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This lecture is called Japanese Beauty because there is a unique, distinct, and special understanding of beauty in Japan. It is very alluring, very mysterious, and very cool. And today we will finally figure it out together.
Explore the unique Japanese concept of beauty through the tokonoma niche, aesthetics, language, and cultural parallels in art and photography.
Key Takeaways
- Japanese beauty is deeply tied to cultural context, language, and social propriety.
- The tokonoma serves as a symbolic space for curated, minimalistic art that changes with seasons and guests.
- Presentation and framing elevate objects to art, a concept shared by traditional niches and modern galleries.
- Japanese aesthetic concepts like wabi-sabi, shibui, and iki offer nuanced views on imperfection, restraint, and human behavior.
- Understanding Japanese aesthetics enriches appreciation of photography, art, and cultural expressions.
What the video covers
- The lecture explores the distinct and alluring concept of Japanese beauty, focusing on cultural aesthetics and mindset.
- Introduces the tokonoma, a traditional Japanese niche for displaying art objects, emphasizing minimalism and seasonal changes.
- Discusses how objects in the tokonoma are carefully chosen to reflect propriety, taste, and respect for guests.
- Draws parallels between the tokonoma and modern art galleries, highlighting the presentation and framing of art.
- Explores Japanese aesthetic vocabulary and concepts beyond wabi-sabi, including shibui and iki, relating to taste and behavior.
- Examines how Japanese aesthetics influence modern photography and artistic presentation.
- Highlights the importance of context, subtlety, and social cues in Japanese taste and aesthetics.
- Mentions contemporary examples like glass tea rooms and ikebana photography that embody traditional aesthetics.
- Touches on the philosophy of imperfection, restraint, and the beauty of moments in Japanese art and culture.
- Connects Japanese aesthetics to Western influences, such as Zen Buddhism’s impact on modern art and music.
Chapters
- 00:00Introduction to Japanese Beauty and Tokonoma
- 07:07Modern Interpretations and Parallels of Tokonoma
- 14:10Japanese Aesthetic Vocabulary and Concepts
- 20:59Social and Cultural Contexts of Japanese Taste
- 27:48Philosophy of Imperfection and Restraint
- 35:15Japanese Aesthetics in Photography and Art
- 45:32Zen Influence and Contemporary Artistic Expressions
- 53:08Conclusion and Course Information
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
Speaker A
Chapter one. Tokonoma and the white cube. In any Japanese house, well, any self-respecting home, there is such a place, a kind of niche. Here it is depicted in the picture closer to the window, which is called a tokonoma. And
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the purpose of this niche is very interesting. Something beautiful is displayed there, right? Take a close look. Some scroll with a painting, some bouquet, maybe a beautiful ikebana, maybe a vase, or something like that.
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It’s such a neat little thing. By the way, note that in a traditional house, it is positioned in such a way that it is located somewhere near a window. Yes, so that light hits it beautifully and nicely, showing off the things placed
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there. Right. And today, our lecture will serve largely as a glossary. We will learn many Japanese words because they define the mindset, and as a consequence, the choices and aesthetics of these people. So, it is a space above the floor, a platform, a raised
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floor, a gap, a niche in the wall of a Japanese house. First of all, these were tea rooms. What is a tea room? A formal room, sort of like a living room. And as a rule, there would be some
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beautiful scroll, maybe some flowers, perhaps some ceramics, or something else. It appeared in the 15th century and by the 16th century it became mandatory for a tea house, for an aesthetic one. But in principle, in many houses where wealthy people lived,
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it existed—always one scroll, one vase, sometimes just a vase, meaning a certain minimalism in what is displayed there. But the most interesting thing is that this little museum of a Japanese house is not permanent. That is, the host chooses what goes into it,
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for instance, tailored to a guest. When guests come to you, for their sake, you place an item with a hint there, or something seasonal. In spring, there is one thing, in autumn another, or maybe something for the holidays. And the
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guest first of all approaches the tokonoma and "reads" it, soaking in that choice, looking at what is there.
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A very interesting tradition. Here is how these niches looked in old houses, back in the 15th-16th centuries. Well yes, it was a bit dark back then for the Japanese. And here is how it can look now, for example. By the way,
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it’s obvious that this composition is dedicated to spring, right? And it’s clear here, apparently, it has blossomed. Blossomed. Okay. And a very interesting question, since such a niche existed in many noble houses, in tea houses, in different places, of
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course, Japanese people were always worried about such a question: they really love propriety, for everything to be good and correct, right? What makes an object in a niche exquisite, and what makes it vulgar? Well, in principle, this is the root of all
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Japanese taste and aesthetics. And now we will find that out. But to translate it into our language, into the local language of our time, you know the interest of this channel, photography.
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So, I will ask a parallel question. Why can the same shot, taken with the same camera, have two completely different statuses depending on who showed it, where, and why? And it’s true, it is.
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There are a lot of arguments on this topic. Take my Telegram channel, for instance; what if an ordinary, unknown photographer posted that there? Right.
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That is an interesting question, indeed. And there is a wonderful book called Stillness. I really like it. I have this album. It is dedicated to certain interiors, and not even so much to the interiors as to the aesthetic
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sensations from them. And on its cover is this wonderful corner of a room with a window. And now we know that this is also perhaps a bit modernized, but essentially it is a tokonoma. Yes, there is a beautiful vase with a branch,
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and it plays its own aesthetic role. We couldn't resist, and although it wasn't easy, we found this space and managed to stay there for a while to feel it all for ourselves. This is the cover of the book, and these are our
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photos. I even shot a small series there, impressed by this house and the sensations that are there, of photos.
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And you know, there it is, on the left, that is the very tokonoma. Now we know what it's called, with a beautiful vase. Right. And so, this question was very interesting; it became a kind of trigger, and I wanted to figure it all
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out. And while looking into this, we came to some very surprising discoveries, which I will share with you today. So, this lecture is called Beauty, Japanese-Style. It won’t be exactly about wabi-sabi that you might be expecting, though that also has its
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place. Moss, cracks with gold, cups with uneven edges. There is a whole lecture about this in the "Modern Language of Photography" course, which starts soon; the link is below. And it's called The Beauty of the Mistake.
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But today we won't approach this through objects, we'll approach it through words. We will study and look at the vocabulary and terms, and understand how the Japanese language labels bad taste and good taste, and why. And this is very interesting. I
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became interested in this. I started studying and looking into it because I regularly research and look up various Japanese words and terms. And I stumbled upon some truly amazing things. But first, before we go there, one more interesting parallel, an
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observation—yes, here it is, the tokonoma. A place to display something that is undoubtedly more of an object to be admired. Yes, you admire it. It is not for utility, it's not householdware; it's a gallery. That’s a direct parallel—a modern gallery
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where a photograph is exhibited. By the way, this is the Time Gallery in Ginza.
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The works are hanging there in Japan. We were there. And there is a work on display. It is lit from below, actually. And most importantly, the space around it is organized in such a way that it is impossible to perceive this
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photograph as anything other than a work of art. Everything is concentrated right here. And this parallel between the niche, which the Japanese invented back in the 15th century, and modern galleries is amazing, right? I mean, we arrived at the same point, just not as
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quickly. Nowadays, contemporary art is very well-framed, presented, and showcased. For example, this sculpture is in the courtyard; you can't go out into the yard, but you see it through the window, and the light plays on it in different ways. And thus, you
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immediately realize it's made for you to look at. Your attention is focused on this object. And automatically, it becomes a different experience, a different perception. The object attains the status of art. Or take this tea room made of glass. And it's quite
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amazing, it’s located in the middle of the water. A small bridge leads there. It's all glass, and you could say it's a sculpture in itself, or an architectural statement, but, in theory, you can even crawl inside through a
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small door. Yes. And you can perfectly well hold a ceremony there or just sit.
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And undoubtedly, this glass cube really focuses your attention on what's inside. You sit there—for instance, there’s a restaurant, you look out from the restaurant or cafe windows directly at this landscape. This is Naoshima Island. And you see that very
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cube, and you think, right, there's something standing there. Perhaps it gets changed sometimes, right? And it would be great to sit there, of course.
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Yeah. We also have this approach where the place itself adds beauty, for example, look at "Mokhbyuro," these wonderful guys in Moscow who make very cool bouquets and ikebana, completely original ones. And what do they do? For their Instagram, they photograph these
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flowers in the same kind of tokonoma, right? They have a corner of their loft that is decorated this way, specifically made for it. And in this corner, they display various bouquets and photograph them.
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the Japanese tradition, and most likely , they made this tokonoma consciously. But it’s an interesting point, how this place focuses attention on the bouquet. In 1976, Brian O'Doherty wrote his famous essay, "Inside the White Cube." What is that exactly? The white
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cube was this idea for galleries. A clean, white space that focuses me on a piece of art. It works just as it should. Galleries didn't become like this immediately. Originally, they were old interiors with many distracting things that hindered the perception of
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art, and modern art, in particular, looked strange there. And then, trendy galleries appeared in the late sixties in London, "White Cubes," that became literal white cubes, spaces for exhibiting. He talks about how the gallery space itself, white and empty,
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gives any object within it the status of art. That’s an interesting thought , in a way we could say, wait, he was just describing a modern European tokonoma without knowing it. True, he talks about the "White Cube," a large,
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white space. Nowadays, it has become a bit boring. Modern galleries are a bit different, sometimes they are technogenic, concrete, or something else, but the essence remains, a specially prepared space that doesn't distract but focuses your attention on the object, elevating it from mere
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everyday life to the status of art. So, the space around it is capable of giving any object the status of art. If presented correctly, at the right time and in the right place. And that is a very interesting thought. But let's
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return to this question, the main question of our lecture. What makes an object in a niche exquisite, and what makes it tacky? With taste, without taste. There we go. And here it is important to understand, as I always
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say, that beauty is, of course, in the eyes, the mind, and the heart of the beholder. That is, two people in the same situation, looking at the very same object. One will deem it a beautiful work of art, another will
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consider it nonsense or simply not notice it at all. A person's reaction plays a very big role. In fact, that is the goal, yes, everything is developed for this, for the viewer's experience, for what they will go through. Right.
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And here we come to a very important section, a kind of scale; there is the thing itself, the work of art—it doesn't matter if it's vases, photographs, or something else—and there is our attitude toward it. And between them, between the attitude and
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the object, there arises a certain gap, a certain space. And a lot of things can end up there, right? The place where we encountered this object, our intention, the intention of the one who created and placed it, the context
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surrounding it all—that which arises between the object and the people. It's about this subtle gap, which is much more complex than the blunt, everyday, "housewife" perception of art, where there is simply an object, and one either likes it or doesn't, whether
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it's right or wrong, let's evaluate this object. But there is also this cool gap, this cool space, this interval that people who look at art superficially don't value or consider —and they really should, as it actually defines a lot, especially in
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our time, in the 20th and 21st centuries. It is about this interval that we will talk. In essence, the whole lecture is about it. And it is also a little bit about the tea ceremony, because the tea ceremony is
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an art form in Japan. And one of the most basic and ancient ones. And, well, not everything is immediately recognized as art. The tea ceremony was likely recognized a very long time ago specifically as art, as a unique event.
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What is the uniqueness of the tea ceremony? Well, let's see, we have a vocabulary today too, hot water for tea , or the way of tea. So, "cha" or " chanoyu," the tea ceremony.
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Interestingly, we actually visited a very cool tea house, a blend of traditions and modern times. Kyoto, of course. Where else should you perform ceremonial things if not in Kyoto?
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Right. And take a look at the photos from there. What an entrance! A very modest, calm entrance. I will talk about why that is a little later. Yes, look at the cool vase displayed there.
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That's on the right, the photo on the right, that's where it stands. There’s a tokonoma there too, though it’s quite a modern interior— modernized, if you will—but it still has that tokonoma, and that cool vase sits there, containing nothing at all.
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And stunning tableware, yes, with amazing attention to detail. It’s really cool there. They don't just serve tea, but also excellent signature desserts and all sorts of interesting drinks and cocktails—even alcoholic ones, strangely enough—but they prepare them very ceremonially, right
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in front of you, beautifully. It’s such an amazing fusion, right, of Japanese tradition, something classic, and some modern discoveries. By the way , here is the tea ceremony master who performed it for us. And it was, well, it was very interesting and
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unforgettable. Truly, it’s just the peak of aesthetics. Every movement, the atmosphere, the sensations you feel when you’re there. The tableware, which is completely artisanal and handmade, is very interesting and unusual. All of this combined. Those incredible desserts, also with a
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Japanese history and some tricks of their own. So, the food itself is a whole event. Right. And that vase standing in the tokonoma. It’s impossible to walk past it without wanting to touch it or look at it. Your
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hands just reach out to touch it. It’s so gorgeous. It’s ceramic, but it partially looks like metal. Very unusually and complexly handcrafted.
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Just look at the tableware they have there. And when you encounter something like this, it’s unclear whether it’s just visiting a restaurant or a café—what do you call it? It’s some kind of performance the person is putting on, and you’re watching this
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master of ceremonies. But on the other hand, you are participating in it. It’s your experience. But in any case , it’s an event. It’s an event, a kind of art existing in the moment and in time, which is something we really
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lack. We’ve become accustomed to judging everything by snapshots and photos, rather than being there and experiencing it. And more than ever, at such a ceremony, you realize the fact that the environment defines perception . If the exact same thing happened
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somewhere else, you would perceive and feel it in a completely different way. Yes. There. And here we can say that the pinnacle of the art pyramid is the viewer's experience, not the object itself. So, in the end, it’s not the
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photo you take that’s important, but the experience—your experience, the experience of the person you're filming , and the experience of the viewer.
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These experiments are far more important than whether your horizon is level, if everything is in focus, or other trifles that most people who are into photography talk about. Here is a small selection. Before we move on to the next chapter, this lecture is
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structured in a calm, aesthetic way. After each chapter, there is a small selection of photos on the topic. These are modern photographs, and they relate to what I was just talking about. This part is about how the surroundings
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determine the perception of objects. How do you perceive simple buttons, right, when presented like this? How do you perceive just this panel? You could say it’s a painting, but it’s just a textured panel, and look at how it’s perceived in this specific place
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. Just imagine how this same panel would be perceived in some trashy setting on the street, where there’s a lot going on, at some market, or, say , in an ordinary apartment cluttered with things. Of course, it would be
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perceived completely differently. So, this is just for your inspiration, a few photos specifically on the theme of perceiving an object through its surroundings and how it’s presented.
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Even a simple iron kettle, which, mind you, might be very expensive and cool, sitting alone on a bench. And how does that feel? Also, pay attention to this —there’s a small pattern drawn here . Take a look at this. Also quite
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obvious. Now we understand that this is , like, à la economy. Also some kind of modern designer interior. And even just ceramics placed somewhere.
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Ceramics themselves are essentially just houseware. Well, household utensils. They were originally used for daily chores, but placed on a pedestal in the corner of a house or room, they become something of an event. That is very interesting. The frame is also
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very important. For example, in Japan, there are often places where you sit in a beautiful room, and there’s a window. This window limits your view in a specific way. You look at some cool tree that is placed there on purpose.
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And so you see it, and in onsens, too, where you sit in warm water, there’s usually a very beautiful view, there’s always a window, and you look through it and experience completely different sensations. Right. Or look at the shelf, the glass shelves, how
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successfully they display this ceramics . If this were some grandmother’s cupboard where all the crystal is hidden deep inside. We would, of course , perceive it completely differently.
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There. And finally, in many restaurants and venues, you've probably seen stories like this: some kind of alcove with an arrangement like this, and now you know, this is "tokonoma" adapted to modern life, modern design based on this idea. Okay. Well then, now we have
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the second chapter. It’s called "Bad Taste is a Behavior." Now we are going to dive into the Japanese attitude toward taste and beauty and gradually sort it out. A strange thing. Here is an observation: when you start looking
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at Japanese words related to aesthetics and beauty, their meaning and transitions, you realize that almost all Japanese words for bad taste don’t describe the object itself. For us, it's the object—a tacky scarf, kitschy clothes, something messy— it’s a description of the object's
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characteristics. But for the Japanese, they describe the person. And not just the person, but the person in a situation. So, it's never the work of art that is to blame; the person is to blame. This is a very interesting story
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. Let's look at a few terms. Yabo. What is Yabo? It's, well, a hick, but not in the sense that the person was born in a village, but rather in an aesthetic, tasteful sense, and so on. There are
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different versions of its origin, maybe a village peasant or "the thickets," meaning a person who doesn't fit in, but this is a word from the Edo period, from the urban entertainment districts.
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And, actually, that's where folk culture flourished. That's where all those geishas, beautiful ceramics, restaurants, and cafes appeared— actually, one could say earlier than in Europe in that form. And here, it’s not about boorishness, but about being blind to the situation. The person
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isn't tasteless; they just haven't " read the room." A very interesting attitude. So who is tasteless? A person who didn't gauge the situation, is behaving incorrectly, doesn't understand where they are, is clueless.
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And that is very interesting. Yabo is not a property of an object; it is a person's failure in context. For example, wearing an inappropriate coat to a meeting. There is an antonym called "Tsu," which means a connoisseur . A person who knows and feels these
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rules, the etiquette, how to present themselves, how to behave, what to do, what to ask, what not to ask, how to dress, and so on. And Yabo is not feeling that. And you see, the question of taste is based on interaction. So
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the question is more about whether it's appropriate here, rather than in general, right? Like whether it’s good or bad overall. Without context, you can't say whether something is appropriate or not in a specific situation. That’s a serious difference from our perspective, isn't
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it? We try to measure everything with the same ruler regardless. There's a beautiful photo, there's an ugly one, and that’s always the case. But it’s not like that for the Japanese.
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Oh, okay. And it’s important to understand that this isn't about the person's background. It's about behavior, about how they react to situations, how they carry themselves, right? Like, for example, asking a direct question where everyone was expecting a subtle hint. Being too
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blunt, explaining a joke, or counting money in front of everyone. Well, in Japan, that is considered not very good . Asking a guest if they liked a gift, which is illogical. Don't put a guest in an uncomfortable position with such
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a question, or they'll have to lie. None of these examples involve objects. It’s just a person who acted wrongly in a situation, didn't understand where they were, or how to behave. And this is very important. The second term, yes
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, is called busui. And sometimes they say buiki, beiki. We will encounter this "iki" again. So, what is that?
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It’s an inability to read the social or aesthetic context, an insensitivity to nuance. Roughly speaking, a person who is a bit deaf, a bit blind, and doesn't catch nuances. It's a coarse, crude perception, yes. They don't see the nuances, they don't see the
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differences. To them, this is a girl, and that is a girl. Remember that story ? In terms of meaning, these are almost synonyms for yabo, but slightly different. So busui is more like "minus Iki." What Iki is, we will soon find
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out. We are working toward that, because it cannot be defined without these terms. Right. Then there is also this thing, zatarashi. And, ah, this is a complex word, but put simply, it’s something deliberate, looking intentional. Meaning affectation, visible effort, artificiality. The key
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nuance here is the following. The flaw isn't that you are trying and working hard, but that your effort is visible.
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A master’s effort is invisible. A master does things amazingly, but doesn't struggle to do it, right? A beginner struggles. Exactly. And you can and should apply effort, but it's bad to let it be seen, because true mastery is when it looks effortless.
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There you go. But in reality, behind this, of course, lies a huge amount of work. It is also a very interesting philosophy, a bit different from ours, yes. And here is "kidari." One last word. What is "kidari"? It’s posing,
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pretending. Let’s put it this way: it’s appearing, not being, yes, kidari. That is, it’s an attempt to appear as someone you are not. The Japanese also say that it isn’t that the person is a poser in general, but
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rather a behavioral glitch in a specific situation. So, if a person is "kidari" here and now, they didn't act like they usually do; rather, some situation forced them to put on an act, and it’s not good, it's not being
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themselves. A very interesting story. And so it turns out there are four such negative terms, right? That is, a rustic, unstylish, forced one, for example, and one who chooses to appear rather than be, to appear and not be.
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And all these four terms are the exact opposites of "iki." Well, now I will define what "iki" is for you. But it is very much a basic term of this lecture.
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Basically, everything is built upon it, yes? Iki is cool. And so, to define it, one must first understand what is "not iki." Ah, and look, there is also an interesting phrase, which is, there is a concept like the skill of reading the
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room. They phrase it exactly like that, it’s called "kuuki yomu." It literally means reading the air. It is a basic social skill. Children are taught it, and everyone possesses it.
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The essence is to understand what is appropriate at the moment without words . That is, to orient yourself and understand. And photography has an absolute parallel to this concept, yes?
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One can read the light, read the person in front of the camera, read the moment , the very moment when it is worth taking the shot, when it's too early, when it's too late, when it's the right moment, yes? And everything we call a
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photographer's eye or intuition, the Japanese call reading the air. I liked it very much, it is very beautiful, poetic, yes, reading the air, the atmosphere. And these four words I showed earlier, yabo, busui, kidari, and tatarashi. These are four ways to
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fail to read the air, that is, to fail to orient yourself, which is bad. So here is another note for your dictionary, a screenshot: kuuki yomu, to read the air. It is interesting that even among the youth, even in the West
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—it spread from Japan, but it was used by youth beyond just the Japanese —there is this "KY." That is "kuuki yomenai," meaning not reading the air.
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Such 2000s slang, right? A "QY" is someone who doesn't get it, who's out of the loop. That's very interesting.
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Okay. Well, chapter three is already here today—it’s Iki, the main topic of our conversation. Represented by this single kanji. As far as I know, this character means "pure," without impurities in China, but in Japan, it has a slightly different meaning. Well,
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because different meanings are assigned to kanji there. It doesn't necessarily have just one meaning, and so on. There aren't enough characters to go around.
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And so, this "Iki." So, what is Iki? The same character is read as "Iki" in Japanese, which in Chinese means pure, select, essence, quintessential, and at the same time, chic, style, and dash.
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We are more interested in the second one. See how they put an equals sign between pure, natural, and chic style?
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That is also interesting. This is a word from the Edo period urban culture. It was when cities took shape, social relations formed, the entertainment and beauty industries emerged, along with various artisans, when finally ordinary people, not just great rulers, could
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afford to buy beautiful things for their homes or dress nicely. So, this is the history of those entertainment districts, geishas, merchants, restaurants—a culture that is very powerful in Japan regarding service, which, strangely enough, as I said, appeared in Europe in that form a bit
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later. There you go. So, what is Iki? If you speak beautifully and poetically , it is an inexpressible refinement that combines lightness, restraint, and an inner tension all at once. And he might say to me: "Wait, come on, how?"
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I mean, lightness and tension are opposite things. And restraint and tension, or restraint and lightness, they aren't the same thing either, damn it. So, this amazing Japanese theme— well, we don't know how to think that way, but it's a paradox, an absolute
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paradox. A genius of paradox, right? To mix the unmixable and get something that works. Wow, they managed to do it.
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So, Iki, what else is interesting? It is the only Japanese aesthetic born from below, from the people, because there was a whole history there that we are now going to dive into, right?
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It’s those who were forbidden by law to use bright colors, who teased 100 shades out of gray. So, what was the story? They had different social classes. And the paradox was that the samurai, the military, were considered the highest class, and the merchants
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were considered the lowest, even though the aristocrats came from the top. That was very strange. I mean, farmers were ranked above craftsmen, and craftsmen were ranked above merchants. Merchants were, historically speaking, the most despised people. But it's clear that by
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the 15th to 19th centuries, merchants had money. The world began to change, and that was a bit of a problem. It meant that the lowest caste, the very bottom, could afford expensive clothes and things that those higher up in the
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hierarchy could not. Eventually, even the samurai began to get poor, becoming poorer than the merchants. See. And so, to avoid insults and keep order, they tried to restrain the merchants in every way. The Shogunate tried several times to curb merchant wealth by
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issuing various reform decrees. You see , 1720, 1787, 1800; that is the 18th and 19th centuries. Citizens were forbidden, look, only aristocrats or the military were allowed. Townspeople could not wear, for example, certain types of silk, gold thread, or bright
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colors. This was strictly forbidden by law. Don't stick your neck out, don't stand out. Only three color palettes remained permitted. They were explicitly told: "These are your colors : brown, gray, and indigo blue, like jeans." See. And do you think it helped
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? Of course, it didn't help. And this generally applied to everything, for example, they couldn't build houses.
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They could not build houses like the ones the aristocrats and samurai had. Yes, their houses had to be specific, standard, and modest. Well, here is an example for you too. These are traditional houses from the Edo period that have survived. And we took photos
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of what their design looks like, right? And it might seem like it's all just black and dirty, but when you look closely, it's not dirt, it's time.
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Meaning the wood darkens over time. But the point is that they competed; they had very different lattices, fine workmanship, everything was cleverly made; it was a great effort using good types of wood, everything was thought out. And you realize that this is a
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chic of its own. This is what you could call "quiet luxury," where formally it's a dark house, it can't show off, it can't be painted bright colors, it can't be too big, but it has its own chic. Inside, there was a whole
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different level of chic, the merchants really went all out inside, as they weren't forbidden from doing so. But on the outside, these houses, while they look modest, they have their own language of facades, lattices, and all those details. And when you look at it
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and feel it, that is the essence of it, right? So, how can you show off success and wealth in a very subtle way, without shouting about it? That’s what brands like The Row have discovered, but this concept of "quiet
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luxury" has existed in Japan since the 15th century. Wow, really? Exactly. And there are other terms related to it.
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There are nuances in clothing that signal this, yes. For example, " uramahari." What’s that? They would make kimonos, and since the outside had to be modest and simple, the lining was made with patterns, hand-painted designs, and colorful silks. So, all
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the best stuff was on the lining. They still do fashion like that today. That nuance exists. You open up a Gucci coat , and inside there are bright silk details, but the exterior is a calm tone. Right. So, a modest exterior and
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an expensive lining. And it’s only visible when you move. Or if you show it, yes, when you take it off, then it’s seen. There you go. But just walking down the street, you can’t see it. Here’s another interesting
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story. It’s "Edokomon." It’s basically a decorative fabric pattern, but made of such tiny dots that from a few meters away, the fabric looks solid . It doesn’t register, but up close, you can read it. Just like today’s very cool jacquard, cool different
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types of dense, printed fabrics found on luxury items. And up close, you see it and feel that they are quite sophisticated. Yes, from afar, it’s not obvious. That was the Edo-era formula for showing off. What’s expensive is where it’s hidden, while
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the obvious stuff isn’t expensive. That’s not very cool. Those huge brand names plastered on chests— that’s not cool. We only know about it now, but the Japanese knew it back in the 16th century. They were forced into it, that’s how it happened. They
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were made to appreciate subtle nuances and distinctions, not flashy displays. Look, a crimson jacket and a gold chain , versus something subtle—look at this great lining. Look at this amazing fabric. But to see it, you have to get
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close and really look at it to understand that it’s high-quality and different from the rest. That’s how it is. Japan has several core aesthetics that essentially gave birth to everything. And the oldest aesthetic is "Miyabi." That’s the court
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aristocracy, dating back from the 10th to the 12th century. It’s about elegance, refinement, and metropolitan manners. All while Europe was in the Dark Ages and didn’t have time for that. It was already flourishing for them. Next is Yugen, a theater that
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appeared under the shoguns. These theaters emerged again under powerful, wealthy people. And it has that very specific drama, Stanislavski-style pauses, and all that. A hidden depth and ambiguity, meaning a profound inner content that is hinted at, but never
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fully revealed. Then there is Wabi-sabi , which you have probably heard of. That is a much more understandable, popular concept, yes. Tea masters practiced and introduced this under the military rulers as well. It’s poverty as a virtue, right? They intentionally
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used, for example, not the most expensive mugs; the utensils were all worn out, old, and full of history.
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Well, it's like, that's what's cool. There. And, actually, Iki is the latest aesthetic, the freshest one, from the 17th to 19th centuries, which we are talking about today because it defined the current taste in Japan, and not only in Japan. Here, it didn't really
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go from the top down; it came from the townsfolk and the entertainment districts. That is, restraint as courage, taste as a filter; specifically, a person with taste, the ability to demonstrate taste, and showing something with taste. That is
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interesting. The top three groups could afford anything, yet they chose less. They consciously moved from more to less. Wabi-sabi was originally a luxury of renunciation. Now, of course, Wabi-sabi is available to everyone, even students, in a sense, sometimes.
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So now Wabi-sabi is forced, but back then it wasn't forced. That luxury was for the really powerful emperors. They would go to tea ceremonies with cheap dishes, and for them, that was the ultimate chic. And Iki is the only one
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that came from the bottom up. Its followers could not afford everything. So they made something out of prohibitions, out of "can't,""don't want," and "not stylish." This is very interesting. Iki, by the way, never became an export commodity, unlike
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Wabi-sabi. Iki cannot be sold at all, because Iki is more about behavior than specific things. But let's take a look now. There is also a term called Shibui , which is also well-known now. It literally means tart or astringent, but
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the essence is also something restrained, muted, without sweetness. In modern conversational Japanese, Shibui is almost a compliment. Cool, but not loud. A Shibui choice. A Shibui guy in a cool coat. Yes. This is what we call "quiet luxury," when you can
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see it's cool and expensive, but it doesn't scream or show off. There. These are brands like Brunello Cucinelli; this is Shibui. Yes.
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Interestingly, Wabi-sabi is about time and the imperfection of things. History , cracks, patina; Shibui is about restraint, something simple but crafted with high quality. Iki, however, is more about human behavior, which is why it’s so complex and elusive. Shibui
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and Iki are close in color palette, both restricted, but Iki has flirtatiousness and tension. In Shibui, there is only peace. Shibui is essentially Iki without the flirtatiousness. That’s how it is.
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And so, we have arrived at the moment where we will try to define Iki, even though it’s elusive and the Japanese don't like to define it themselves.
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It’s an amazing story. There was this interesting man named Kuki. Shuzo Kuki, he defined Iki. Before Kuki, no one had clearly formulated what Iki actually was. It was just a concept; people felt it, but no one tried to explain it with
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words, measure it, or turn it into a science. Like how they measure beauty in Europe. That’s aesthetics, the science of beauty, which philosophers always try to formulate. However, the Japanese did not; they left it unsaid and unformulated. But eventually, a
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Japanese man appeared who made it his mission to define it, a real gentleman. In 1930, he wrote a book called The Structure of Iki, where he analyzed this Japanese understanding of beauty, taste, and style. He boiled it down to
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three principles or three main ideas. The first idea is flirtatiousness, or bitai. But this isn't flirtatiousness in a bad sense. There is a version of flirtatiousness with a negative connotation. This is a beautiful kind of flirtation. A worldly, sophisticated
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kind of flirtation. How should I explain this? It’s about high society , light behavior within that circle, specifically in the elite. He defined it as a tension between two people that must never be resolved. It shouldn't lead to anything, right? As soon as it
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is resolved, Iki ends, and it turns into something messy or trivial. Next. Ikiji is pride, a backbone, an inner unbending spirit. You could call it one's own style, a unique perspective, critical thinking, which Kuki derived from samurai ethics. A person who has
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made a choice and sticks to it; and akirame is detachment, though I personally feel it a bit differently.
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It’s a kind of sadness, an eternal sadness, because everything will pass, we will pass, and nothing on earth lasts forever. And, of course, there’s happiness and unhappiness, but happiness isn't a permanent state, right? It always alternates; life has
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its ups and downs. So, everything passes, and there's no need to cling to anything. Yes, and that subtle sadness —that sense of eternity, decay, that specific kind of melancholy, that "mono no aware." Ah, and it’s surprising. I mean, look again, how can you fit these
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three concepts into one box? How? I mean, flirtation and the sadness that everything passes. Pride and a core— it’s unclear. That right there is paradoxical thinking. To understand Japanese culture, you have to grasp how this paradox works—when you take
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absolutely opposite things, mix them, and end up with a new story at the intersection. It’s exactly that intersection, that gap. Iki isn’t a property of a thing, but a tension. He said it was a tension between three states. They are constantly interacting
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and opposing each other. Each one pulls in its own direction. You could use this metaphor: imagine three people pulling on a piece of fabric in different directions, creating a trampoline you can jump on as long as they hold it—each pulls their own way
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, creating a stable, though not quite balanced, dynamic equilibrium. People pulling a rope, right? And he hangs in the air on it, being neither one thing nor the other. You can walk along that rope while they pull it in different
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directions. What a beautiful story. Kuki described not just this idea of what Iki is, but also its natural physical expression, for example. We had a lecture on postures, and I was surprised by how much they have in common. I’ll even quote him; he also
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spoke about the artistic side—about patterns, colors, what’s stylish and beautiful, and what isn’t. It’s interesting that this man, who tried to define something so strictly Japanese, spent eight years in Europe. He was in Paris during the Roaring Twenties, with
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all the Art Deco, the parties, the luxury. He listened to Bergson in Paris and studied under Heidegger in Germany.
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Who is Heidegger? He was the most powerful and intelligent man of the first half of the 20th century. A philosopher, right? I mean, Heidegger is simply a god. He was the sheer brain of the first half of the 20th century,
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trying to understand, know, define, and describe everything. There. And he studied under him as a student. And he wrote this book about Iki upon his return. So, it turned out quite amazingly. The Japanese themselves didn't really need to explain,
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structure, or define this concept. He felt perfectly fine as it was. But he traveled to Europe, looked around, and decided to adopt that European spirit, trying to be a philosopher, and attempted to write it all down. And so,
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thank goodness, we have this book now, and we can actually understand something about Iki. So, coquetry and pride are, at the same time, a form of resolve. An amazing combination. Iki is not a property of an object or a person
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; it is the tension between states that is maintained and never fully resolved. Like a taut trampoline here. Remember that word—never resolved. If you look at these classic Ukiyo-e pictures—we all know them, with the Japanese girls and geishas—it suddenly becomes clear
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: it’s all right there in every single image. Let’s look closely; there is that tension, that sorrow of the moment, it’s all there. So this canon is reflected here, and it’s very evident in art, right? A slightly off-center pose, one leg stepped back,
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and notice she’s barefoot, which is interesting, right? And we see a girl with a child; the child is on a toy horse, and the woman is out for a walk with him. There’s this light, how should I put it, a slight dishevelment,
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almost nonchalant, a slightly tilted head, an umbrella. A wonderfully captured moment, it’s like a pose that’s not really a pose at all. Or take this second girl; it’s a very classic motif. Here, the story of Iki isn't just in the aesthetics, but in
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the narrative itself. The beauty of the scene: she has written a letter but hasn't sent it yet. She is a girl who is about to send a letter. What a subtly chosen moment. She has finished it, as it were, and is about to send it
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, but hasn't yet. It's interesting; she's thinking about something. Maybe she shouldn't send it? Or here, she looks at herself in the mirror, sees her reflection, and touches her neck at the same time. It's as if she is here
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and not here, behind and in front, all at once. And the kimono has slipped slightly to the side, baring her shoulder and neck, a bit messy, just slightly askew. Or here she is walking, glancing back at something. Or here,
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she’s lost in thought, looking off to the side. Surprisingly, there are no direct, "look at me" displays, no bright, toothy smiles. No posing directly for the camera, no head-on delivery. No "look how great I am," as is common in European culture. Here,
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everything is always much quieter. Kuki has an entire chapter on what "Iki" looks like in the body. I'm quoting him directly here, right? Slightly broken symmetry of a pose. Oh, remember the lecture on posing; it’s on this channel. Don't stand straight, break
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the balance a little. A post-bath look. You know, clean and beautiful, but slightly careless, slightly off. Uh, this is interesting. A bare leg, shown just a little bit. Light makeup, but never too strong. A kimono collar pulled back, revealing the nape of the
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neck. A gaze that’s not looking directly into the eyes. Stunning. This is a guide to modern posing. An interesting fact. He also described patterns and colors. Let's not get sidetracked. I’m going to show a series now. I shot this series on film,
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and I really like this idea, this concept. I try to make sure these qualities are felt—the flirtatiousness, a certain ease, and an incompleteness of the moment. Just look at these things: flirtatiousness, pride , and detachment all at once. Is it
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possible to photograph this? It’s an interesting, an interesting exercise. Trying to bring all of this together in one photograph. I think it’s very close to the modern language of photography, exactly how it is. A certain understatedness, a slight
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incompleteness, and a kind of tension in it all. It’s posed and yet not; it seems accidental, but it isn’t. The surroundings, too, create a certain atmosphere for the moment. That’s how it is. And to wrap up this glossary, to
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finish this chapter, there are two very common, simple terms that seem quite colloquial—like "cool" and "lame." These are "johin" and "gehin," meaning high rank and low rank, elegant and vulgar. They are used in everyday life for everything, just in normal casual
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conversation. But it’s interesting that even these Japanese terms—cool and not cool, right? Here is up, and there is down. There. Even the characters make it clear. It’s like this. So there you go. And there are Buddhist roots here. It’s interesting
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that originally, "kuhon" referred to the nine ranks of rebirth. The very highest was "jobon," and the very lowest was "gebon." And from those, " johin" and "gehin" emerged. There. The point is how amazing the Japanese language and logic are—that for them,
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"cool" and "lame"......isn't just a gradation of manners, right? It's about salvation of the soul. I mean, if you have a higher rebirth, the point is that your whole life has led you to end up in your next incarnation in a very
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good situation, or a very bad one, right? You'll either be a worm or a baobab, or a king. And this is it, I mean, honestly, I don't know how to put it, it's just amazing. I mean, how seriously do they take taste in
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Japanese culture? It’s not a question of beauty, it’s a question of saving your soul in your next incarnation. Yes , if you’re cool and stylish, or if you’re bad, then that’s what you’ll be. You could say that in
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Japan, the beautiful go to heaven, and the tasteless go to hell. Amazing. And that’s the untranslatability. In principle, "iki" is hard to translate, hard to understand. We are defining it quite contradictorily right now, aren't we? It’s even hard for us to grasp it
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as a whole. Although I tried to do a shoot with this feeling, and I think it turned out well. But did you guys like it or not? Write in the comments. That shoot I showed is on my Telegram
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channel, you can easily go watch it there. Anyway, in 1954, a Japanese Germanist came to visit Heidegger. A story about Tezuka. Well, he was a Japanese scholar who studied Germany.
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And they talked with Heidegger. Heidegger later published the text of this conversation because it was very interesting; he recalled he had a student named Kuki who was always obsessed with his "iki," wanting to describe it philosophically and structure it. So. And, in fact, they
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tried to understand what this word was, but they couldn't. No, I mean, in that conversation, it becomes clear that this word and concept just don't fit into European canons for a Japanese person. Heidegger drew an interesting conclusion: you have the word, but we
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lack the science that could define it. Meaning, this concept doesn't fit well into our coordinate system. Interesting . That is the untranslatability of the modern. I want to draw an analogy.
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Modern photography, the most contemporary meta-photography, is a bit incomprehensible and untranslatable. People nowadays are like, "What is this ? Some kind of nonsense." And this untranslatability of these photos, let’s take a look at them. Isn't that exactly the story related to "iki"?
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Where things that don't go together are combined, simple everyday things, maybe some simple unassuming light, not the most perfect picture. At the same time, there is this moment, this, well, it’s not quite right to call it coquetry, but this certain tension
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between it all. And look, I'm just doing this for your aesthetic appreciation, I'm trying to convey the feeling. Thanks to Valery for putting this selection together. The pictures themselves, which are all about the sensations. Let’s just look at them
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calmly in the dark, without talking, and try to feel that sensation. But since the logic isn't defined this way, they convey precisely this. I can't help myself. I have to say, that very neck, yes, shown—the cracked box on
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the left. And the moment, yes, this light tension, flying toward some lamp. In short, Heidegger, a brilliant man, couldn't define what this is. But someone must have taught the Japanese this, even without definitions, right?
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I mean, the Japanese learn what is stylish and what isn't. And they succeed. Let's see what a textbook that doesn't exist looks like. So, an interesting fact. Again, the Japanese canon of taste is unwritten. Just like Japanese taste—it's about people,
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about things, about situations, not about objects. So, their canon of taste is also unwritten. In Europe, aesthetics is all about treatises: what is beautiful, what poses are pretty, what aren't, perspective, composition, how to draw. Our Western culture, if
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you want to call it that—and we belong to it—has always operated with specific guidelines. You should do it this way, right? In Japan, everything is different. In Japan, taste begins with notes on what is awkward. There was a person named Sei Shōnagon. By
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the way, you can still buy a book of her work today. She lived at the turn of the 10th and 11th centuries, 1,000 years ago. 1,000 years ago, this woman wrote "The Pillow Book." And a significant part of the notes are lists
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. Things that are unpleasant, things that don't fit, things that look vulgar . A direct enumeration. Lists like: inappropriate paper color for a letter, or a guest who visits when the host is busy and just won't leave. Snow on the
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roofs of houses, but for commoners it's not very good, even if the snow is beautiful. A beautiful phenomenon in the wrong place. This genre is called* monozukushi*, meaning "the exhaustion of things" or "enumeration." A genre of lists, not stories, not instructions,
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not rules—just lists. Simply: this is not fitting, this is not stylish. It is an amazing method, a way of training the "neural network" through a large volume. Data, without delving into the essence, so that through this repetition, a person's own taste is
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somehow born within them. Mm, the canon is formed by the contrary. Not "this is the ideal," but "this is how you don't do it." It’s similar to the four words at the beginning that I used to define "iki," where if those four
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things are present, it’s not "iki." And if they are absent, then, in principle, it looks almost like "iki." There. And there, the person didn't read the room. Here, however, it’s a protocol of exactly what wasn't read, what went wrong. By the way, it’s
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interesting that in our culture too, in religion, there are commandments that also work by opposition. Yes, don't do this, don't do that. But there are also things you should do as well. Okay.
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That's the story. So, she tries to define what is good, what is bad, what is tasteful and what is tasteless, through long, long lists of what is bad and definitely tasteless. Then, 300 years later, a monk named Kenko appears
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and writes essays in idleness. What titles, right? You see, it wasn't very fashionable for them to strain themselves, like, "Yes, I wrote this out of boredom." It’s amazing that it’s still being studied today.
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It’s a very interesting work. And it will help us a lot in photography, which is great. And he has this eighty-second entry. Or, I don't know, "Dan"—these are sections, like the eighty-second section, the eighty-second story. Someone is complaining that the thin silk cover of
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a scroll wears out quickly. That’s annoying. To which the poet Ton-a, a famous poet of the time, replies: "A scroll is best when the silk is frayed at the top and bottom and the mother-of-pearl inlay has fallen off
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the roller." In other words, a good book is one that has been read; a fresh , new one is bad. Then Kenko quotes the words of a monk from the Ninna-ji temple. And what did this monk Kuyu say
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? He said, "To strive to have things in a complete set is the work of simple-minded people; the incomplete is better." And he ends it by saying that even when building the Imperial Palace, they always leave one part unfinished.
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Remember that phrase. There. Then there is another part, 137. It asks: do we admire flowers only in full bloom, or the moon only when it is cloudless? And in general, this idea that sometimes the journey is worth more than the
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summit you’ve reached—that the peak of a moment, the brightest, the largest , is not the best. A branch that is just about to bloom is more beautiful than one that has fully blossomed. A garden strewn with fallen petals,
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waiting for the moon that doesn't appear until dawn. And we often catch that feeling when we travel. Here on the right is a sakura tree that hasn't fully bloomed yet. It's just starting to, but it’s so beautiful. Maybe
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it’s even burning. You can see the tree itself right through it. Maybe that’s even more beautiful than these fully bloomed sakuras, which look like big white apple trees. Yes, by the way, notice the dark, modest kimono, the weather, everything is so calm and
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quiet. Or those leaves that fell on the steps—it's beautiful. Even though it's debris, it’s aesthetic, or something like that. In Japan, you constantly see things like this; you just can't help but take a photo. This philosophy embodies itself and somehow
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creeps into you; you start feeling it yourself. But what about us here? We have, yes, maximum sharpness, color saturation, contrast, a beautiful professional shot where everything must be perfect. I remember being scolded at a photo battle for my shots looking
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like iPhone photos, not contrasting enough. Why are your blacks grey? You need to process the contrast, develop the RAW so it really pops. Kenkō calls this blindness. He says: "A straightforward delight in an impeccable view is a sign of someone
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who hasn't understood anything." A full moon is cliché. A moon you wait for until dawn and never truly see. It only shone through the clouds a little bit.
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That is Iki. I searched Google for " beautiful landscape photo." That’s not Iki. It’s just...everything. Yes.
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Just everything: the clouds, the brightness, the water. This person really went all out. Let’s add a starry sky too. Why not? Go big or go home, right? Oh yeah, we are certainly a long way from the Ginza district's
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quiet luxury. Okay. Now look at a Japanese photographer on the other side . Feel the difference between this and that. There are colors here too, by the way. You could even say they are quite saturated and bright. By the way, do
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you know who this is? What is this photographer's name? I'll give you a hint: it’s a woman. She takes these kinds of pictures and is very popular.
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And so, after I’ve told you about Iki , about beauty, and how, forced by aristocrats who forbade standing out brightly and loudly, people learned to stand out quietly through nuances and to distinguish those nuances. And that is exactly what’s so cool. This is
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cool photography, so yes, this is tradition. Understatement, nuance, incompleteness, fragmentation, not being literal—but the moments, the sensations, there is definitely something very cool about that. I like this much more than those landscapes in the JTR. Yes, even the people here
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aren’t shown in full. Cool. Ultimately, the monk in his writings, intentionally or not, defines four rules that we can call the Japanese version of good creative manners.
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I’ll list them, why not? We aren't Japanese after all, so we’ll list them and write them down. We won't leave this between the lines hanging in the air. Do not speak directly where one can hint. And is photography a
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direct narrative, a direct text, or not quite? Do not show effort, do not reach an absolute finish, leave space for thought, do not let it be known that you wanted to please. And all these four points are precisely the markers
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of an outsider. Outsiders don't understand, outsiders speak directly, they puff and pant, they take everything to a final conclusion.
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Let’s clearly define, summarize, and formulate this. They want to be liked, they smile. These are all, as it were, outsiders, right? Japanese history is different. Regarding one who doesn't " read the air," none of these rules say what a thing must be, for instance,
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what a photograph should look like. All four describe how a person should behave around a thing, or, figuratively speaking, how a photographer or artist should behave when creating their work.
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This is also a very interesting distinction. Take a screenshot, I'll break it down a bit. Sorry, that's not good. Ideally, you shouldn't, but to say directly: what is an illustrative shot where everything is named? If it’s love, then two people must be
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kissing. The viewer has nothing to do; everything has been chewed up and shown for them. Meaning, you look at the shot literally, everything is literally clear, no processes are meant to happen in your head. Next: showing effort.
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That insane post-processing you can see , the painstaking arrangement of objects, all those wild sets, studios, lights—the whole shot that says, " Look how much labor, money, and effort I put into this." I have 10 lights, I have this and that, forced model poses,
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forced imagery and outfits, insane artistic makeup—all that flashy effort saying, "Appreciate and love my work because so much strength was put into it." But why? From the Japanese perspective, that isn't cool. There.
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And what does "taking it to a final conclusion" mean? Take a shot with no air, for example, a tight crop where everything unnecessary is discarded, right? Everything that needs to be sharp is sharp, everything that shouldn't be, isn't. Everything is,
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like, precise. There’s nothing left to imagine. The exposure is perfect. Like a full moon dead center in the frame, or a portrait with a massive head. That’s when everything is taken to its final conclusion. And the desire to please. That is the most subtle part
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, yes. These are shots taken for likes, for clarity, for praise. So that no one would criticize, so that no one would misunderstand. This might be the cruelest of the four rules. Of course, you always want to break it, you want
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people to understand and praise what you do, but then it’s not Iki. This is where it gets interesting. We’re approaching an interesting new character. We’ve learned so many words for "characters" today. This person’s name is Sen no Rikyū. He
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was an incredibly cool tea master. He’s like, man, I don’t know, like Leonardo da Vinci in European art, right? I mean, he was number one, the most remembered name, the first one that comes to mind, like Leonardo. He
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founded many schools later on and came up with a lot of things. And by the way , it’s interesting that Hideyoshi— who was this Toyotomi Hideyoshi guy? He was the man who actually unified Japan, brought everything under...I mean,
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Japan was fragmented and not a single country, but he was, I believe, the first actual unifier of Japan. The first emperor, if you can call him that . And it's interesting that by his order, the tea master later committed
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ritual suicide. Very interesting. I need to dig into the story behind that, but that’s for later. Right. But you know, he was a favorite, he was truly great. He was the greatest tea master in all of Japan, yes. And a huge number
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of different stories are told about him . It’s unclear if they are true or not, they’ve been written and rewritten a hundred times. But this is 1522 to 1591. But I’ll tell you two stories that really help to understand
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how the Japanese perception of beauty, aesthetics, and "goodness" is structured. So, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the ruler of Japan, hears that morning glories have bloomed in Rikyū’s garden, rare and beautiful ones. These are small flowers, you could say, like wildflowers. And he comes specifically
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to see these flowers. And the tea master’s garden is a whole separate conversation. I mean, it’s about aesthetics, a top-tier garden and house , everything is aesthetic and thought out; it’s the very embodiment of beauty and design. And he arrives to
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take a look, enters the garden, and sees that all the morning glories have been cut. He is in shock. What, what is this? His joy has been ruined. So, he walks into the tea room, and there in the alcove stands a single flower. The
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master had cut all those magnificent flowers, choosing just one of them. The precision, the choice, the level of manipulation—he presented it as a work of art by placing that one flower, knowing the emperor would come and gaze upon it in that alcove. And he said, "I
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have chosen the best one for you." And in this way, he—and by the way, I’m starting to understand why he eventually ordered him to commit suicide—because he placed himself above, defining what is good taste, a different kind of story. So, Rikyu
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tells his son to sweep the garden path before the ceremony. Guests will arrive and walk along that path; the son sweeps, Rikyu watches and says, "Not good enough." The son sweeps a second time, a third, everything is perfectly
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spotless, he did the job perfectly. Then Rikyu walks over to a tree and shakes it. A few leaves fall onto the clean path, and Rikyu says, "Now it's ready." Actually, these stories are such a stunning manual on art. That is
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how it is done. Make everything perfect . You’ve done the model’s hair perfectly, and then you mess it up just a little bit. That is exactly what both stories about the gap are. We are talking about this gap today, remember,
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between the object itself, the photo, the painting, and the people. There is a gap there that holds so much. There is no singular way to perceive or evaluate a thing. There is context, there is the state of the person
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evaluating and looking. And this gap is amazing, right? One flower instead of a hundred. What a focus of attention, such a different relationship to that flower. The single, the best of the hundred; we don't know, the others are
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already discarded, we won't see them. Or a few leaves instead of total sterility; those leaves have a special, unique beauty, they bring everything to life. This isn't even the minimalism that exists in Europe, right?
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Minimalism. Let's throw everything away and keep only the minimum. No, this is different. It is the understanding that beauty lies in what is missing the most . Look at the landscape, what is missing most of all, where to place the
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model, where a person is needed most. Stunning philosophy. And then there is Tanizaki, who wrote the book In Praise of Shadows. That was, I think, in the twenties or thirties, something like that. Or maybe the tenth or twentieth
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year of the 20th century. Basically, when electricity arrived in Japan. And honestly, his whole book is just whining about how electricity ruined everything. Because before, well, electricity ruins lacquer and gold not because they got worse, but because the
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gap between the object and the shadow disappeared. I mean, Japanese people used to live in the semi-darkness, just one little candle burning, and that’s how they perceived things, but now bright electric light floods everything . And it’s not cool. And, god, I’m
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not a retrograde, I won’t give it up, I’m being flooded by bright electric light here myself. But my point is that the idea of the gap between the object and the shadow is stunning. When we were in Japan last time, I shot exactly
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that kind of story. I closed the curtains so that just this very thin, sharp sliver of light would come through. And in general, in Japanese houses, this play of light and shadow is really cool. And here, there’s a
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character who is almost invisible. Somewhere in the gap between light and shadow, this horror lives. There. And it’s really great. Meaning, contrast is cool. I’m also going to have a very interesting lecture on light. And it’s precisely about how, in many
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ways, light and shadow don't exist without each other. Or rather, when everything is flooded with light, it’s boring; when everything is in darkness, it’s boring; but the transitions are what’s interesting, the shifts and those places where you have these nuances, constant
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transitions, elusiveness, where not everything is visible. But what is visible becomes so important and so cool when something is dissolving. I mean, you have to strain your eyes a little and look closely to see, for example, that silhouette. But that’s
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wonderful. There. And that slightly sliding light, or that stuff in the back that's in total darkness, and everything around it is a bit dim. I really love that kind of photographic spirit. I don’t know, I probably have a Japanese soul deep down somewhere.
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Maybe I was there in a past life. Because in my own work, even without formulating these things or delving into this philosophy, I constantly...I really love those dark, thick images, the ambiguity in lighting—these motifs appear again and again, long
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before I even learned about this verbally; I just did a series recently, too. Look, even the main idea of this series is exactly that elusiveness. The light continued to be only here, right?
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Further, the hero gradually slips into the darkness away from us. And he is not quite sharp. Here too, notice the face, notice that the face is turned away from the light. And it is precisely this, a certain understatement of emotions. And I have
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a frame, which is already a spot where there is a direct face, where it is turned to the light. And, of course, this is the best one. Just undoubtedly.
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That's how it is. So I have always said , and here I agree with the Japanese, the most interesting things always happen at the junction, at the intersections. And here, you see, like the junction of light and shadow, that
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is where the most interesting thing is, the junction of the understandable and the incomprehensible, including in art, that is where the most interesting thing is. Don't try to be completely understandable, yes, the junction of sadness and joy simultaneously, like
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flirting and control. They coexist somehow. My God, how does that happen? That is what is interesting, that for such gaps in relationships, the Japanese even have two words of their own. Meaning very clear terminology.
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They actually have everything, and the Japanese dictionary—not in the sense that it is huge, but specifically regarding art, regarding taste, regarding some such philosophical questions. It is simply useful to read these words. I delved into this and discovered an abyss of interesting
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thoughts, because the very definition of words, where they grew from, allows one to understand how thinking is structured, how culture is structured.
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There are two words: "ma" and "yohaku." Yes. And let me talk about it in more detail. So, "ma" is an interval, a gap, a pause, but not just any—it is meaningful, that is, a meaningful void.
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For example, in music, it is a pause that highlights something, and it must definitely be like that, yes; in architecture, it is an empty space, but its dimensions play a role. So empty space is also a statement, yes; in
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photography, empty space can also be a statement, yes, you don't just have to fill everything in; in theater, yes, an actor's stop, a pause in acting. This is modern for us too, well, Stanislavski, there, hold the pause, all that. In speech, silence can
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sometimes speak more than a thousand words at the right moment, the right silence, right? And it is not an absence of material, meaning that which is in between works on par with what is there. So it is significant. Remove
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that pause, and it will be bad. Yes. But they say an actor's mastery is in " ma," what he does when he is doing nothing. He stood up, became thoughtful , and we see him on stage, and right
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there we go, "Wow!" Exactly. It's interesting that there is this guy Cage , who wrote that famous piece 4'33 ", where he sat at the piano and did nothing for 4 minutes and 33 seconds back in 1952. And I only recently
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learned an amazing fact. It turns out Cage was attending lectures by a Japanese man, and it was a lecture about" Ma, "and he just wrote a piece consisting entirely of meaningful pauses. So, he stole the idea. There you go. That's how things are. Okay.
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Yohaku is a slightly different story, but it is the remaining whiteness, an excess of white. The point is that it is an unfilled field on a sheet. That is, when you fill part of it with patterns, for instance, but leave a
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part free or don't finish the drawing. Or part of the picture is colored in, while another part is not, just outlined with lines, right? That is, the emptiness that is not yet filled, it is left there as a conscious,
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deliberate position. In photography, there can also be this great emptiness. There. I encounter this story very often. I am always being scolded, they say:" Medvedev frames things strangely.
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"" Why is his model here like this? "" And there's nothing above her, two-thirds of the frame is empty space above her, "because it's a speaking void. That’s exactly how I phrased it . I'm serious. And it's interesting,
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right? In the West, this is called negative space, but the emphasis is a bit different, because Yohaku isn't a background, but an equal participant.
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Yes. By the way, Hiroshi Sugimoto, the one whose gallery he is the architect of—he built a gallery, and it’s there. And he is also a very cool photographer. And Sugimoto has a series called" Seascapes, "my favorite series, essentially, which he has been shooting
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since 1980 and continues to do so. And the essence of this series is that 90% of the frame consists of Yohaku or empty space. That is, there is simply never anything there. There are never any objects, ships, or anything else.
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It is just the sea and the sky. And the boundary between the sea and the sky.
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But he has shot a million variations. It’s very cool because they are all absolutely different and never repeat.
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There are some where fog prevents you from seeing the horizon line. There are some at night with light from the moon or something on the water with a very long exposure. So, it has an infinite number of states. It’s just—I
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wouldn't be surprised if it’s all shot from the same spot. There’s a house with a sea view, maybe his, or perhaps somewhere else, where he regularly shoots different seasons in various ways, with long exposures, short exposures, with sharp water or
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soft water. There’s an excellent book , a very thick, cool one. And it was on sale; we actually saw, in Tokyo, not just the book, but a box set of his signed original prints. Well, it cost a crazy amount of money there. It
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contained that stunning collection of his, the seascapes. Yeah. And also, again, Rinko Kawauchi—that’s the one, remember, I showed you her Japanese color photography? She’s a woman named Rinko Kawauchi. She has some very cool books. For example," Illuminance "—it’s new, well, sort
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of new, from 2011. These are the kinds of shots where you first want to say they’re about nothing. Just a drop, a mug, something else, the edge of a table. But there is truly everything in them precisely because there is nothing
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. When you start looking at them and thinking, you invent an entire life. And that life is somehow great, it’s happy, carefree, and very pleasant.
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It’s a beauty of the moment, absolutely poignant, even though it’s such a simple moment; how she sees and conveys it is amazing. It’s also stunning how she takes a simple thing —a drop of water, a little diamond, a
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single stone, or a tiny frog, or a ray of light, a whirlpool. And people going up the stairs, school kids. She places it in a kind of" tokonoma "through the way she shoots it. Yes, I’m speaking metaphorically, but she turns it into a
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work of art, makes that moment art, shows it to us, and focuses our attention on it. That is very important . And for that, we thank her. Not for whether the photo is level or not, or if she cropped the subject or not, as
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narrow-minded people usually judge photographers, right? But for this joy of the moment and sensation. This is what her book" Illuminance "looks like.
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If you find it, take a look. And the last person, perhaps the most difficult example, but this has to be included too, because it’s not all just joy and happiness, right? There is a man named Fukase. He is a Japanese
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photographer who is famous for one specific fact. Ravens, 1986, this work is absolutely stunning." Ravens "is a book, he has an album, well, a series he shot. It is simply one of the most important photo books of the 20th
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century. Seriously, you must see it in digital form somehow, or in person if you can. He spent seven years photographing it after his divorce. He got divorced and suffered a very deep trauma. He loved his wife, but they
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ended up getting divorced. And the book only contains crows, snow, black skies, and random figures. The word" grief " isn't even in there. Nothing is written , nothing is explained, but looking at this book, you understand everything.
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It is truly the most inconsolable book in the world. It is simply the quintessence of sorrow and grief, real sadness. I don't know how he managed to do it. Shot in very different ways, but always crows. Always about crows.
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Sometimes there are many, sometimes just one. Sometimes they are sharp, sometimes they are blurry. It seems, I don't know, something happened to her.
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She is in the snow, you know, something bad. Maybe she died, or it's just a stunning book. Take a look at it too, to understand and feel it. So, my friends, there are photos, of course— there are good ones and bad ones—but
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there is our relationship to them. And what matters is that gap between them: the place, the intent, the context— the space between things and people is the most important and interesting thing in the art of photography. Of course, it’s impossible to learn all
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this from a text. Heidegger gave up and even admitted it himself in writing. Heidegger gave up, and he was a brilliant man. This is his photograph.
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But Japan took this impossibility and didn't just turn it into a business. It's amazing. Yeah. But we will learn about that. The problem. As soon as something is formulated as a rigid rule , it dies. So that’s why the Japanese
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don’t like to formulate things? Because" don't speak directly "is a rule that, when spoken directly, breaks itself. Meaning you just directly said that one shouldn't speak directly.
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It’s serious. It’s such a paradox; your brain explodes when you think about it. That’s why these rules shouldn't be voiced. That is their logic. A taste assembled from what is left unsaid. Situations cannot be turned into a textbook. But how do you
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convey what is left unsaid? Many in art have asked themselves this question. In European art, probably since the end of the 19th century, the impressionists, essentially, introduced a certain incompleteness. And then it went on from there. Well, the Japanese have
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their own answer. These three characters. I will explain what they are now. Yeah. But first, they have another very well-known and established term called" kata. "It is a form, a pattern, a stamp. In principle," kata " is an exercise. It’s like when you do
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exercises during a workout without thinking about how they affect you, right? Fixed sequences of movements that a student copies until they become automatic. In anything. It exists in tea ceremony, theater, calligraphy, and martial arts. They never explain it;
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they just say," Keep repeating this for now. "And if you repeat it long enough, it will dawn on you, and you'll understand how everything is structured . There. In photography, by the way, this can also happen. That is, you can
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perform certain katas or well-formulated exercises, and after doing them enough times, through practice, you suddenly realize what is beautiful, what is not, and how to act.
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And, strictly speaking, these are" suhari "—that’s what I call them, for myself, just to remember these three characters: suhari. Well, a dry crust, suhari. These are suhari.
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Basically, a student copies—when doing katas, right—the student copies the form of the movement, the order, the rhythm thousands of times until the sense of taste emerges on its own. But once they develop their own taste and their own will, it’s no longer enough
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for them to just copy what the teacher said. So the formula is: observe— meaning, first do exactly as you’re told, build a classical base, learn how it should be done, learn to follow the rules, then break those rules, and
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finally, separate yourself. And now you're independent, you have your own style. It is attributed, once again, to that remarkable tea master Rikyu, who said:" Observe the rules to the end, then break them. "To the end, meaning, right up to perfection. Bring it all to
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that point, yes, then break them, then move away, but don't forget the foundation. There. And, by the way, this is also a fact. I handle poses, light, and composition very calmly and freely because, at one time, I certainly learned how to do it all very
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well and correctly, specifically following certain canons. Although now I realize that it’s ridiculous and there are no real rules, let alone laws . There only exist techniques that worked or didn't work, if you can put it that way. Again, did you manage to
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read the air, did you do it correctly, and did you achieve" iki "in this situation or not? And this formula exists today in every classical Asian school—tea, karate, etc.—but it also exists in photography as well. For example, no joke, Henri Cartier-Bresson
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called the most fundamental and important book for a photographer— I’ve mentioned this fact many times —" Zen in the Art of Archery. "It seems odd, right? Again, a German philosopher—where would we be without them?—spent six years learning archery from a Japanese master. He
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wrote a book about it—Zen in the Art of Archery, Zen in the Art of Maintaining an AK-47. Do you remember that song by TE Company? In a 1974 interview, Cartier-Bresson talks about this book. He says:" Discipline, complete self-forgetfulness, the
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refusal to prove anything. "That is what he took from it, and it is brilliant. There is even a moment there where the master tells the student:" It is not you who shoots; it shoots. "And this is pure kata—years of repetition
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, right? Take street photography: you walk endlessly, trying to catch something, that very" decisive moment, "until the effort disappears. It’s the moment when the photographer stops being tense. You have to strain at first to do everything right and cool,
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then you have to drop that strain, stop being tense, and just easily do something great. Yes, not right away; you have to work toward that. Sometimes , perhaps, it takes many years to reach that point. But it is, well, it’s
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such a thrill. Flow—that very thing. Exactly. And when you stop being tense, when the effort is no longer visible because it no longer exists for you, yet the result is great. That’s what I like. I think I’m moving toward
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that in my shoots as best I can, in the sensations I feel while on set. And here an interesting term appears called " iemoto. "It means the source. In short, it’s the house. It refers to those traditional Japanese schools for
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various arts. Tea ceremony, flower arranging, calligraphy, theater, music, whatever you like, dance. Everything they did was structured into certain schools. And there was a rigid hierarchy. Interestingly, the sole arbiter of what is correct in" iemoto " is, roughly speaking, the headmaster—
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the supreme guru of that school. There is someone at the very top, the greatest tea master in all of Japan. He is the only arbiter of correctness; he sets the levels, issues licenses, appoints teachers and teachers of teachers, and can expel people. And
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it’s interesting that the system formed when arts started to have a paying audience. Meaning, when townspeople got interested and wanted to do ikebana, dance, and so on as well . Not just professionals, yes, it looks like a photograph. And the main tea
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houses, for example, they all lead to schools, three schools of ikebana there , and so on. It's interesting that teachers across the country pay royalties upward, and the morning is sold through the night. In short, it’s a whole business. And that is
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surprising. I mean, it would seem that the Japanese are so elusive, so subtle, nothing concrete, yet they build a whole business around art, a rigid hierarchy. There is criticism that this is bad, yes, maybe some kind of tyranny
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, but there is also a defense that without this vertical, tea and theater wouldn't have survived to the 20th century, wouldn't have kept their charm . So, to preserve the unspoken, they built the most bureaucratic system. Now , here's the kicker. This is, strictly
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speaking, the modern art market. If you aren't aware, modern galleries are a closed club, their own people would never sell the best art to an outsider.
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Everything stays within the circle; they have blacklists of who can be sold what and who cannot. There are unspoken rules. For example, if you bought a piece, you cannot sell it within 3 years. If you do that, they won't sell
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you anything ever again, and so on. Yes , yes. So the art market isn't as wild as it seems. It has its own unspoken rules of regulation, its own mafia, yes , and it is quite closed. It's interesting that even then they issued
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licenses, licenses saying that you are, for example, a tea master, or know how to dance, and so on. Yes. And now this still exists. So, I’m just going to blow your mind a little bit. What happens when a photographer prints a
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limited edition and says:" Because you can print an infinite number of shots from a negative? "But he prints them and says:" I will print only 10 photos, this is the third of ten. I’ll sell that one. "Or Maurizio Cattelan, you
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understand that when he sells his banana, he isn't selling a banana. I mean, the banana will rot in a week, right? He isn't selling a banana and duct tape. He is selling a certificate from Maurizio Cattelan, which includes
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instructions on which banana to buy, which tape to buy, and how to stick it up. I’m not joking. The person who buys this is buying the right to do it infinitely, well, at their own home, right? So, the right to tape a banana
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to a wall is being licensed. You might laugh now, but it's a deep thought. The Japanese discovered this long ago; they license the right to be art. Here’s a classic: photographs with a limited edition, signed artist prints. I have
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many of these in my collection, where the artist has signed them. It’s important, after all. It adds a certain history. Actually, Europe knew a lot about this, they just did something else with it. Let’s look at what was
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happening in parallel in Europe. Some interesting moments for you, too. For example, there was Baldassare Castiglione, back in 1527, an Italian.
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He wrote a book called The Book of the Courtier. And he invented the term" sprezzatura "—a definition for a sort of nonchalance that hides the effort and shows that everything is effortless ; it's this incredibly cool worldly ease. So, please, don't show your
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effort—but this was 200 years before the" iki "system formed in Japan. There is one difference. For Castiglione, this is advice for a courtier, not a school or a level, but advice for a good, noble courtier. This is what he
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looked like. He was a good guy, quite the fellow. That’s Baldassare Castiglione. By the way, Raphael painted this portrait. They were friends, and he left this painting to his wife and children when he went away on business. Castiglione was an
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interesting person in general. He carried out diplomatic functions between kings. In short, he was a real smart, worldly consultant—I’m not sure how else to put it. Well, anyway, he was sent off to some country and left this painting behind, and he looks
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at them so pleasantly here. Okay. Italians are great at this, honestly. Not trying too hard. Take a look at these famous Italian sofas, for instance; Italians make stunning sofas.
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They are crooked, uneven, not the most perfect. We try to make our sofas neater, but Italian sofas have a certain chic and appeal of their own.
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They are very expensive and just a little bit different. Why is this sofa called a" butter sofa "? It’s like butter. Like butter on butter; you sink into it like a knife through butter. We already talked about what was happening
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in Europe regarding lectures on whether taste is debatable. Check this channel for what questions were being asked in Europe: is there a norm for taste, and who sets it? The Japanese also define taste not directly, but by what it is
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not—they define it through bad taste. And with Kant, is there a universal taste—is it the same for everyone, or is it individual? That’s also an interesting story. Bourdieu, who said that taste is a class marker. And isn't " iki "a class marker, too? Can you
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show yourself to be a fashionable, stylish guy in a given situation? Do you understand how the district lives?
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Exactly. Mm-hmm. What an interesting program. Sure, we have here, look, for example, uh, Tillmans, whom I already mentioned, we showed Juergen Teller.
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Here is Juergen Teller, his photographs . I understood it just like that. The essence of Juergen Teller is in its purest form. He doesn't try too hard.
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He is not a strained photographer at all. That is his overarching idea. Don't try too hard under any circumstances. He shoots everything naturally, with ease. Just like that.
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There. Cool. Took it from the Japanese again. No, well, of course, I am joking a little here. I am drawing parallels.
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As a result, such different cultures arrive at very similar conclusions. But the Japanese explored this much earlier and more thoroughly—meaning Japan is a way to look ahead. Our contemporary photography—that is, true modern photography, we'll get to that now—is
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guided by these Japanese principles I'm talking about. And there is another thing called Are-Bure-Boke. It is grain , blur, and out-of-focus. Roughness, graininess, motion blur, lack of sharpness—actually," Boke "comes from that. And that was 1968, Provoke magazine. I have talked about this many
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times already. Daido Moriyama, actually , he is the man from there. Uh, by the way, back in 1972, he had a book titled " Farewell Photography. "Be sure to check out this book. Well, we know Daido Moriyama, yes, grain, high
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contrast, all that stuff. Provoke magazine is simply divine. And they only made three issues and one separate little supplement. So, you could say four. Well, in principle, there were officially three by number. Plus one more collection, yes. There. And this
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is what it looks like. A very simple style, but it is a legendary thing. It costs a ton of money as a collector's item now. Though, I think they reissued them, so you can get a modern copy.
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There. And, well, you understand what that is. This kind of style, sort of. And this also comes from this Japanese history. Don't try too hard. But there is a certain tension. This" dirt, "in principle, is what modern meta-photography is, if you look at it.
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It's in some ways—I am now talking about this thesis that modern photography relies heavily on these Japanese principles we are discussing today. And they help a lot to understand modern photography and how to do it, right? Let's just look at
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some more pictures for inspiration. These are contemporary works, and they carry within them this......without a doubt. That kind of haze, dirt, imperfection, understatement, and lack of ideal form. And the fact is that Europe also knew all of this, but the
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difference is that Europe argued about it, yes, while Japan actually did it. That’s it for Europe. Is it possible?
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It’s definitely possible. The photo is blurry. Okay. But when the 20th century arrived, Western art did what the Japanese had been doing 1,000 years ago. It extracted beauty from an object . There is the object, there is the
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relationship, and there is the gap. Only in the 20th century, Western art turned it from an object into a relationship. So, look at how it all happened. Well, Marcel Duchamp, what does he do? Yes, the most discussed work of the 20th century. A urinal. It
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isn't beautiful, it isn't ugly; the act of placing it on display is what artificially makes it art. It’s like a vase in a tokonoma—if you place a urinal in a tokonoma, it still becomes art, and one must pay attention to it.
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Moreover, the Japanese even have a word for this: mitate. What is mitate? It is seeing as, or, in short, it’s such an amazing story. Now, Master Rikyu continues to delight us with stories.
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Another story about him, yes? A technique of tea masters later adopted by all of Japanese culture. Taking an object from one context, seeing it as a different object, and moving it from one context to another. So, what did
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Rikyu do? He placed a Korean peasant rice bowl on the table. Mind you, a Korean one. But we know how obsessed the Japanese are with themselves. I mean, not just a peasant rice bowl, but a Korean one at that. Right. And it
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became a tea bowl. And such bowls—the special, high-class ones—cost as much as mansions. For a tea ceremony of that level, they cost a great deal back then . Right. Or he would take a well bucket , and it would become a water vessel
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for the tea ceremony. His woven fishing basket became a flower vase. He did this on purpose. Of course, let's be honest, it’s a provocation, it’s drawing attention to oneself, but it’s also a statement. Well, how is this not modern art? However, what year
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was that? 1600-something. In, by the way, in ukiyo-e, in those pictures we looked at, yes, there is also mitate— a parody substitution. That is, when a person is in another’s pose, for example, a beauty striking the pose of
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a legendary hero or something. It’s interesting that they had this long ago . And this modern cosplay culture— which, actually, originated in Japan— is just that kind of substitution. You sort of become someone else for a time by dressing in their clothes. Also a
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very interesting, deep story. So, for the Japanese, cosplay is organic as a form of expression. An interesting story. In sixty-four. Now we will just see how this whole Japanese philosophy —we will gradually start moving towards our culture and see how this
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whole Japanese philosophy, what it eventually gave birth to and what it led to. Because it was in the 19th century that Europeans became very interested in Japan. And you know that whole story. Toulouse-Lautrec was practically taking photos in a kimono
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at home, collecting all sorts of Japanese utensils. They were interested in all of this. It influenced what they painted. Orientalism was fashionable during Lautrec's time. Well, as it turns out, the Japanese influenced modern art very strongly. When we
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understood their philosophy, it was largely borrowed, used here, and took root. Arthur Danto writes, for instance , he wrote the article" The Artworld, " which is about institutional theory, the essence. It is not an object's properties that make it art, but the
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artworld—the community that confers status upon it. Here, the role of the tokonoma is played by specific people: gallery owners, critics, museums, collectors. This closed community, right? If the community says," This is art. "It is art. Right. I have an
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acquaintance who makes very good, tasty candies, and he made a painting called" Banana Goes to Blazar. "Blazar is an art fair in Moscow. So. And the banana is that same Warhol banana, the Cattelan banana. And this banana is
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briskly marching off to Blazar. And this painting was sold for 340,000 rubles. By the way, interestingly enough, unexpectedly for him. If the community says it is art, it is art. So , this had all happened before. I mean,
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credentials, status, who is who. In Japan, all of this already existed. By the way, he wrote this book. I recommend it. I have this one by Arthur Danto. What is art? In case you were wondering, I am recommending a lot of
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books today. So, recalling Cage again," 4'33 "," as I already mentioned today, it’s not just a rhyme or a similar approach to Asia, but a direct lineage.
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The Zen Buddhist D.T. Suzuki gave lectures at Columbia University in the early fifties. John Cage listened to them. And, impressed by these lectures, he created a piece consisting entirely of "ma." Cool. By the way, that’s how he would sit at the piano for 4'33 ".
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There were also those page-turning acts , playing nothing, not a single note. And then there was the Fluxus movement, Yoko Ono was in it too. She is actually from Japan. And she made a book in sixty-four, which was called Grapefruit
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. A book where instructions take the place of the work. Meaning you, by using the instructions in this book, create the art yourself. The work of art is what you create after reading it . It is an act instead of a thing, yes,
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an exercise that generates a result. There. Here, by the way, is John Lennon , Yoko Ono, and this book, Grapefruit.
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They were apparently promoting it like this. That is what it looked like in its original cover. Later it was reissued with a more decent cover, initially. Just like that. Here is Grapefruit. Okay. And LeWitt, so, I will tell it quickly and smoothly.
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LeWitt makes these kinds of designs and patterns. Very different, such psychedelic patterns, the artist Sol LeWitt is famous for this, accordingly.
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And he came up with this idea. He sold, well, his drawings were executed by people, hired assistants following instructions. So, he was selling instructions on how to create these patterns. They are very diverse. If you google it, you will see a lot of
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interesting, such psychedelic patterns. And he was trading not so much in a specific pattern, a specific painted wall, but in instructions on how, in any place, in any house you want, you can draw and create one, yes. And that
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was just cool. So, he sells certificates and instructions, yes. The drawing can be taken and made anywhere.
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The form is free; you pay for the right to the form, like the Japanese. Like the right to be a tea master. Remember that phrase? There it is in New York.
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Yes. And one more, the last example as well. Well, here again, it is the Japanese and Lee Ufan. Well, Lee Ufan is sort of Chinese, but actually, he is of Korean descent, living and working in Japan. He is not exactly Chinese,
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but Lee Ufan is great; I really like his work. I love it. He is one of my favorite contemporary artists. There.
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And there was Sekine, who made the piece Mother Earth. This was in sixty-eight; the artist Nobuo Sekine dug a cylindrical hole in the park 2.70 meters deep. Next to it stands a cylinder of dug-up earth in the same
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shape. That is how it looked. That is how he did it. So he took the earth out and placed it right next to it. Such an interesting statement. There. And a movement was born called Mono-ha, the school of things. The main theorist and
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central figure there lately is Lee Ufan , actually. And his series is called Relatum. Um, the series means relationships, that is, a stone and a steel plate, a stone and glass, a stone and a stone. Relatum means relationships. Lee Ufan named the
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series that way because the work is not the stone itself, nor the steel, but the gap, the interval of the relationship between them. By the way, we were there; there is a Lee Ufan museum, and it contains various
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interesting works of his. And indeed, it is a very interesting impression. I don’t know if photographs convey it.
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It is better, of course, to see it yourself if you have the chance, but yes, the relationship between the stone and the iron plate. He has various versions and compositions on this, but there is something to it. It is
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precisely between them that this tension arises, yes, this spark of tension. Then there is Benjamin, yes, and what he says about the reproducible image and the aura. For example, a photograph that can be printed as many times as you like, right? And he
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defines that handmade art had an aura, whereas in the modern world, everything is replicated. Aura is the" here and now. "That is, a unique presence in this place at this moment, place and moment, yes? And so, firstly, he speaks
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of the gap, and secondly, it is also a kind of tea ceremony, the uniqueness of the ceremony itself, yes. M. And the last example is a gathering he did, he did this happening. They cooked food and ate together in 1990 in New York.
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The fact that people are cooking food and eating together unites them. And this is also the theme of relational aesthetics. That is, the work here is not an object, but the relationships between people that it creates. That is
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, they unite and interact with this work. Here, of course, one could also bring in Marina with her performances and so on. Well, I’m giving this example so it wouldn’t be too banal.
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I keep using Marina as an example. Yes, it is interesting that the Japanese also have a concept called ichigo ichie , meaning one time, one meeting. The principle of the tea ceremony is that this meeting will not be repeated,
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because this meeting is the work, it is unique. And it turns out that here, too , Marina and he, all these famous performances, yes, they are like a tea ceremony. That’s why I started with it. Interesting. Very cool. Well, the
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last thing we will end with in contemporary art, yes, is Maurizio Cattelan with his banana. So," Comedian "is a banana taped to a wall. He sold three copies for 120,000–150,000 dollars each. Once again, I’ll say, he sold a certificate of authenticity,
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not the specific bananas. They can be eaten. So, once someone buys and eats the banana, they are left with this work of art; they can then provide a new banana and tape it up again. In November 2024, one copy sold at
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Sotheby’s for $ 6 million. The buyer, Justin Sun, a crypto entrepreneur, actually ate it. He made that joke because people who don't understand how it works think the banana itself is the artwork, rather than the license. When he buys it for $ 6 million and eats it,
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everyone is like:" What are you doing? "They don't even have the sense to use their brains and realize the banana would rot soon anyway. Yes. The question is, what did he actually buy for $ 6 million? A certificate of
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authenticity and installation instructions. The banana is bought at the nearest shop. At Sotheby's, they bought it from a street vendor across the street. The form is free. You pay for the rights to the form. Emoto.
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Right. There he is, looking sharp. Everyone is taking pictures of it. They don't even suspect the banana is from the shop next door. Oh, and by the way, it was stolen from a museum in France.
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I laugh because they should have stolen the certificate and the instructions, not the banana. The banana itself means nothing. Okay. So, we have arrived at an amazing conclusion, my dear friends.
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It took us an hour and a half. Modern artists live by Japanese rules. It seems that way. Let’s re-translate the main laws of Japanese taste into the language of modern criticism. Yes, speaking directly. They say, why is it
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bad to speak directly? Illustrativeness posters literariness literal narrative, showing effort, craftsmanship, strain, completing a work to the end. That is not fashionable now. It doesn't leave any space for the viewer. How can one be so desperate to please? Yes.
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Decorativeness, kitsch, pop, pick-me behavior. So, now more than ever, we are living by these basic rules formulated by Kenkō in the 1300s, seven centuries later. I’ll show you some more cool examples now and explain how it all relates to modern
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photography for inspiration. So don't go away, we're going to look at an amazing selection. There was a guy named Ed Ruscha who made a book called" Twentysix Gasoline Stations. "That is, 26 gas stations. It was shot very simply and directly, without frills or
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grand ideas. 26 gas stations. He was just driving down a highway, and he photographed every gas station he encountered. And it's a cult book now, it looks like this, an old one from the sixties. Or, strictly speaking, the
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Bechers 'typology, the history associated with the Düsseldorf school. There’s no strain here either, it’s all so effortless. Actually, there is a lot of strain here. I mean, they really chose the day for the perfect light and the perfect spot to shoot it all. It
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wasn't simple at all. They always shot in the same light and picked the angle very meticulously, but it looks so easy , as if they just happened to be walking by and took a snapshot. And in this, there is also a very Japanese
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quality. And the last thing is Sugimoto's" Theaters "series, about the value of incompleteness, that completion is bad. Completion—there should be incompleteness instead. What is he doing now? explaining his series.
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Yes, he films in different movie theaters around the world, sets up a camera, and shoots the entire film on a long exposure. So the whole film plays through and is, as it were, layered.
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And we see an absolutely white screen. Meaning the whole film is layered frame by frame on top of each other. And in this way, he is sort of telling us that completion is bad. I mean, if you show
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the whole film, you just get a white rectangle. Such an interesting explanation for this series. and the thoughts behind it. By the way, I've seen these works of his in person too.
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It’s very interesting. And notice how the work is presented, right? It hangs alone on a large concrete wall, with light shining from below. And you are in a dialogue with it in such a situation. How does all this relate to
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contemporary photography? We’ve immersed ourselves a bit in Japan and its amazing way of looking at things, right? In the ability not to fully define terms, not to give precise definitions, right? We don't say what is beautiful or what is tasteful. We
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say what is not. We give you an understanding through exercises, through certain practices. This is exactly what you shouldn't do. But you should do it like this many times, and then you will understand, grasp it, and you will create beauty. Well, it's not
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at all like here. Yes. It’s interesting that contemporary photography, this ultra-modern photography—the modern language of photography wasn't invented in 2010; it was translated from Japanese. That is my assertion. Let's just look at the pictures. And right now, these pictures
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—the actual photos I’m showing— represent a modern style that is popular, in demand, and cool. What do we see here? No one is straining. Not straining. Mm, there is some kind of understatement. Of course there is.
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There is a slight tension here. it exists at the same time. So is this about being or seeming? Yes, it’s about being. Moreover, it’s about being here and now. This calm pose, this rumpled clothing, it’s not some kind of terrible showing off, right?
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It’s that calm movement in these clothes, just as they are; she isn't trying to strike some beautiful pose.
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Well, it's stunning. I mean, Japanese aesthetics and their, or rather, I would even say, about the moment with the light, the focus, these poses— remember what we said about the poses that should be like in a painting? It
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explains a lot—oh, and here is a wonderful nape of a geisha. It explains a lot, in general, about the Japanese view on beauty. And look at this one here, it's just lovely. It seems to me that today we understood a little more
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about these photographs, precisely thanks to, strangely enough, this small dictionary of Japanese terms with my humble explanations. Write in the comments what you think. And right now, you know, I have another thought. In all of this, right? Tokonoma, the
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boundary of light and shadow. This gap is just an amazing story—the fact that there is a photograph, for example , an art object, a picture, a photograph, and there is the person who took it or is looking at it. Between
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them is a space, and it isn't empty, and there can be something within it.
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It just blows my mind. No, it's not like a person just looks at a photo and that's it. Some kind of singular, unambiguous connection. Nothing extra.
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We look at a photo, we look at it completely. No, there is an abyss between us and the photograph. Today, our mood, where we saw it, and why?
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What did we see around us? What we saw before it, what we see after it, where we are going, what we are thinking about, what our mindset is. All of this has an influence. It is amazing. It just opened up such a, you know, for
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whom? Well, this is an abyss, but it is an abyss of possibilities. And this is where modern photography lies, where your future cool pictures and masterpieces lie—precisely in this gap, in this" ma "that has crept in there. I hope you understand what I am
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talking about right now. I think you understand what you've realized after this whole story, after the tea stories with the leaves. How beautiful. Like the spirit of the glass, not even the glass itself, but its spirit. There.
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And this language of modern photography , which keeps its roots, yes, in the Japanese understanding of beauty, in Japanese aesthetics, among other things . Well, it just so happened that we have matured, that our modern society has arrived at this, and here and now,
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it is appropriate. Photographing like this here and now, that is Iki. And this is a person who reads the air; they shoot this way because the air around us is like this right now. Do you see what I mean? And my translation
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of the modern language of photography for you is, essentially, a course which is also called" The Modern Language of Photography. "I tried to translate it into specific" kata "exercises that will help us understand, master, and feel what is good and what is not, and
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learn to take beautiful photos in that style. There is a link down below. Be sure to come. We start on the 30th, very soon. Today is the 10th. Classes start in just 20 days. It’s going to be great. An amazing group of very
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interesting people has gathered. And let me explain why this course is necessary. What is it about, right?
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What is the modern language of photography? Photography has gone through a certain period. There is a history to photography, right? At one time, people shot this, then that, then something else, and now they shoot this . It moves and changes. Photos today
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aren't like photos from before, 10, 15, or 20 years ago. And this modern photography is undoubtedly closely linked to today's topic of Japanese aesthetics. But not only that; there are other things too, right? It was born in 2026 as a consequence of the
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situation. The situation plays a role, the context—not the photos themselves , but what surrounds them—made them this way for a reason, not by accident.
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Yes. The emergence of AI, changing human preferences, a new visual language appearing in society. This all led to photography like this. It didn't die; it changed its language. And it has already happened. It's a fact, it's visible. The only option we have left
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is to learn it. To figure it out, just as we did today. There. Yes, Japanese aesthetics are elusive, but we explored them together today. And, in principle, we succeeded. We understood a great many things. I am just certain of it.
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By the way, let me know in the comments if you understood or felt something, and if you now have a better grasp of modern photography and art thanks to what I shared about the history and, roughly speaking, thanks to the
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Japanese vocabulary I provided, with correctly chosen words in the right order, the meanings of which I explained. There. That’s how it is.
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There are five main words. There is a specific vocabulary in this course as well. Its own vocabulary. We will also examine specific words, and through them, we will understand. Through shooting" kata "exercises. And through these words, we will understand how it
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is born, what is good, what is bad, what is beautiful, where this beauty comes from, and how to capture it and show it to people. These words are: honesty, tangibility, co-authorship, play, and meaning. I will explain them a little now. Honesty instead of gloss,
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what is that, right? Meaning, a modern frame doesn't pretend to be a better life. It pretends it's not pretending, it creates this unobtrusive, you know, language. And tangibility, this activity, tangibility, yes, the 100 shades of gray, like the house is dark,
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but it has so many nuances. It's so cool, you want to touch it. Good materials, even if they aren't vibrant.
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This is also very Japanese, yes, co-authorship, it is very important. The camera is power, a relationship, right, how a person is there. That is, did they read the atmosphere of this room, are they an appropriate guest, were they invited, how do they behave,
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are they that connoisseur who knows how to act and understands. This is very important. A photographer must be such a connoisseur, and then their shots will be great in every sense. It doesn't matter if you are shooting people or objects, you still need to be
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delicate, to feel subtle nuances and fit into this story skillfully. For example, if these are someone's items, who are they, how should one feel these objects, find common ground with them, and show them. This is a stunningly interesting thing. A game without
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deception, yes, the fact that, of course, a lot of photos are staged, not absolute reportage; we have a model and a place, but how to do it with" iki, " with coquetry, with this sadness and subtlety. And the feeling, of course,
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that all this is not eternal, but very wonderful. And to maintain this tension between incongruous things, photography , so that it is great. And the very last thing is the tea ceremony. I was there, yes, I was truly in that moment,
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experiencing it, it was unique. The event itself, the photoshoot, the shoot , is a kind of tea ceremony where you, the photographer, are the master of this ceremony. That is how one can relate to photography. This is a
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stunning discovery and idea. Well, this tea ceremony from our last trip to Japan really shifted our perspective, powerfully. A great many things. In terms of design and interiors, we understood certain things, and in terms of light, I understood certain things.
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And in terms of photography as well. And it's funny how this course was born . It is largely inspired by what we felt for ourselves and brought back from there. And, well, basically, VIP, because this subtle feeling that VIP is
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, something seemingly impossible to explain or articulate, elusive—you can still work with it through something. The Japanese show us this; they work with even the most complex things. We will see this through our work. There. And in this course, we
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will break down every such miracle to the nuts and bolts, to the specifics, to the light, environment, layers, and the moment. You will have exercises, you will have kata, you will have everything clearly defined. Kata are always precise, everything there is
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understandable. And then, from this, a new language will come together within you. Yes, I created a course that leaves a language inside each of you.
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You can speak it even without an instructor. And it will be your visual language. They will not be the same.
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You will not look like each other. You know, my students shoot in very different ways. I am not creating copies of myself. This is an exploration, we will do it together. I will also have a new language. That is,
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I will be doing the lessons and creating assignments with you, creating my own new visual language, and you will see how it happens. Let's try to create a visual language. That is cool, right? Quite a journey. This doesn't
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mean you only have to use it. No, it's like learning another language. It doesn't mean replacing the one you were born with. No, of course not. But it is very useful and cool to learn a new modern language, another great one that
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will be yours—unique and tailored to you. That’s why it’s the modern language of photography from Alexander Medvedev. There’s a link below, jump in, fly on over. By the way, the price will go up soon, so better not miss it.
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We’ve already gathered a good group. There. And soon, very soon, I will close it, and the price will start to rise. I will leave the link below. If you are interested in this presentation , where everything is detailed—and it
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is all detailed there. There is a description of every single lesson, what it’s about, and what will be in it. I won’t read it all out right now , but if you want to read it carefully, there is a link below to simply get
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this presentation, right? So, you can just get the presentation via this link . I will mark the presentation. And you can look it over carefully, think, reflect, and decide. But now I will just say the most important things,
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okay? This is a course for those who like to think, look, and live. That, by the way, is also a very" vibe "kind of thing. It’s about your perspective, your interaction with the world, not just about photos. Everyone has this.
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You can take it with a phone or the most expensive equipment. But honestly, if you're primarily interested in tech, this course isn't for you; it's not about that. Yes. How is it structured?
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This is how it's structured. We will go through a journey of situation, vision, belief, matter, magic, ethics, play, and meaning. Each assignment and lesson has its own essence. There's nothing vague here. This is not empty talk.
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It's an absolutely clear structure, clear philosophy, clear assignments, and clear things we will discover, learn, and try every single time. Each lecture has its own specific philosophy . There's a gallery and a breakdown of cool photos, practically prepared in a
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stunning new selection of images. You've never seen anything like it, and you won't. They are very diverse. Some feeds are kept in one style. Here, the photos might seem similar, but they will be very different. They aren't all
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the same, far from it. So. And we will discuss practical techniques, including how to do all of this in practice. And surprisingly, I myself am changing significantly. I will talk about editing, that is, how to edit to get
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these analog-style images without film, without costs, and from digital. This is very important. There will be editing like this as well, showing how to create such images. And there will be homework for everyone. So. And it's just great. Each lecture also offers
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you its own gift. It's designed in a very interesting way. It's a stunning journey. So come join us. We start on September 30th. And on December 7th, we will summarize. We will compare. That is, after the first lecture, you will
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take a control shot, a control series. Well, right after the first lecture. So. And then we will compare what you have after this course on December 7th and look at the difference. It will be very interesting. You will see the path
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you have traveled. So, this course is led by Alexander Medvedev and Valeria. She is our visual component curator.
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Her selections and all sorts of things are very cool. It’s simply gorgeous. So. And I am the person who takes what is elusive and makes it clear and tangible. I hope today I demonstrated this with this Japanese theme,
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wabi-sabi, which was eluding everyone. And even Heidegger said," No, I can't, I don't know how to define it. "Why is this course worth your autumn? Because modern photography is a language, not a set of tricks. It's about relationships
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, it's a deep story, not a short-lived trend; it's an entire era that is here to stay. And it's better to sort it out and understand it. It’s not really about the specifics, like whether you tilted the horizon or how to frame a
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shot. There. But we have everything precise, we’ll turn it all into an algorithm, with our own katas and simple exercises. From every lecture, you’ll take away not just inspiration , but a plan of action. Like that. What ? So. Okay. These are the kinds of
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lectures there will be. Now everything is different. Inner garden. A very important lecture on how to manage your taste and what to focus on. That’s economa, right? What to focus on and how. Oh, that’s cool. The beauty of a
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mistake. Amazing stories. Including wabi-sabi here and how a mistake can actually be beautiful. Skin of the world, about matter, tactility, all of that. Alchemy of vibe. How does the magic between photographer and viewer arise through the work? Yes, that magic
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, those feelings from shots that are inexplicable, but cool. How does it work? Which strings are pulled, and how to create shots that possess this vibe, this magical impact. Gaze and power. A very serious topic. How we look at the
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subjects we photograph and how that conveys to the viewer, what they feel. The game of truth is about, well, you remember, right? To be, not to seem.
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There’s that point from the monk and everyone, right? Okay. Heart-to-heart talk. What do you mean? It’s very important. Why photograph at all? What is your place in the world as a photographer? Who are you shooting for?
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For yourself, for others, and what then ? What do you want to tell them? Why is it so important? This tea ceremony of every photoshoot, unique. It’s in itself a wonderful therapy and sensation. I don’t know how to
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explain it. You have to take part in it , you have to feel it. You experience it. It’s very interesting when you take part in each such photography ceremony. So, in general, it will be cool. I don’t promise that in 10
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weeks you’ll shoot like X or Y, but you will shoot like you, just in a modern new language. This is the essence of the course, and it’s the best I have for you here. And now. So make sure to come on September 30th for
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the first class, which is called" Now everything is different. "And it truly is. There. And the only other thing, we’re finishing now, but I want you to remember, even when building an Imperial Palace, they always leave one place unfinished.
Topics:Japanese beautytokonomawabi-sabiJapanese aestheticsikebanaJapanese cultureart presentationphotography aestheticsshibuiiki
