桜
I haven't taken very many pictures of cherry blossoms. Every time I see them I feel an anticipatory pang of loss, and with it a little rush of guilt that I haven't taken the time to go out with my camera and spend time trying to capture the blossoms before they vanish.
And yet, there's something other than simple laziness holding me back. A Google image search for "cherry blossoms" gets 1,040,000 hits. I had seen many gorgeous pictures of cherry blossoms before coming to Japan, and because of that, I had been fully expecting the whole sakura thing to feel overrated: like oh, it's cute that the Japanese people get so excited over these relatively pretty trees, and it's a good excuse for festivals and celebrating the beginning of spring by going outside and sitting under the blossoms...but I mean, they're just flowers. I've seen lots of flowering trees before. I've taken pictures of flowering trees before. I was expecting to acknowledge that the cherry blossoms were quite pretty, and to take a few pictures, and wonder exactly what the whole fuss was about, and chalk it up as an interesting cultural phenomenon.
But here is what all the glimpses I'd caught of cherry trees in the past, all the zillions of pictures I'd seen, even all the talk of flower viewing festivals in the spring had failed to prepare me for: These trees are everywhere. The large tree in the parking lot next to my house -- cherry tree. The little trees lining the side of the main road through Kasumi -- cherry trees. They dot the mountainsides. They arch over the steps up to the shrine behind my house. They hover outside the window of the train at every station. They are everywhere, and I had no idea. Until suddenly -- so suddenly! -- there they were, and everywhere you looked was soft and pink and fluttery. Like someone decided on a whim to take the brush, dip it in white and pink paint, and add the highlights that had been missing from the world.
And already, green is beginning to take over, more and more of the petals are on the ground becoming muddy and wilted. They'll probably be gone within a week, and I don't think I'm going to take any more pictures of them. I know I am not the first person to realize this, but somehow it hadn't occurred to me before: the cherry blossoms aren't beautiful in a way that can be captured in photographs. They're temporal art, ephemeral; their power involves the flow of time and how they come and go. Yes, they're gorgeous -- but taking pictures, in some way, just misses the point. And I think that's why I know, even as I feel those pangs of loss, that the loss is part of the beauty, and I want to experience the blossoms within the movement of time, without trying to freeze them.
So you won't see any big album of cherry blossom photos on my facebook page. But if you ever want to begin to understand them, then come to Japan -- not in the spring, but say, in January or so. Spend a couple of months shivering under a kotatsu wondering how long you can wait before plunging into the cold to get yourself a glass of water. Drive along the narrow gray roads under low clouds drizzling rain and sleet for what feels like weeks in a row. Wait until you feel like winter will never end. And then...then you'll know how beautiful cherry blossoms really are.
ただ例えれば
実る果実の 芳しく眩い香りも
ひとつ季節彩り
そっと枯れ落ちたとて。。。
And yet, there's something other than simple laziness holding me back. A Google image search for "cherry blossoms" gets 1,040,000 hits. I had seen many gorgeous pictures of cherry blossoms before coming to Japan, and because of that, I had been fully expecting the whole sakura thing to feel overrated: like oh, it's cute that the Japanese people get so excited over these relatively pretty trees, and it's a good excuse for festivals and celebrating the beginning of spring by going outside and sitting under the blossoms...but I mean, they're just flowers. I've seen lots of flowering trees before. I've taken pictures of flowering trees before. I was expecting to acknowledge that the cherry blossoms were quite pretty, and to take a few pictures, and wonder exactly what the whole fuss was about, and chalk it up as an interesting cultural phenomenon.
But here is what all the glimpses I'd caught of cherry trees in the past, all the zillions of pictures I'd seen, even all the talk of flower viewing festivals in the spring had failed to prepare me for: These trees are everywhere. The large tree in the parking lot next to my house -- cherry tree. The little trees lining the side of the main road through Kasumi -- cherry trees. They dot the mountainsides. They arch over the steps up to the shrine behind my house. They hover outside the window of the train at every station. They are everywhere, and I had no idea. Until suddenly -- so suddenly! -- there they were, and everywhere you looked was soft and pink and fluttery. Like someone decided on a whim to take the brush, dip it in white and pink paint, and add the highlights that had been missing from the world.
And already, green is beginning to take over, more and more of the petals are on the ground becoming muddy and wilted. They'll probably be gone within a week, and I don't think I'm going to take any more pictures of them. I know I am not the first person to realize this, but somehow it hadn't occurred to me before: the cherry blossoms aren't beautiful in a way that can be captured in photographs. They're temporal art, ephemeral; their power involves the flow of time and how they come and go. Yes, they're gorgeous -- but taking pictures, in some way, just misses the point. And I think that's why I know, even as I feel those pangs of loss, that the loss is part of the beauty, and I want to experience the blossoms within the movement of time, without trying to freeze them.
So you won't see any big album of cherry blossom photos on my facebook page. But if you ever want to begin to understand them, then come to Japan -- not in the spring, but say, in January or so. Spend a couple of months shivering under a kotatsu wondering how long you can wait before plunging into the cold to get yourself a glass of water. Drive along the narrow gray roads under low clouds drizzling rain and sleet for what feels like weeks in a row. Wait until you feel like winter will never end. And then...then you'll know how beautiful cherry blossoms really are.
実る果実の 芳しく眩い香りも
ひとつ季節彩り
そっと枯れ落ちたとて。。。
posted by Ashila at 12:41 AM
2 Comments:
You know it's funny, the closest thing we have here in Chicago are the white flowers we get off of some of the elm trees that are around the houses here. Oddly enough, while they're lovely and all, and I know what you mean by art, I still think fall leaves match Cherry blossoms.
Really if you get to wander one of the forest preserves around here in the fall,or Grant Park, you have a ton of these elegant red, orange, brown, and maroon colored leaves that just flutter down and crunch under foot. There's just something about them that really makes you want to keep time still.
I know sakura blossoms are consistered so much prettier then fall leaves, but there's just something about the fall colors after a long hot summer that gives you a warm feeling. Then the cold sets in and you wish for that heat, but if luck is with you, you get the indian summer that mixes summer and fall all in one swirl of art.
Maybe it's just me, but if cherry blossoms are something temporary, a peice of art that's there for a breif while, then fall leaves are it's distant cousin who seems to draw out time and remind you by clinging on till even it starts to snow, that time while it moves on, can drift and one need not rush for it to end.
At least that's how I've always seen it. Sorry if it seems a bit odd.
*hugs*
I think you're right -- the fall leaves have the same transient thing going on. And they're also a big deal in Japan; in the fall people go to view the leaves much like they go to view the cherry blossoms in the spring. The way people talk about it, at least people I've heard talk about it, all they'll say is how beautiful the leaves/blossoms themselves are, but I think in fact both of them get a lot of their power from how they come and go and mark transitions. I hadn't actually thought of that parallel explicitly, but you're totally right.
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