Envelopes
The opening sentence of Hojoki is an expression of mujo, the transience of things, and it echoes the succinct aphorism panta rhei, ‘everything flows’, which is attributed to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus:
The course of the river never ceases; the water never stays the same. Bubbles that float on the surface of pools disappear, form again, but never last for long. And so it is with people in this world and their dwellings.
The late 12th century in Japan, when Hojoki was written by Kamo no Chomei, was a turbulent time; ruinous earthquakes, fires, storms and famine were exacerbated by political upheaval and fighting in the streets. Chomei saw Kyoto wrecked by convulsions in which ‘mountains crumbled’ and rivers were filled rubble; later, as disease and death spread, he found starved and dead bodies strewn in the streets. Appalled by the suffering and anguish all around him, Chomei decided to leave the capital and pursue a contemplative life in the countryside. His short book describes how, as a poet and musician born into a family of Shinto priests, he relinquished his privilege and built a simple hut in the hills of Hino. In contrast to the copious account of calamities that fills Hojoki’s early pages, its second part is a description of the great pleasure he found in retirement and his new home, a ‘brief dwelling’, to which, as a Buddhist, he worried about becoming overly attached.
Hojoki takes its name from hojo, an architectural term that refers to a jo, a ten-foot square. The word suggests a small, cell-like space that is often used as a monk’s living quarters, especially in the Zen tradition. Chomei’s hut followed that plan; along one wall was his bed, made of dried bracken, and to hand were his musical instruments, a lute and koto, and a shelf that held some manuscripts and books. He cooked outside, under the hut’s three-foot awning. It was there that Chomei realised that happiness and contentment can only be found in peace of mind:
I love my tiny hut, my lonely dwelling. When I chance to go down into the capital, I am ashamed of my lowly beggar status, but once back here again I pity those who chase after the sordid rewards of the world. If any doubt my words, let them look to the fish and the birds. Fish never tire of water, a state incomprehensible to any but fish. The bird’s desire for the forest makes sense to none but birds. And so it is with the pleasure of seclusion. Who but one who lives it can understand its joys?
Also born in Japan, but at the beginning of the 20th century, Kouzaki Hiromu took up carpentry as a youth and eventually became a master builder; following a period of comparative idleness in retirement - he liked to call it ‘television work’ - Kouzaki decided that he wanted to keep himself busy. He began by making menko cards with old wrapping paper, and then turned his attention to envelopes, which he shaped elegantly and constructed with great care. He worked almost incessantly, spending his days folding, cutting, thinning, and glueing, using a variety of sharp knives and all kinds of discarded paper. It was Fujii Sakuko, his granddaughter, who was later responsible for bringing these plain but evocative artifacts to public attention in Japan, publishing a book about them, Grandfather’s Envelopes, and lending some to occasional exhibitions. About 4000, made between 1982 and 1997, were displayed at one show, stacked on shelves and arrayed on long tables. Most were plain grey or brown, their patterns and print usually hidden but sometimes visible, like ghostly memories. Occasionally they were made up from fragments, or from magazine images, with consequent flashes of colour.
The American poet Emily Dickinson, known for her love of solitude, implicitly challenged 19th century assumptions about the roles of women in society; through her self-imposed retirement and seclusion she effectively cut herself off from marriage, motherhood, and a conventional position in the community. By dismissing the idea of publishing her poetry commercially as an ‘auction of the mind’, she also turned her back on the possibility of developing a professional reputation. It was generally held then, as it is now, that it is more fruitful and satisfying to live in the ‘real’ world than to confine oneself to a room and dream about it, more desirable to experience love with another person than to imagine it in solitude, but Dickinson thought otherwise. Although in the eyes of others she may have been doing little and avoiding commitment, Dickinson must surely have felt that she was living fully, exploring the subtlest minutiae and most dramatic extremes of inner life. Her poetry suggests as much, demonstrating that the mind can become an infinitely expansive space, ‘wider than the Sky’, more varied and abundant than the whole earth, and that seclusion is not always a withdrawal from life but a plausible way of progressing beyond its restrictions, of escaping from the world’s emphasis on social responsibility, work, and economic usefulness.
At least one of her work dresses had a large pocket on its right side, where a short pencil might be found, with which she would take notes and write poetry. Some of these spontaneous poems were written on small, irregularly-shaped scraps of paper cut from used envelopes that had been carefully prised apart and flattened out; others were inscribed, in her fluid but perplexing handwriting, on torn corners of envelopes and detached flaps. A beautiful book, The Gorgeous Nothings, reproduces many of them. These extraordinary and enigmatic objects are of course forms of poetry, literary creations, but they also have strong presence as objects, as crafted things. Their worldly use has been drained from them, but in its place is the mysterious energy which is the fruit of the time that Dickinson spent away from the world, writing, daydreaming, and ‘doing nothing’.
For further exploration:
Grandfather’s Envelopes: https://thedouglashyde.ie/exhibition/grandfathers-envelopes-gallery-2/
The Gorgeous Nothings: https://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/06/books/the-gorgeous-nothings-shows-dickinsons-envelope-poems.html
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/70065/studies-in-scale
One of Emily Dickinson’s pencils