One of my favourite paintings is from Japan, a set of screens depicting pine trees painted by Hasegawa Tōhaku in about 1680. The trees, delicately painted in shades of black ink, are surrounded by large swaths of unpainted space of white silk.
Dreamy as the imagery is, the vision of this painting was very real, because I’ve experienced many similar scenes while walking in the foggy mists of a redwood forest or in a Japanese garden. Cool breezes seemed to wrap the mist around trees, creating ever-shifting scenes that nudged me into contemplation.
That same cool breeze emanated from Tōhaku’s painting through suggestion, in the way the pines bent gently in response to an invisible force. It shifted my attention from the trees to the atmosphere between them, which is difficult as we’re trained to admire physical things. The emptiness of the space held mystery and serenity at the same time, retraining my eye.
The beauty of the space left empty is called yohaku no bi in Japanese art. This is a concept borrowed from Chinese landscape ink wash paintings, where clouds, mist, sky and water could be left unpainted. Their presence was suggested by the carefully rendered edges of the surrounding landscape. This artistic strategy resonated with spiritual beliefs in Taoism’s idea of qi (chi)—the formless energy from which the universe emanates.
In Western gardens, we admire the beauty of physical things. We’re taught that gardening is the art of selecting, positioning and tending plants among hardscaping and softscaping. In a Japanese garden, the viewer can also admire the space created by a shallow pond surrounding large boulders, which is essential for the stones to fully express their form and majesty.
The value of empty space
The fascination with empty space in Japanese homes, gardens and plant-based art is expressed in their concept of ma. Ma is two characters for “gate” and “sun”—the idea of light beaming through the empty space of a doorway or gate.
Understanding this better explains traditional Japanese interior design: their use of tatami mats prioritizes smooth lines and clean surfaces, with belongings neatly tucked away and a few carefully chosen objects centred in such a way that emphasizes the empty space around them. However, it’s not just about “minimalism.” Each room embraces emptiness, as well as substance. I’ve seen sitting rooms with just a simple display alcove decorated with a scroll, bonsai tree or another art object.
Ma reflects the Buddhist idea that “form is emptiness, emptiness is form,” a paradox that the Japanese have expressed in design and culture. In a Zen garden or a bonsai tree or ikebana flower arrangement, experiencing ma is intended for the creator as well as the viewer. For the artist or designer working with natural materials, it means paying extra attention to an element’s unique shape and how it was formed by nature. For it’s the relationship between the edges of one thing and another that defines the shape and composition of the empty space between. Too much space can weaken these spatial relationships, while too little creates dullness.
I’ve found that ma is expressed in classical music, a sonic form of ma if you will. When I play the piano, I’m more conscious of the silence between musical notes that shapes a composition. I’m particularly aware of it when playing Schubert, as he used deliberate pauses to great dramatic effect, which is one reason why his sonatas resonate with powerful, complex emotions. On the other end of the scale, the understated compositions of Eric Satie achieve a ma effect.
Empty space is a powerful amplifier, helping to create a whole that is more engaging than the sum of individual parts. Suggestion and subtlety in design encourages the viewer to complete the incomplete, which stimulates the imagination.
In the space between, there is mystery, beauty and introspection.
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image 1: Stuart Rankin; image 2: PickPik