How Does 'In Praise Of Shadows' Explore Japanese Aesthetics?

Jun'ichirō Tanizaki's 'In Praise of Shadows' is a love letter to the subtle beauty of traditional Japanese aesthetics. The book contrasts Western brightness with Japanese preference for dim, shadowy spaces, arguing that shadows deepen beauty rather than diminish it. Tanizaki describes how lacquerware glows differently in candlelight versus electric bulbs, or how gold leaf in temples gains mystery when half-hidden. He mourns modern innovations like porcelain toilets for disrupting harmony with nature. The essay celebrates imperfections—patina on silver, uneven handmade paper—as vital to Japanese taste. It’s not just about visuals; even food tastes better in earthenware bowls that keep it warm without garish colors distracting the palate. Tanizaki’s nostalgia isn’t mere conservatism but a philosophical stance: beauty thrives in ambiguity, in the spaces between seeing and imagining.

Reading 'In Praise of Shadows' feels like wandering through an old Kyoto teahouse with Tanizaki as your guide. He dissects Japanese aesthetics through visceral details—the way candlelight flickers on a woman’s face in a Noh mask, or how shadows in a traditional toilet make the space feel sacred rather than vulgar. His argument isn’t just decorative; it’s cultural DNA. Western aesthetics chase clarity, but Japanese tradition finds profundity in what’s obscured. A wooden pillar’s grain isn’t meant to be seen all at once—it reveals itself slowly as daylight shifts.

Tanizaki extends this to every corner of life. Modern bathrooms, he laments, are too bright, destroying the meditative quality of bathing. Even food presentation suffers under electric lights—delicate broths lose their depth when served in white porcelain. The book’s genius lies in linking these observations to broader values: patience, subtlety, acceptance of transience. When he describes aging paper screens softening sunlight, he’s really talking about wabi-sabi—the beauty of impermanence. This isn’t just art criticism; it’s a manifesto for living attentively.

The essay also critiques how modernization erases sensory richness. Radio commercials, neon signs—they assault the quiet elegance Tanizaki cherishes. Yet he avoids outright rejection of progress. Instead, he dreams of a fusion where technology respects shadows. Imagine electric lamps designed to mimic lantern glow, or glass that diffuses light like shoji screens. His vision remains startlingly relevant today, where minimalism often feels sterile rather than warm. 'In Praise of Shadows' challenges us to rethink not just design but our very pace of life.

Tanizaki’s essay mesmerizes by turning everyday objects into philosophical statements. That inkstone on your desk? Its darkness isn’t just practical—it’s a canvas for imagination. 'In Praise of Shadows' frames Japanese aesthetics as an ongoing conversation between objects and their environments. A bronze mirror oxidizes over time, its reflections growing softer, more enigmatic. This isn’t decay but maturation, like whiskey deepening in oak barrels.

The book excels at juxtaposing traditions with modern intrusions. Tanizaki groans about gramophones destroying the quiet needed to appreciate shamisen music’s delicate pauses. He mocks Western-style buildings where gold leaf looks garish without shadows to temper its brilliance. Yet he isn’t blindly anti-modern—he admires how some jazz clubs use dim lighting to create intimacy missing in bright concert halls.

What stays with me is his description of Kyoto’s lantern-lit streets at night, where darkness isn’t absence but a presence shaping beauty. This idea transcends visuals—it’s about mindset. Reading the essay, I began noticing how my own apartment’s LED lights flatten textures that lamplight would enrich. Tanizaki makes you crave shadows not as lack but as atmosphere, the velvet backdrop that makes life’s details sing.