from the unclean to the clean
A low, thick beam called the agarikamachi, or “stepping-up sill,” marks the edge of the raised floor. Polished and worn from generations of physical contact, it is the ideal height for sitting, and it forms a clear demarcation line between the “unclean” doma, where outdoor footwear is worn, and the “clean” house proper, where wearing shoes is taboo. Our initial impression of the hiroma, or “big room,” is one of dark wood and bamboo. Open at the entrance, the hiroma is bounded to our right by the kitchen wall and shelves, and to the left by wide sliding doors that open onto the veranda. The far wall is a solid one, framed with smoke-blackened wooden boards. We slip off our footwear, and follow Shinichi in stepping up onto the floor.
The floor is made of thick, wide hardwood planks. No coating was applied as a finish, but generations of hand rubbing and contact with bare and slippered feet have rendered them black and shiny, and we can clearly see the light from the wide sliding doors reflected in the floor. The hiroma of many houses have no ceilings and are bound overhead only by the roughly hewn crisscrossed logs that serve as roof beams. But the bamboo ceiling of this particular room lends it a rustic dignity and delicacy, almost as if a simple lean-to has been erected inside the house. Transformed as it has been by long exposure to smoke, the bamboo reflects a warm russet light. This room is stark, resonant, robust, cool, and aromatic.
It is also well appointed. What appear at first glance to be solid walls are in fact sliding panels concealing capacious storage space, and upon closer inspection we can see that a few of these are actually movable, modular storage units that fit perfectly into wall openings and recesses. The thick, horizontal framing that surrounds the room at the height of the doorways supports shelves of various widths, upon which are stacked containers and household implements, boxes and baskets.
The most prominent shelf is a spiritual one: the kami-dana, or “god-shelf,” that bears a miniature Shinto shrine as well as votives and offerings for the gods of nature. There is also a simple, large recess in the wall in front of us, the oshi-ita, which is decorated with paper talismans. Together the kami-dana and oshi-ita transform the entire space into a place of devotion and spiritual significance, a place in which residents and visitors are constantly reminded that nature and the spirits by whose will all was created are the true center of life, and man is allowed to dwell here only with their permission.
The center of life in the house is the unassuming firepit, the irori—a square recess in the floor of this main room. It serves as a cooking facility, where pots of stew or gruel can be hung to cook, and fish and vegetables can be roasted on skewers. Other treats can be toasted over this fire as well, though rice and most rice dishes are better prepared on the kamado. The firepit is the information and communication center of the house. It commands a view of the doma as well, allowing someone seated here, usually the matron of the household, to witness all comings and goings and to monitor and direct all activity. We’ve arrived just as Shinichi and his family are finishing their midday meal. The cast-iron stew pot has been replaced by one for boiling water for tea, suspended over the embers by an adjustable hook. As Misaki and her mother-in-law bustle about the kitchen area, other members of the household lounge comfortably on woven straw mats, some sprawled on the cool floor in hopes of catching a short nap. All told, there are six people, an average number for a farm of this size.
Shinichi is the head of the household and is in his thirties. He grew up in this house, which was built by his grandfather on land obtained by his great-grandfather. As his name indicates, he is the eldest son of his deceased father, Shin. His wife, Misaki, who is a few years younger, grew up in a neighboring village; their marriage was an arranged one. The matron of the household, however, is Shinichi’s mother, who is over fifty years old and therefore quite elderly. Though she defers to her daughter-in-law in many matters, this is her domain and the place where she spends most of her day.
The couple has two children, the boy of twelve who had first noticed our arrival, and a girl of ten. Misaki was pregnant twice since, and while both came to term, they were “sent back” by the midwife at birth. While not explicitly prohibited, large families are strongly discouraged by social norms, and adequate resources for all can only be provided if the population growth of the village is inhibited. This is also the reason the sixth member of the household, Shinichi’s younger brother Tsuyoshi, has never married and lives here in his brother’s house.
More prosperous families with much larger landholdings might be able to consider allowing a second or even a third son to build a house and start a family, and many are taken into childless households or those with only daughters as adopted heirs. But the second son’s lot is assumed to be a solitary, if not strictly celibate, one. This value system definitely sacrifices a large measure of personal liberty for the greater common good. It may seem unfair, and some aspects of it, such as infanticide (dataimabiki, or literally “thinning out”), even extreme. But the voluntary limitation of birthrate and family size has led to a stable population nationwide for nearly two hundred years, to the benefit of all.
From where we sit we can see most of the rest of the house. Beyond the hiroma lie several other modest rooms, all opening onto each other and to the hiroma itself by large sliding doors. In inclement or cold weather, each room can be individually closed, shuttered, and independently heated with small braziers if needed. But on warm days like today everything is opened to the breeze, and it is possible to look from the doma all the way through to the other end of the house and into the garden beyond, a free-flowing enfilade of subtly differentiated living space.
Nearest the hiroma is the zashiki, a tatami-matted space that is less purely utilitarian but nonetheless well suited to many kinds of work as well as to the comfortable reception of guests. It is the most formal room of the house, and is where the third spiritual space, the butsudan, or Buddhist family altar, is located, concealed behind sliding or folding doors. Funerals are held in this room, as are the periodic devotional observances dictated by the faith that require the presence of a Buddhist priest.
The design and features of the zashiki provide a good indication of the prosperity of the household—and perhaps of the community as a whole. It also serves as a barometer for the broad cultural shift in which aspects of the aristocratic lifestyle have gradually percolated through society and become available to nearly everyone, even average families like Shinichi’s. There are many communities around the country where a zashiki with tatami mats would be considered an unnecessary luxury. In those areas, the zashiki would be nearly identical to the hiroma in terms of walls and flooring, and it would most likely not have a ceiling. Large straw mats might be placed on the floor as a kind of proto-tatami (for in fact tatami evolved from rougher, thinner woven mats).
But Shinichi’s zashiki is representative in its construction. It has a ceiling of lightweight battens and boards that is suspended from the beams above, requiring the services of a good carpenter. It has sliding doors as well as shoji made of rice paper over a fine