A Studio Show
Recently I went to a semi-annual studio show/sale by a local ceramic artist, Willi Singleton. His work is close to my heart as a tea person because he was trained in Japan, and he fires his ceramics using a Japanese type of kiln called a nobori-gama (a climbing kiln).
A nobori-gama consists of several chambers, large enough to walk inside but not quite tall enough to stand up in, going progressively higher on a hillside. When it’s time to fire, you build the fire to the right temperature over a day or so, maintain the fire for three days, and then let it die down and cool over the last day. It’s an intensive process that requires a team of several people, because there has to be someone watching the fire 24 hours a day to make sure that the kiln doesn’t get too hot or two cold. It’s a very complex process that requires a lot of expertise, because you have to be able to judge the temperature of the fire by its color and to know when to make the fire hotter or colder to produce the right kiln effects. For tea people, ceramics like bowls and water containers fired this way have a texture and a visual impact that you just can’t duplicate with a gas kiln.
Willi makes his living selling his ceramics, and he does shows all over, including some exhibitions in Japan. He does a lot of functional objects like bowls, plates, and cups, and also (because he knows some local tea ceremony practitioners) some utensils specific for tea ceremony, like tea bowls, cold water jars, and sometimes tea containers. Most of the tea practitioners in the area have at least one or two of his things – some of us a bit more. We also use his bowls for classes and demonstrations. The students really tend to like his bowls – some will gravitate to his bowls over the Japanese ones. And some just like the fact that those pieces come from a local source.
I really enjoy that aspect of it, too. In Japan, there are a number of different ceramic-making centers, and a number of the different types of pottery are used in tea ceremony. To me, it’s wonderful to have a local artist who makes his wares in a traditional way, and to be able to use that in our tea gatherings. It brings the whole thing a little closer to home.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Robiraki Time Again
This past weekend was our Robiraki celebration, the opening of the winter hearth. This time of year the weather can be so variable around here, which is of particular concern in a house with no heat! But a tropical storm was just on its way out, so it was a little rainy, but not too cold. And the leaves were still on the trees, making for a beautiful day when the sun peeked out later.
For this gathering we tried something a little different – sumi shomo, in which the host invites the first guest to lay the charcoal fire. Of course, in a gathering you would never do this without arranging it with the first guest in advance; it’s very bad form to spring it on your guest as a surprise. In this case, most of our guests were inexperienced at doing the first guest role, which is a bit complicated, and so one of our teachers sat in as first guest. Because I was acting in the “host” role, I got to sit in and watch him lay the fire, which is something I very rarely get a chance to do. It was a great experience.
But probably the best part for me was actually being able to make tea. Last year about this time I suffered a knee injury, and it’s been a long, slow process of healing and getting my joints back in shape to sit seiza (kneeling). Even as recently as August, my knee wouldn’t bend completely into a sitting position – if I tried to kneel, my backside wouldn’t quite make it down to rest on my legs. But for Robiraki I was able to sit without a supporting bench and prepare thick tea (koicha) for the guests. I feel like I’m really “back,” even though I still have some work to do on my sitting and standing.
More importantly, I think the guests had a good time, too. We had nine total, which is a good, comfortable number – more than that (as is a necessity at big branches like New York) starts to feel a little impersonal. Less than that is fine, of course – you could have a tea gathering with just one guest if you wanted to – but it was good to see some old friends again, and to give some of our newer students a first-hand experience of how everything we’ve been teaching fits together. But even beyond the number of guests, everybody got along really well – there was a good feeling between the people who were there, which is the hardest thing to prepare for beforehand, but one of the most important aspects of a harmonious gathering.
Now it’s time to gather around the sunken hearth and think warm thoughts for the wintertime. It’s going to be a beautiful season coming up.
For this gathering we tried something a little different – sumi shomo, in which the host invites the first guest to lay the charcoal fire. Of course, in a gathering you would never do this without arranging it with the first guest in advance; it’s very bad form to spring it on your guest as a surprise. In this case, most of our guests were inexperienced at doing the first guest role, which is a bit complicated, and so one of our teachers sat in as first guest. Because I was acting in the “host” role, I got to sit in and watch him lay the fire, which is something I very rarely get a chance to do. It was a great experience.
But probably the best part for me was actually being able to make tea. Last year about this time I suffered a knee injury, and it’s been a long, slow process of healing and getting my joints back in shape to sit seiza (kneeling). Even as recently as August, my knee wouldn’t bend completely into a sitting position – if I tried to kneel, my backside wouldn’t quite make it down to rest on my legs. But for Robiraki I was able to sit without a supporting bench and prepare thick tea (koicha) for the guests. I feel like I’m really “back,” even though I still have some work to do on my sitting and standing.
More importantly, I think the guests had a good time, too. We had nine total, which is a good, comfortable number – more than that (as is a necessity at big branches like New York) starts to feel a little impersonal. Less than that is fine, of course – you could have a tea gathering with just one guest if you wanted to – but it was good to see some old friends again, and to give some of our newer students a first-hand experience of how everything we’ve been teaching fits together. But even beyond the number of guests, everybody got along really well – there was a good feeling between the people who were there, which is the hardest thing to prepare for beforehand, but one of the most important aspects of a harmonious gathering.
Now it’s time to gather around the sunken hearth and think warm thoughts for the wintertime. It’s going to be a beautiful season coming up.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Aki Shigure (Autumn Shower)
This past weekend it turned cold and rainy here, and we were especially grateful for a warm cup of tea!
As I was passing by the tsukubai (the outdoor water basin where guests stop to wash their hands before coming into the tearoom) I saw the raindrops falling into the water, and it was such a pretty image that I thought I should write a poem about it. So here it is, with apologies to any real poets out there:
tsukubai filling
raindrops on cloudy water
waiting for red leaves
As I was passing by the tsukubai (the outdoor water basin where guests stop to wash their hands before coming into the tearoom) I saw the raindrops falling into the water, and it was such a pretty image that I thought I should write a poem about it. So here it is, with apologies to any real poets out there:
tsukubai filling
raindrops on cloudy water
waiting for red leaves
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Americans vs. Tradition
The other day I was talking with someone -- not about tea, just general conversation – and she said, “I’m a practical person. I don’t think that we should be bound by history or tradition. All I care about is what works.”
Probably most people in this country would agree with that statement. It’s ingrained into our culture, the image of the common-sense pioneer breaking new ground and leaving the old world behind. But when you practice tea ceremony, you have to put yourself in a different mindset.
History and tradition are part of the essence of tea. Most of the utensils that we use are modeled on utensils or designs that were used centuries ago. The practice itself has changed very little in the past four to five hundred years. And today tea ceremony is regarded in Japan as one of the bearers of traditional culture.
“Okay, fine,” you say. “But if it hasn’t changed, doesn’t that really mean that it’s stagnated? That the creativity has gone out of it? Why not experiment and put some new ideas into it?”
Here’s the thing. Even though I said “Americans” in the title of this post, this is the human condition: We all think that we’re right. That we know everything. When we’re young, we roll our eyes at the old fogies who try to tell us that we don’t know what we’re doing; when we get older, we roll our eyes at the young people who insist on doing things their own way. When we come into a new situation, we bring our past experience, and with it the conviction that our experience has taught us the best way to go about things.
But if all you’re ever thinking about is doing things your way, from your own experience – your own idea of what works – then you never really learn anything. Why use a tea scoop made from bamboo when a metal one would work? Why wear a kimono when Western clothes are more comfortable? Why worry about doing things in exactly the right sequence? These are things that you can’t learn unless you truly experience them, and you can’t truly experience them as long as you’re stuck in your preconceived notions.
The first thing you have to do if you’re setting out to become a tea person is leave your ego at the door and say to yourself, “I don’t know anything.” Put aside everything that you think you know about what “works,” what’s “right,” and be open. Do what your teacher tells you, and learn. If you keep going, then you’ll start to have those moments when everything comes together and you understand things that never made sense before. I’m not talking about learning facts, because as soon as you think, “Okay, now I know something about tea,” you’re sunk. You have to stop worrying about what you know and just keep practicing.
Once people have been studying tea for many years, have immersed themselves in the tradition, have had those experiences of understanding – then they’re ready to start creating and innovating. And to be a living practice, tea really needs that. But people who want to jump straight to the innovation without ever taking the time to understand what they’re doing are really just cheating themselves. Tradition in tea isn’t about chaining people down and ruining their fun; it’s about giving people something deep, and precious, and beautiful. Maybe accepting that it’s there is an act of faith. But on the other hand, if we didn’t sense how deep the practice runs, then I guess we wouldn’t have become tea people.
Probably most people in this country would agree with that statement. It’s ingrained into our culture, the image of the common-sense pioneer breaking new ground and leaving the old world behind. But when you practice tea ceremony, you have to put yourself in a different mindset.
History and tradition are part of the essence of tea. Most of the utensils that we use are modeled on utensils or designs that were used centuries ago. The practice itself has changed very little in the past four to five hundred years. And today tea ceremony is regarded in Japan as one of the bearers of traditional culture.
“Okay, fine,” you say. “But if it hasn’t changed, doesn’t that really mean that it’s stagnated? That the creativity has gone out of it? Why not experiment and put some new ideas into it?”
Here’s the thing. Even though I said “Americans” in the title of this post, this is the human condition: We all think that we’re right. That we know everything. When we’re young, we roll our eyes at the old fogies who try to tell us that we don’t know what we’re doing; when we get older, we roll our eyes at the young people who insist on doing things their own way. When we come into a new situation, we bring our past experience, and with it the conviction that our experience has taught us the best way to go about things.
But if all you’re ever thinking about is doing things your way, from your own experience – your own idea of what works – then you never really learn anything. Why use a tea scoop made from bamboo when a metal one would work? Why wear a kimono when Western clothes are more comfortable? Why worry about doing things in exactly the right sequence? These are things that you can’t learn unless you truly experience them, and you can’t truly experience them as long as you’re stuck in your preconceived notions.
The first thing you have to do if you’re setting out to become a tea person is leave your ego at the door and say to yourself, “I don’t know anything.” Put aside everything that you think you know about what “works,” what’s “right,” and be open. Do what your teacher tells you, and learn. If you keep going, then you’ll start to have those moments when everything comes together and you understand things that never made sense before. I’m not talking about learning facts, because as soon as you think, “Okay, now I know something about tea,” you’re sunk. You have to stop worrying about what you know and just keep practicing.
Once people have been studying tea for many years, have immersed themselves in the tradition, have had those experiences of understanding – then they’re ready to start creating and innovating. And to be a living practice, tea really needs that. But people who want to jump straight to the innovation without ever taking the time to understand what they’re doing are really just cheating themselves. Tradition in tea isn’t about chaining people down and ruining their fun; it’s about giving people something deep, and precious, and beautiful. Maybe accepting that it’s there is an act of faith. But on the other hand, if we didn’t sense how deep the practice runs, then I guess we wouldn’t have become tea people.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
How Much Would You Pay for This Tea Jar?
Last week, this tea jar sold at auction at Christie’s . . .
. . . for $662,000.
So maybe you’re asking yourself, what is it, and why would anybody pay that much for it?
This is what’s called a chatsubo, or a tea storage jar. In the old days, they used these to transport tea leaves and store them until they were ready to grind and drink. I wrote in my last post about the special ceremony that involves the opening of the new tea for the year. During that ceremony, the chatsubo is put on display in the tearoom and given to the guests so that they can look at it more closely.
This particular jar is what’s called “o-meibutsu.” Meibutsu is a term that refers to certain very old tea utensils that came from China to Japan during the centuries when tea ceremony first became popular. These items were very highly valued by tea practitioners not for their intrinsic value, but for their aesthetic value.
This particular tea jar originally came from Chin during the Southern Song Dynasty in the 13th century. During the late sixteenth century – the lifetime of Sen no Rikyu – it was owned by a series of merchants/tea practitioners, and recorded in some famous tea diaries. In fact, there’s a letter from Rikyu himself that accompanied the piece at auction (the description I read didn’t say what the letter was about, but presumably it was an authentication of the jar). During the 17th century, it became the property of the Tokugawa shogunate (the military rulers of Japan), and then it passed through a variety of nobility and wealthy Japanese hands until it finally came to this auction. Like all meibutsu, it has a poetic name (mei), which is Chigusa, “Myriad of flowers.”
Recently, I was in a class where the teacher was talking about meibutsu. He said that in the old days, when those items were brought to Japan, the tea masters spent a lot of time really looking at the utensils used in tea and comparing their characteristics to determine which ones were the best, and for that reason we should study the same utensils so that we can learn from them. Of course, unlike the 16th-century tea masters who used meibutsu in their gatherings on a regular basis, the chance of someone in America seeing a meibutsu object outside of a museum is pretty darn slim. Mostly we rely on photos, and maybe a glimpse of one if we do visit a museum in Japan. That’s why it’s kind of exciting to me to think that we have a meibutsu object here in the United States. It’s like a living piece of tea history – or maybe even tea legend – is a little bit closer to home.
. . . for $662,000.
So maybe you’re asking yourself, what is it, and why would anybody pay that much for it?
This is what’s called a chatsubo, or a tea storage jar. In the old days, they used these to transport tea leaves and store them until they were ready to grind and drink. I wrote in my last post about the special ceremony that involves the opening of the new tea for the year. During that ceremony, the chatsubo is put on display in the tearoom and given to the guests so that they can look at it more closely.
This particular jar is what’s called “o-meibutsu.” Meibutsu is a term that refers to certain very old tea utensils that came from China to Japan during the centuries when tea ceremony first became popular. These items were very highly valued by tea practitioners not for their intrinsic value, but for their aesthetic value.
This particular tea jar originally came from Chin during the Southern Song Dynasty in the 13th century. During the late sixteenth century – the lifetime of Sen no Rikyu – it was owned by a series of merchants/tea practitioners, and recorded in some famous tea diaries. In fact, there’s a letter from Rikyu himself that accompanied the piece at auction (the description I read didn’t say what the letter was about, but presumably it was an authentication of the jar). During the 17th century, it became the property of the Tokugawa shogunate (the military rulers of Japan), and then it passed through a variety of nobility and wealthy Japanese hands until it finally came to this auction. Like all meibutsu, it has a poetic name (mei), which is Chigusa, “Myriad of flowers.”
Recently, I was in a class where the teacher was talking about meibutsu. He said that in the old days, when those items were brought to Japan, the tea masters spent a lot of time really looking at the utensils used in tea and comparing their characteristics to determine which ones were the best, and for that reason we should study the same utensils so that we can learn from them. Of course, unlike the 16th-century tea masters who used meibutsu in their gatherings on a regular basis, the chance of someone in America seeing a meibutsu object outside of a museum is pretty darn slim. Mostly we rely on photos, and maybe a glimpse of one if we do visit a museum in Japan. That’s why it’s kind of exciting to me to think that we have a meibutsu object here in the United States. It’s like a living piece of tea history – or maybe even tea legend – is a little bit closer to home.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tasting Tea
In reply to one of my previous posts, someone asked me if tea ceremony practitioners are concerned with the taste of the tea at all, or if it’s mostly about the form and movement. In fact, tea people actually do a lot to try to make the best possible bowl for their guests.
It actually starts before the tea ever comes near a tearoom, in the fields where the tea is grown. Matcha, the powdered tea used in tea ceremony, is botanically the exact same plant that Lipton’s uses, camellia sinensis. The first difference between matcha and other types of tea is the way that it’s grown. It’s cultivated in the shade (not completely, because the plants do need some light, but the amount of light is strictly regulated), and the leaves are picked in May, when they’re still young. Camellia is an evergreen, but for the best tea the growers take the young leaves. The leaves are steamed to keep them green and then put into storage for six months, similar to the way wine is aged. As with wine, the aging process matures the taste – fresh tea doesn’t have the same complexity.
After the tea is aged, it’s put through a process that removes the stems and veins and then ground into a fine powder, about the consistency of flour. (In fact, in the old days they used grinding stones that were very similar to the ones used in milling flour.) So around November, the current year’s tea is ready to be opened and drunk. This is a special time in the tea world because it’s also the transition from summer to winter season, when we open the sunken hearth in the tearoom. There’s a special type of tea gathering performed only in November (often combined with the opening of the sunken hearth) in which the host will unseal a chatsubo, a ceramic tea storage jar, in front of the guests. Then, while the guests are eating their meal, they hear the sound of the host grinding the tea leaves, which are then used to prepare both thick and thin tea. However, these days most people buy their tea already powdered from the tea growers.
For the purpose of tea ceremony, there are two grades of matcha, usucha and koicha. Usucha means “thin tea;” it’s a lower grade of matcha, so the taste is more bitter, but still very good. If anyone has ever whisked a bowl of matcha for you, you’ve probably had usucha. Because the tea is powdered and you’re drinking the whole leaf, it’s stronger than steeped green teas like sencha, but still what we usually think of when we think of tea. Koicha, on the other hand, is exactly what the name says: “thick tea.” There’s more powdered tea mixed in with less water, and the end result is about the consistency of paint. For that reason, you want the best-tasting matcha you can get, and so the highest grades of matcha are reserved for koicha. Well, there’s no rule that says you can’t use koicha-grade tea for usucha, but it’s expensive – generally anywhere from $0.50 to $5 per gram.
Big matcha companies will often offer many different types and grades of koicha and usucha, each distinguished by its own poetic name. (For example, today I had an usucha whose poetic name was “sangetsu,” which means “moon and mountain.”) Like wine makers, tea growers will often blend tea from different sources to create a more consistent taste, but still, the taste of different teas is very distinctive. In fact, there’s even a type of tea gathering called chakabuki, in which the guests taste different teas, and then in a “blind tasting” try to remember the taste and correctly identify which tea is which.
When preparing for a gathering, the host pays careful attention to all of the factors that might affect the taste of the tea. Besides the tea itself, there’s the water. In the old days, particularly in Kyoto, which has been the center of tea culture since there was tea culture, the tea masters identified special wells that were thought to have the best possible water. To get the optimum taste, they would go to the wells before dawn to draw the water, even if the gathering was later in the day. These days it’s not so easy to get water from a special well, but we do make an effort to get the best-tasting water we can find.
Another factor is the sweets that are eaten right before the guest drinks the tea. We never serve sweets that have dairy in them, or that are greasy or oily, or that have a strong flavor, because that affects the taste of the tea. The best tea sweets are ones that complement the taste of the tea, and tea people spend a lot of time thinking about what will work and what won’t.
Yet another major factor (as with any type of tea) is the temperature of the water. Generally speaking, we aim for a temperature of around 180 degrees, but since we can’t whip out a thermometer and test the temperature in the middle of preparing tea, it’s up to the skill of the host to know when the water is too hot or too cold. That’s why during tea, we always carry a jar of cold water into the room and set it down next to the kettle – so if needed, we can cool down the water in the kettle so it doesn’t “burn” the tea.
But probably the most important thing that the host does to affect the taste of the tea is simply to create an atmosphere of tranquility in the room. One of the purposes (maybe the main purpose, depending on your point of view) of all the ritual surrounding the preparation of tea in chanoyu is to encourage the guests to relax and open their senses. Matcha tastes completely different in a tearoom than it does if you just whisk a bowl in your kitchen; the atmosphere, the sensory impressions, the person’s state of mind, everything about tea contributes to the main event, which is the moment that the first sip passes your lips. When we talk about the taste of tea, usually we’re talking about the literal flavor, but I think that any tea person would agree that the real taste of tea is in the heart, and not on the tongue.
It actually starts before the tea ever comes near a tearoom, in the fields where the tea is grown. Matcha, the powdered tea used in tea ceremony, is botanically the exact same plant that Lipton’s uses, camellia sinensis. The first difference between matcha and other types of tea is the way that it’s grown. It’s cultivated in the shade (not completely, because the plants do need some light, but the amount of light is strictly regulated), and the leaves are picked in May, when they’re still young. Camellia is an evergreen, but for the best tea the growers take the young leaves. The leaves are steamed to keep them green and then put into storage for six months, similar to the way wine is aged. As with wine, the aging process matures the taste – fresh tea doesn’t have the same complexity.
After the tea is aged, it’s put through a process that removes the stems and veins and then ground into a fine powder, about the consistency of flour. (In fact, in the old days they used grinding stones that were very similar to the ones used in milling flour.) So around November, the current year’s tea is ready to be opened and drunk. This is a special time in the tea world because it’s also the transition from summer to winter season, when we open the sunken hearth in the tearoom. There’s a special type of tea gathering performed only in November (often combined with the opening of the sunken hearth) in which the host will unseal a chatsubo, a ceramic tea storage jar, in front of the guests. Then, while the guests are eating their meal, they hear the sound of the host grinding the tea leaves, which are then used to prepare both thick and thin tea. However, these days most people buy their tea already powdered from the tea growers.
For the purpose of tea ceremony, there are two grades of matcha, usucha and koicha. Usucha means “thin tea;” it’s a lower grade of matcha, so the taste is more bitter, but still very good. If anyone has ever whisked a bowl of matcha for you, you’ve probably had usucha. Because the tea is powdered and you’re drinking the whole leaf, it’s stronger than steeped green teas like sencha, but still what we usually think of when we think of tea. Koicha, on the other hand, is exactly what the name says: “thick tea.” There’s more powdered tea mixed in with less water, and the end result is about the consistency of paint. For that reason, you want the best-tasting matcha you can get, and so the highest grades of matcha are reserved for koicha. Well, there’s no rule that says you can’t use koicha-grade tea for usucha, but it’s expensive – generally anywhere from $0.50 to $5 per gram.
Big matcha companies will often offer many different types and grades of koicha and usucha, each distinguished by its own poetic name. (For example, today I had an usucha whose poetic name was “sangetsu,” which means “moon and mountain.”) Like wine makers, tea growers will often blend tea from different sources to create a more consistent taste, but still, the taste of different teas is very distinctive. In fact, there’s even a type of tea gathering called chakabuki, in which the guests taste different teas, and then in a “blind tasting” try to remember the taste and correctly identify which tea is which.
When preparing for a gathering, the host pays careful attention to all of the factors that might affect the taste of the tea. Besides the tea itself, there’s the water. In the old days, particularly in Kyoto, which has been the center of tea culture since there was tea culture, the tea masters identified special wells that were thought to have the best possible water. To get the optimum taste, they would go to the wells before dawn to draw the water, even if the gathering was later in the day. These days it’s not so easy to get water from a special well, but we do make an effort to get the best-tasting water we can find.
Another factor is the sweets that are eaten right before the guest drinks the tea. We never serve sweets that have dairy in them, or that are greasy or oily, or that have a strong flavor, because that affects the taste of the tea. The best tea sweets are ones that complement the taste of the tea, and tea people spend a lot of time thinking about what will work and what won’t.
Yet another major factor (as with any type of tea) is the temperature of the water. Generally speaking, we aim for a temperature of around 180 degrees, but since we can’t whip out a thermometer and test the temperature in the middle of preparing tea, it’s up to the skill of the host to know when the water is too hot or too cold. That’s why during tea, we always carry a jar of cold water into the room and set it down next to the kettle – so if needed, we can cool down the water in the kettle so it doesn’t “burn” the tea.
But probably the most important thing that the host does to affect the taste of the tea is simply to create an atmosphere of tranquility in the room. One of the purposes (maybe the main purpose, depending on your point of view) of all the ritual surrounding the preparation of tea in chanoyu is to encourage the guests to relax and open their senses. Matcha tastes completely different in a tearoom than it does if you just whisk a bowl in your kitchen; the atmosphere, the sensory impressions, the person’s state of mind, everything about tea contributes to the main event, which is the moment that the first sip passes your lips. When we talk about the taste of tea, usually we’re talking about the literal flavor, but I think that any tea person would agree that the real taste of tea is in the heart, and not on the tongue.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
August Heat
Typically, we don’t have tea lessons in August. It’s not just that people tend to go on vacation; it’s the heat. Shofuso is a traditional-style Japanese house, which means, of course, no air conditioning. It was fine this year until the last week in July, when the weather turned very hot and humid.
In tea, we have techniques for dealing with hot weather, most of which revolve around tricking yourself and your guests into thinking that they’re not really melting into tiny liquid pools on the tatami mats. It falls under the deceptively simple heading of one of the seven rules of Rikyu: in the summer, suggest coolness.
In July and August tea people use utensils of cool-looking materials – glass is one that’s become popular in the past fifty years or so (which in tea terms makes it one of those newfangled innovations that them young ‘uns came up with). There are glass tea bowls, glass tea containers, glass tea scoops – almost any element of the tea ceremony can be done in glass. Other popular materials for the summer are dark wood and baskets, or anything unusual and playful. It’s no fun being serious when you’re hot, right?
There are also special kimonos for the hottest season of the year, made of a mesh fabric called “ro.” Of course, it’s good to choose colors that look cool, but the fabric itself also allows some breeze to come through, so instead of wearing body-covering underwear, a full-length under-robe, and a full-length kimono, it feels like you’re only wearing two layers of clothes in 95-degree weather. (Actually, I exaggerate – they do make ro kimono under-robes that, in combination with a ro kimono, do let the air in, and they’re a vast improvement over a normal kimono.)
However, Sasaki Sanmi’s tea almanac probably says it best: “Clear your mind of all mundane thoughts, and you will be able to find coolness. This is true; whether you can beat the hot weather or not depends on your state of mind.”
I’ll be raising a bowl of hot tea to you all!
In tea, we have techniques for dealing with hot weather, most of which revolve around tricking yourself and your guests into thinking that they’re not really melting into tiny liquid pools on the tatami mats. It falls under the deceptively simple heading of one of the seven rules of Rikyu: in the summer, suggest coolness.
In July and August tea people use utensils of cool-looking materials – glass is one that’s become popular in the past fifty years or so (which in tea terms makes it one of those newfangled innovations that them young ‘uns came up with). There are glass tea bowls, glass tea containers, glass tea scoops – almost any element of the tea ceremony can be done in glass. Other popular materials for the summer are dark wood and baskets, or anything unusual and playful. It’s no fun being serious when you’re hot, right?
There are also special kimonos for the hottest season of the year, made of a mesh fabric called “ro.” Of course, it’s good to choose colors that look cool, but the fabric itself also allows some breeze to come through, so instead of wearing body-covering underwear, a full-length under-robe, and a full-length kimono, it feels like you’re only wearing two layers of clothes in 95-degree weather. (Actually, I exaggerate – they do make ro kimono under-robes that, in combination with a ro kimono, do let the air in, and they’re a vast improvement over a normal kimono.)
However, Sasaki Sanmi’s tea almanac probably says it best: “Clear your mind of all mundane thoughts, and you will be able to find coolness. This is true; whether you can beat the hot weather or not depends on your state of mind.”
I’ll be raising a bowl of hot tea to you all!
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