Figure 10 Map of the early Japanese capitals:
1. Naniwa (645–67); 2.Ltsu (667–72);
3. Kiyomihara (672–94); 4. Fujiwara (694–710);
5. Heijō [Nara] (710–84); 6). Nagaoka (784–94);
7. Heian [Kyoto] (794–1868).
The continental architecture introduced along with Buddhism possessed several features that were radically new. The Japanese had until then sunk pillars directly into the ground; Chinese and Korean builders set them atop foundation stones and stone-faced podia. The connections between columns, beams, and rafters, which the Japanese had kept as simple as possible—on smaller structures often merely bound with rope—were replaced by intricate structural bracketing systems. Eaves and other major structural lines, which were usually straight in early Japanese shrines, now took on the typically “Oriental” upswept curve. Roofing tiles made their first appearance, although indigenous thatch and shingle remained in frequent use. And lastly, whereas the Japanese had used only bare wood surfaces, the Koreans and Chinese demonstrated the use of floridly painted wooden members and decorative gilt fittings. We can only imagine how dazzling the new temples must have looked to an average Japanese villager of this period, entering a new Chinese-style capital for the first time and being confronted with the spectacle of polychrome spires and vast tile-covered roofs extending in an uninterrupted vista to the horizon. The experience must have been awe-inducing, an unsettling but intriguing “future shock.”
The building types introduced by the Korean carpenters at the beginning of the ancient period were of two major types: the pagoda, or tower (still housing in its base the nominal relics of the Buddha), and the so-called “golden hall” (housing the temple’s most important paintings and statues of the Buddha). These buildings were surrounded by a roofed corridor or cloister with a prominent gate, and included several other buildings. As mentioned above, the earliest temples were all built in the area of present-day Nara, in or near one of the capital cities (Fig. 10). These earliest temples, which include Asuka-dera and Shitennōji, followed the strict symmetrical layout of their Chinese and Korean prototypes. Although varying in detail, they were all composed to emphasize the soaring pagoda, a means of indicating that the relics of the Buddha in its base were considered more important than his statue housed in the golden hall.
Even at this early period, however, the Japanese seemed to favor asymmetrical compositions, and before long temples were built to suit this preference. Among the most notable is Hōryūji, established in AD 607 by Prince Shōtoku, the figure credited with unifying the Japanese government under one imperial house, partly by encouraging the universal adoption of Buddhism. The present Hōryūji, whose central precinct contains the oldest wooden buildings in the world, dates from AD 670, when it was rebuilt after a fire. Despite the widespread approval with which the pleasingly dynamic design of Hōryūji was met, Japan did not completely abandon the symmetrical principle of continental temple layout.
Yakushiji temple, the subject of this book, was erected in 718 (Figs. 11, 23, 24). It marked a stunning recurrence of the symmetrical composition of the Chinese prototypes, including two 30-meter-high pagodas that flanked and set off the Golden Hall, an arrangement which may reflect an increase in image worship versus reverence for relics. Only the West Pagoda contained relics, so the East Pagoda seems to have been intended primarily as an aesthetic element. Yakushiji was destroyed by fire during the late middle ages, but the East Pagoda survives to this day intact. In large part, it has served as the basis for the complete restoration and reconstruction of Yakushiji currently in progress.
Figure 11 Yakushiji main compound as seen from the southwest in 1987. The reconstructed West Pagoda is in the center, the 1,300-year-old East Pagoda to the right, and the reconstructed Golden Hall to the left.
From these beginnings, Buddhist architecture in Japan proliferated in a complex evolutionary process, often difficult even for specialists to unravel. New sects, new building sites, shifting patronage, and technological development (as well as occasional regression) have all contributed to the diversity of building types and details, of scale and experience. And yet, in terms of religious experience, certain factors seem to have remained fairly constant.
Regardless of the specific design, a Japanese Buddhist temple essentially provides a setting for contemplation and prayer, usually in the presence of religious paintings or sculpture. “Good deeds” in the form of offerings of money, incense, and food are performed according to prescribed rituals, and there is usually an area set aside for rest and refreshment. Passage through a temple is a kind of ritual in itself, a process of crossing through successive gates, penetrating deeper and deeper into the temple sanctuary. Temple buildings are almost always set apart on raised platforms which require the ascent of several steps before reaching the doorway. Doors are generally massive with a large sill which must be deliberately stepped over; the size of the doors is partly due to the absence of windows to admit light (although this depends on the specific building). A large sand-filled brazier is usually set before the doorway so that visitors may burn a stick of incense before entering, a form of purification. The difference in light levels between inside and outside, one of the most striking features of most temples, is intentional. Due to the broad eaves and relatively small openings for lighting, almost all the light that penetrates the interior is what has been reflected upward from the ground. The effect of this dim light, magnified in effect as it strikes the delicate gilt statuary and fittings, together with the incense-laden air, is moving and mysterious (Fig. 12). When one realizes that this type of atmosphere has survived essentially unchanged from antiquity, the sense of continuity with the past can be profound. This psychological effect arises from an environment that stimulates all of our senses: the coolness of the interior, its dimness and muffled acoustics, the mingled aromas of candle wax and incense, and an almost palpable memory of the tastes of tea, rice cakes, and small temple sweets. That such surroundings are highly evocative of the hope and despair of countless generations and their striving for purity is not incidental. It represents, rather, millennia of refinement and evolution in design, wherein the most profound aspects have been retained and the rest modified slowly over time. It was probably this overall consistency that caused the fellow I encountered on the train in Nara to remark, “They all look the same.”
Figure 12 The quiet harmony of black lacquer, gilt, and fresh flowers in the dimly lit interior of the Yakushiji Golden Hall.
An Unlikely Apprentice
It is not often that a new temple building—to say nothing of a large complex—is built in the “old way” in Japan today. I feel truly fortunate to have had the opportunity to observe such an undertaking close at hand, something which would have been impossible without the permission of master carpenter Nishioka. At the outset, there was no book planned. I approached Nishioka—after a long, labyrinthine process of leads, dead ends, and introductions to people who might obtain introductions to others who might be able to get me an appointment with the master himself—as an awkward American youth with an interest in Japanese carpentry, clutching a handful of slides of my own timber framing work in New England. On learning of my hope to return later to Japan to study more about its wooden