Crouching down, you enter the nijiriguchi (躙口), a deliberately designed crawl door. Its form demands a humble entry, obliging even the most distinguished guest to leave behind any sense of self-importance and bow low as they pass through. Inside, the space opens into the intimate dimensions of a mere two tatami mats.
Your knees settle onto the kyaku tatami (客畳)—the mat reserved for guests. The air carries a cool, faintly earthy scent. Rough clay walls contribute to a style emphasising natural materials. Overhead, the low ceiling seems to press downward, drawing you closer to the earth.
Across from you, Sen no Rikyū tends to the ro (炉), the small sunken hearth. Each movement is deliberate, his actions imbued with intention as he boils the water. The faint hiss of steam rises, merging with the room's stillness. You watch his hands—steady and precise—as he prepares the implements. The tea bowl, the chawan (茶碗), rests securely in his hands, held with the ease of a master’s familiarity.
As you sit within the simplicity of the architecture, your gaze settles on the tokonoma (床の間), the alcove. It is in the murodoko (室床) style, where plain clay is plastered onto the ceiling, creating an unadorned aesthetic. Framing the alcove is the slender tokobashira (床柱), a vertical support post with cedar knots purposefully left visible in their natural imperfection. Hanging within is a solitary kakejiku (掛軸) scroll, its surface adorned with kanji characters rendered in expressive brushstrokes. You appreciate their aesthetic qualities rather than attempting to decipher their meaning.
When Rikyū places the tea before you, his movements are unhurried. You bow, lifting the bowl with both hands. As you turn it slowly, its rough, asymmetrical form invites your admiration, its texture and heft carrying the weight of history in your palms. The first sip of the koicha (濃茶), a concentrated preparation of matcha, is bold and complex, with a nuanced bitterness balanced by subtle sweetness and umami.
There follows a moment of shared silence. As the ceremony ends, Rikyū cleans each tool and returns it to its designated place. You bow once more and then rise and exit the tea room, crawling back through the nijiriguchi. The experience has simultaneously elevated and grounded you.
This account describes what it might have been like to experience chanoyu (茶の湯), the tea ceremony, with Sen no Rikyū, the celebrated 16th-century master of the art, inside Tai-an (待庵), the tea room he designed. Rikyū is believed to have built this room at his residence around 1582. It is the only one of his structures still in existence. It was later carefully dismantled and relocated to its current home at Myoki-an, a Zen temple of the Rinzai Sect, situated on Kyoto’s southwest side near the banks of the Katsuragawa.
Central to the tea ceremony, as you might have observed while lifting the chawan offered by Rikyū, is matcha (抹茶). In 1191, the Zen monk Eisai brought powdered tea to Japan from China, extolling its medicinal benefits in his book Kissa Yōjōki (喫茶養生記), or The Book of Tea and Health. During the Kamakura Period (1185–1333), matcha was used to aid meditation in Zen monasteries. Later, in the 15th century, tea masters like Murata Jukō developed chanoyu as a distinct practice. Sen no Rikyū further refined it, solidifying matcha's place as the ceremony's centrepiece.
Rikyū could not have imagined that, over 400 years later, Japan would face a matcha shortage spurred by global demand. Surging international interest has drained reserves, prompting producers to scale up operations and innovate to meet the need. Despite perceptions of industrial-scale production, matcha is predominantly crafted by a network of small producers and family-run businesses, particularly in regions like Uji in Kyoto.
Nearly eight centuries after The Book of Tea and Health, matcha's health benefits are prominent in modern wellness discourse, linked to everything from microbiome balance to improved detoxification. Few consume matcha as a small, concentrated measure within the austere setting of a tea room, however. Its latest incarnation takes shape in mass-produced health and energy drinks, with the green powder as its foundation. In the UK, one brand markets an absurd "ceremonial grade" summer berry matcha mix. In cafés, matcha is used to create lower-caffeine mellower lattes. The trend appears permanent; matcha has transformed from a niche superfood to a cornerstone of global food culture.
The situation strikes me as emblematic of Japan's wider popularity and its struggles to manage heavy tourism, particularly in Kyoto. Tokyo's 23 wards have nearly ten times Kyoto's population and over 2.5 times its land area. Although challenges certainly exist, Tokyo handles large numbers of visitors with relative ease compared to Kyoto, thanks to its scale and density.
Still, almost every traveller is bound for Kyoto—and for good reason. The city's influence on Japanese aesthetics is immense. To grasp its enduring role as a centre of Japanese culture, we must rewind a little further back than Sen no Rikyū's tea ceremony to the Ōnin War. This 11-year conflict between rival clans left Kyoto in ruins, with its historic architecture and artistic heritage suffering irreparable loss.
The periods around this portion of history can be confusing due to overlap, partly because they are defined by political and cultural shifts rather than the familiar system of imperial reigns. To attempt to untangle things:
The Muromachi Period (1336–1573) saw cultural flourishing under the Ashikaga shogunate. However, growing instability and conflict culminated in the Ōnin War (1467–1477), which further fractured central authority and ushered in the Sengoku Period (c. 1467–1615), a time of widespread feudal conflict. Despite the warfare, this era also saw cultural refinement. Within the Sengoku Period, the Azuchi–Momoyama Period (1568–1600) marked unification efforts. These transitions ultimately led to the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunate and the Edo Period (1603-1868).
The period surrounding the Ōnin War represents a critical stage in the evolution of Japanese aesthetics. In Designing Japan: A Future Built on Aesthetics, Kenya Hara traces this development back to the pre-Ōnin Muromachi era, highlighting Ashikaga Yoshimasa, who inherited his role as the shōgun of the Ashikaga shogunate while still a child.
Ashikaga Yoshimasa, the eighth Muromachi shogun, was little interested in ruling. A lover of architecture and the arts, he reportedly indulged in these interests to the point that the power of the shogunate declined. If he had been a more energetic ruler, had dealt more skillfully with the problem of succession and united his family, his reign might not have lapsed into chaos and the Onin War might never have occurred. Yet paradoxically, while his feeble grasp of politics led to confusion, unrest, and war, these factors created the conditions that allowed Japanese culture to mature and make progress toward originality.
Hara observes that Yoshimasa's devotion to beauty was so intense that he remained absorbed in his calligraphy, even as fighting approached within 100 meters of his position. Though born into a life of political negotiation and war, he seems to have valued creativity above all else. It seems to me he achieved a profound flow state through his calligraphy. I can empathise; on a less consequential scale, I see this in my own process. Life's urgent matters press ever closer, yet I allow them to wait just a little longer as the work demands my full attention.
At 37, after the Ōnin War, Ashikaga Yoshimasa retired from public life and dedicated his remaining years to pursuing the arts. Nearly a decade later, in 1482, he began constructing his retirement villa, Jishō-ji—later known as Ginkaku-ji, the Silver Pavilion—in Kyoto's Higashiyama district. Within this complex, the Dōjinsai tea room became a retreat where Yoshimasa could immerse himself in creativity. History often regards his decision to relinquish power for artistic devotion with bemusement. I relate, though. I'd choose a tatami-matted room, a tokonoma, and a writing desk over politics and conflict every time.
Hara suggests that the shogun's preoccupation with art contributed to the onset of the war. Then, in its wake, Kyoto's widespread devastation necessitated the reconstruction of its artistic and cultural foundations. Alex Kerr, the esteemed writer and Japanologist, approaches this story from a different historical route in his book Another Kyoto, eventually converging with Hara’s perspective and continuing the thread.
Japan had a problem. It was that everything worthwhile came from China. Ceramics, paper, lacquer, temples, literature, poetry, kanji, baskets, furniture … Chinese things were grand, elaborate, colorful, technically polished, refined, elegant, inventive … Here was Japan at the receiving end of this deluge of noble and fabulous Chinese things, and the question arose, "Well, who are we?"
Kerr goes on to set the scene for the breakthrough that addressed this issue in the aftermath of the Ōnin War.
When Japanese of the late 15th and 16th centuries looked at what was really innate to their country, they suffered an identity crisis. What they found was rough and primitive … They found palaces roofed with cedar chips, country houses with smoky fires burning in floor hearths. There was Negoro lacquer—thick, uneven, with splotchy black under layers showing through where the surface would wear away … Their native pottery was ungainly, heavy, hand-molded from gritty brown clay, and mostly unglazed … Many pieces were misshapen, unbalanced; they had none of the technical control that you would find in a Song dynasty celadon, for example.
At this point, Sen no Rikyū takes his place in the narrative. He and other tea masters were influenced by the aesthetic principles of Higashiyama Bunka (東山文化), a flourishing of arts and aesthetics patronised by Ashikaga Yoshimasa. This cultural movement sought to harmonise imported Chinese influences with native Japanese sensibilities, producing a refined cultural synthesis.
Higashiyama Bunka manifested in architecture, garden design, and various artistic disciplines. Its influence can be seen in the development of Noh (能) drama, ikebana (生け花), or flower arranging, and karesansui (枯山水), the dry landscape gardens exemplified by Ryōan-ji’s rock garden. Although some art forms, like ikebana, trace their roots to earlier periods, Higashiyama Bunka honed and elevated them to new levels of sophistication during the Momoyama-Azuchi period.
Within this context, Sen no Rikyū incorporated the principles of wabi-sabi (侘寂) into the tea ceremony. Wabi-sabi is often misunderstood as synonymous with minimalism. While difficult to summarise, it is more accurately rooted in the appreciation of imperfection, impermanence, and a reverence for nature. Through the wabi-cha (侘茶) style of tea ceremony, Rikyū elevated rustic elements—like the weathered country houses and uneven pottery Kerr describes—embracing their irregularities. He saw these imperfections as expressions of humility and elegance, popularising a cultural ethos that valued the unpolished.
Five centuries of artistic evolution and cultural production separate us from Higashiyama Bunka, leading to today's realities of matcha depletion and Kyoto's influx of visitors—drawn to the crown where Japan's cultural roots met the stem and flourished. While my completionist instinct urges me to trace every step in between, there is only so much ground we can traverse in one newsletter. Instead, we’ll fast-forward to the present day to examine some of the art emerging from the city’s current conditions.
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Places profoundly influence creativity, with physical and social environments shaping artistic expression, whether by design or default. Consider London's grime music, initiated in the council estates of East London, where claustrophobic spaces and stark urban architecture infused the genre with raw, defiant energy. Near the blocks where I once lived, it wasn't unusual to see young men crafting their latest rhymes in the alleyways between buildings.
For another example, Post-Cold War Berlin turned its abandoned warehouses and industrial scars into experimental art hubs, juxtaposing the cityscape's rawness with a surge of creative energy. In both cases, creativity emerged despite environmental constraints and then thrived because of them.
Viewed this way, it seems natural that contemporary Kyoto would have the conditions for an interplay of tradition and modernity. While not every Kyoto artist consciously engages with this theme, it indeed resonates vividly in the work of many.
Naoko Tosa's digital pieces, such as her Sound of Ikebana series, exemplify the fusion of tradition and technology, blending Higashiyama Bunka aesthetics with digital innovation to create fluid, hypnotic visuals that feel futuristic yet rooted in heritage. In 2017, she brought her vision to New York’s Times Square, transforming its screens with her art. She is now extending this aesthetic into haute couture.
Tosa leads the Art Innovation Tosa Laboratory at Kyoto University, one of the city’s three prominent art universities. Together, these institutions—Kyoto University of the Arts, Kyoto City University of Arts, and Kyoto Seika University—make Kyoto a vital hub for creative exploration and education.
Tomoko Kashiki, an alumna of Kyoto City University of Arts, employs traditional Nihonga (日本画) techniques in her work. She meticulously layers iwa enogu (岩絵具) mineral pigments on washi (和紙) paper or silk to create depth and subtle, luminous gradations. Her precise brushwork and delicate line work radiate classical elegance, yet her subject matter—solitary figures in surreal, intimate settings—evokes a sense of modern isolation.
These artists are well-established, and like many of their contemporaries, they spend more time exhibiting in Tokyo or overseas than in their base and hometown. It is partly due to Kyoto's long-standing role as a centre for artistic development and its strong connections to the international art world. However, the city is home to hundreds of small and intimate galleries, offering a window into the work of Kyoto's lesser-known artists.
Countless gallery guides are available for those who prefer a hit-list approach, but exploring by district offers an alternative, more organic way to experience the art scene. The Nakagyō ward, with its mix of experimental and grassroots spaces, might please those drawn to unconventional and emerging artists. In contrast, Teramachi Art Street, located downtown near Nishiki Market, comprises an array of galleries showcasing various styles. You'll find sweeping reinterpretations of Nihonga among more approachable, smaller-scale works. And, of course, Higashiyama continues to thrive with galleries dotted among its old streets.
Just north of Higashiyama, on the south side of the Sakyō ward, is Club Metro, a cornerstone of the city's music scene and one of Japan's longest-running clubs. Since its founding in 1990, the venue has hosted performances by artists in their formative years, supporting local talent who have gone on to reach global audiences. Mondo Grosso, Kyoto Jazz Massive, and Quruli are a few of them. Members of the legendary performance group Dumb Type organise a regular party night at the club, and Metro also runs a culture school exploring art, film, literature, and theatre.
I received comments and messages about the track featured in last week's Kyotothèque Instagram reel. The song, Glassed Kyoto, is by Daichi Yamamoto, a contemporary hip-hop artist and the son of Nick Yamamoto, incidentally, the founder of Club Metro. Yamamoto has a palette of influences including watching Sailor Moon as a child, formative trips to Jamaica with his mother, and later discovering graffiti and Basquiat during high school. This latter influence sparked a passion for art, eventually taking him to London for his studies.
Glassed Kyoto portrays the city through childhood memories and present-day observations. Yamamoto reflects on moments in the gardens of his danchi (団地), a 1960s-era public housing complex—of which there are around 60 in Kyoto. Yet his sound lacks the claustrophobic edge of tower blocks. Instead, it is a mellow boom-bap delivered with a melodic flow, more reminiscent of the Kamogawa’s meandering course. An affectionate nostalgia for his hometown, tempered by a melancholy for its changing landscape, runs through the track. With a touch of Buddhist thought, Yamamoto wonders if he’ll be reincarnated as a bug in his next life, destined to return to Kyoto to rebuild his karma.
I hesitate to lean on the tired trope of "tradition meets modernity" in Japan. It’s subtler than giant robots juxtaposed with geisha, yet this interplay is present in Kyoto. Artists continue reworking traditional forms rooted in Higashiyama Bunka and incorporate them into contemporary expressions. Some work in more internationally influenced forms or strive for complete originality to untether themselves from the past, but entirely escaping Kyoto's legacy may prove impossible.
Were I an artist living here, I'd be tempted to begin each week by crawling under the nijiriguchi of a chashitsu, sipping matcha in its faintly earthy air before retreating to my study to forget life's pressing obligations and lose myself in the work.
This concludes part two of Kyotothèque, where we've layered the arts atop the foundational grid laid last week. Join me next week for the third and final instalment of this mini-series, as we step into the city’s nightlife. Perhaps a geisha will have the final word after all.
Until we meet in Higashiyama,
AJ