulence also are means for breaking what made simple to begin with. So we look to seek that balance again. Returning to the example of the untreated garden, we may look to this as perhaps the fine line that we seek. In the tending of Japanese tea gardens, there truly exists an interesting tension point between intervention and growth. The fine line lives here between allowing things to take place naturally and halting them before they begin. In her essay, Japanese Gardens: The Art of Improving Nature, Yuriko Saito notes similarities in both Western and Japanese gardens in sharing the same goal of “representing an ideal image of nature by improving upon nature as it exists in its untouched state. They are created to deliver nature in its ideal form, something nature cannot accomplish by itself.” She goes on to note that this ideal form manifested in the Japanese garden “respects nature in a unique and specific way…Japanese gardens, while avoiding symmetry or geometrical design, do consist of meticulously pruned trees and strategically and artistically arranged rocks. It is precisely through such manipulation of natural materials that nature is believed to express itself more eloquently in Japanese gardens than in untouched nature.” It is this ideal form that seems to occupy a tenuous space between the simple and the complex that captures the power existing in nature untouched. It has been observed that these gardens, although created to look very natural, have taken just as much time and meticulous control as their western counterparts. But it is this meticulous control that has been able to create such intriguing tension and balance. (Saito 45)

The Japanese monk Yoshida Kenko speaks similarly much of this tenuous balance in many of his writings found in Tsurezuregusa, which translates to Essays in Idleness. In Section 82, he writes, “In everything, no matter what it may be, uniformity is undesirable. Leaving something incomplete makes it interesting, and gives one the feeling that there is room for growth.” In Section 137, he writes, “In all things, it is the beginnings and ends that are interesting…The moon that appears close to dawn after we have long awaited for it moves us more profoundly than the full moon shining cloudless over a thousand leagues.” In both of these observations, it seems he is appreciative of the simplicity and naturalness of nature. And yet, his observations are even doubly appreciative of the complex aspects of these natural occurrences. He describes an incomplete book set as being much more interesting than a complete book set. He feels that the unfinished is that much more intriguing than something finite and resolved. Similarly he is captivated by the beginnings and the ends. Transitory moments that are climactic and contain build up are more enthralling in his eyes. He not only discusses the moon and its rise and fall, but also of natural patterns in nature like the seasonal transitions of cherry blossoms. It seems that here too, we find that these moments of balance, tension, suspense, are much more mesmerizing than when things are so simple as to be transparent. When the mystery is gone, where is the allure? (Kenko 82, 137)

So then what of this simplicity that is ultimately complex? What of this synthesis or balance point that captures both? How do we see this utilized and articulated in design? It is a question that continues to intrigue and fascinate me. And so far, it continues to remain as a question for I’m not certain that a definitive answer exists. But as the examples above illustrate, I’m convinced there is a certain inherent sensibility in Japanese aesthetics both traditional and contemporary that elucidate this phenomenon of synthesis. And I continue to grapple with a means to further articulate this and find application for it in the process of graphic design.

Donald Keene describes four important notion in Wabi aesthetics to note, “suggestion, irregularity, simplicity, and perishability.” It is an interesting breakdown of some of the notions we discussed previously, especially in light of the simplicity complexity spectrum. I say this because out of those four terms, besides simplicity, I find the other three very heavy in complexity. Suggestion speaks to suspense, the implied, mystery, and build up. Irregularity speaks to the unconventional, the unpredictable, and the unknown. Perishability speaks to transience, frailty, and the fleeting nature of life. All of these are very complex notions. (Keene 29)

He then goes on to write that the, “Japanese seem to have been aware that the full moon (or the full flowering of a tree), however lovely, blocks the play of the imagination…Beginnings suggest what is to come, or ends suggest what has been, allow the imagination to roam to expand beyond the literal facts to the limits of the capacities of the reader of a poem, the spectator at a No play, or the connoisseur of a monochrome painting.” This may be a good departure point for our first discussion of Wabi aesthetics as applied to graphic design. For I see that there is something extremely powerful and complex in the ability of simplicity to maintain suggestion. (Keene 31)

In graphic design, I see suggestion as a crucial experience. It is a welcome moment to take in communication and enjoy lyrical moments in it. The understated and not so obvious add much to any type of communication exchange. Similar to the cinematography taking place in film noir, there is a power that lurks in the shadows. The dark, unknown and mysterious go far in the addition of suspense and depth. In graphic design, I was always drawn to the power of typography that took me a little longer to digest. Or in album covers where I could seemingly become lost for hours, days and revisit every time as if it were my first. But there was always a necessity for balance here too. For everything that was complex enough to provide this suspense, there needed to be an element of simplicity to balance and level the experience. In much of his earlier work, David Carson explored the limits of typography to tenuous extremes. His typography often bordered the fine lines of legibility. And there was an element of excitement to be perceived yet at times seemed perhaps too much. For in the chaotic movements of his type treatments, the messaging was sometimes lost and the experience became too much to handle. In some ways, the simplicity and restraint that we observe as enabling tension and balance is crucially missing. It seems that like the untethered garden of which we refer to before, nature uncontrolled has provided an experience difficult to capture.

So where do we find the balance then? Where is this middle point? I believe that often times, simplicity of a very complex nature can find this. I see this in the photographic work of contemporary Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. His photography make heavy use of the powers of suggestion yet provide enough restraint to allow and facilitate for an exchange of experiences to take place. In one study of his, he captured the intriguing effect of leaving his camera’s exposure open during the entire duration of a film and capturing the theater during this time. The end result is a glowing white screen and the theater in isolation. The end result is powerful and mysterious yet extremely focused. By eliminating the crowd of the theater and allowing us to focus singularly on the glowing exposed screen, we are enthralled and captivated by the layers and depths this simple photograph possesses. It is strong in suggestion yet not overpoweringly chaotic or ambiguous. The tension here is served and served well. He has captured a similar effect in a series of studies he articulated through horizon shots of oceans around the world. The set up of the shot is relatively simple. With the horizon line directly framed in the middle of the photograph, all we see is an empty expanse of the ocean. He described his process as an attempt to see the oceans as prehistoric man might have seen them. It is a desire for simplicity with just enough elements of the complex. We are familiar with the subject, but his capturing and framing of the sea is an exercise in pinpoint control. It seems he has found that balance for in this large expanse that one may perceive as very simple, the layers, depths and mystery of the sea come alive to us in a manner we may not have experienced before. (Sugimoto 77)

Similarly Kenya Hara has explored these notions as well in visual communications. For his work with the MUJI brand emphasizes a notion of “this will do” as opposed to “I want this”. He speaks of a graphic design that is content, natural, and working with its environment. He also speaks of creating graphic design as an open vessel for communication. Emptiness is what he dubs this. It is a fascinating concept, for in this day of heavy messaging, heavy branding and heavy notions of sales and advertising, what ever happened to a notion of suggestion? Does anyone allow viewers and consumers to invest themselves into a communication anymore? He has created a miniature forum and experience for an exchange and dialogue to take place. His work, often restrained to a point of very minimal expression are stunning in their ability to convey complexity. On first glance one may perceive a minimal and subdued nature but upon closer inspection, one finds something a deeper and equally engaging. (Hara 238)

But how can we enunciate from these examples as practicing graphic designers? It seems a difficult task indeed. Finding this balance is perhaps the result of years of practice and articulation. Graphic designer Martin Venezky, who similar to David Carson explored challenging levels of legibility and chaos as a means to form-making pondered the challenges of restraint and balance. He writes, “Too often the devil of decay whispers in my ear. He’ll encourage me to dwell on endings of things at their moment of birth. This chatter dampens vacations and dinners out; even my favorite songs are drowned out by my fast-forward mind.” Here he discusses the joys that Kenko discusses in Essays on Idleness. He notes the beginnings and the ends and the power they contain. Yet he also discusses here that perhaps he takes too much joy in these moments of mystery. The “devil of decay” being the key instigator to many explorations into the very complex. Here, the very complex has steered perhaps too far in a direction where simplicity is no longer felt. (Venezky 10)

So if it is a balance that we seek how does one find this and how does one maintain this? It seems a difficult task indeed. As can be seen, the potential to veer too far is ever present. But it seems that Kenya Hara and similarly Sugimoto have been able to achieve this balance to some degree of success. In consuming either of their work, one can truly ascertain a distinct level of both simplicity and complexity. A tension truly exists in their work. And it seems that for quite some time, there has existed a rich tradition of this tension existing within Japanese aesthetics. From gardens, to tea ceremonies, to lacquer ware and even the construction of spaces, it seems that there is a well thought out process. And perhaps this is where we can begin to discover a certain set of keys to unlocking these balance and tension. In all of Keene’s observations pertaining to suggestion, imperfection, simplicity and perishability, one over arching theme that seems to be very present in terms of Japanese aesthetics is the notion of experience. It seems that from the beginning to end, the entire presentation, the entire process, the entire step-through that a user, visitor, customer or guest goes through has all been thought out. His or her experience has been designed down to the very minutest details. From the tea ceremony, to the visual experience of the garden even to the slight imperfections of tea ware, it seems that the Japanese have focused on a visceral and deep interaction to take place. Everything along these paths is communicating to some capacity. From the pathway to the teahouse to the entrance and even to the actual way in which one may sip tea, every possible detail it seems has been thought out. The same can be said of architectural spaces, paintings, poetry and design. There has been a careful sensitivity and thought given to the participant that perhaps has realized this balance. Similar to Hara’s philosophy on design, there exists a dialog and exchange that takes place in the interaction in all of these experiences.