Crataegus Bonsai is run on the idea that community is the scarce resource, not money. People play many roles here, from apprentices who have decided to stay in the area to locals who barter rare skills for training. This is where we begin the adventure.
And what of bonsai as activity? What does it bring us?
Being around bonsai is certainly pleasant and absorbing. Non-practitioners react to bonsai with fascination, attraction, puzzlement, and disbelief. I’ve known some to wheel around and ask splutteringly and with amazed eyes, ‘What the blazes is going on here? What is this bonsai thing?’ Good questions. I’ve been doing bonsai for 35 years and ask myself the same thing nearly daily.
For bonsai does confront us. And this is often felt more keenly by practitioners, that our bonsai are sneakily challenging us in some ways. Several things which may confront us about bonsai include:
- Our Relationship to Time
- Our View of Nature
- Our Tool Choice
- Our Notion of Success
This one I hear a lot of people talk about—mostly from practitioners—how bonsai insists on a different relationship to time than we have in our daily lives. And doing bonsai can easily place one in the same universe as building a fire in a wood stove, or meditation. It can be ‘time out’ activity, a counter to the insistent pull of needing to be places, and to do things, on time.
And this problem we have with time isn’t new. It isn’t even an old problem, it’s an ancient problem. And it was certainly on the mind of the Roman writer Plautus, who in 200 BC complained:
The Gods confound the man who first found out
How to distinguish the hours—confound him, too
Who in this place set up a sundial
To cut and hack my days so wretchedly
Into small pieces!
Good thing Plautus never lived to see a smartphone. In Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, written in 1726, the Lilliputions, on seeing how often Gulliver checked his watch, concluded that it must be his god. No, the problem isn’t new.
And yet working with bonsai we are immediately beset with the indignity of being on a leash to the seasons—a much broader span of time than a watch or phone offers. Instead of rushing, we often have to wait. This is a puff of temporal relativity that most of us can use. With bonsai we begin to work with time rather than be its tool.
Being unhinged to time is one gift of bonsai. Another is nature itself. The Victorian wingnut Oscar Wilde, being a city person, had some particularly wry comments about nature. In my favorite one he claims that nature is ‘the place where birds fly around uncooked.’ And, truly, nature can seem pretty darn remote, especially for those that live in big cities. I have a friend who lives essentially in an eyrie on top of a building in Chicago, and his rooftop deck of bonsai looks out over skyscrapers. The view is spectacular. It is also almost completely devoid of anything green and growing, except for the bonsai by one’s knees, and yet the view seems to offer the promise of everything we need. And so one cannot completely fault Wilde commenting on those wild birds. Is there anything of the wild that might benefit us, beyond food?
But yes, there is. There is some fascinating research, such as the U.S. Forestry Service’s Geoffrey Donovan, whose studies suggest that growing up in a house surrounded by trees beneficially affects the health of infants born there. Studies in Japanese forests have identified phytoncide as offering calming properties and a significant boost in immune system health, in a practice known as ‘forest bathing’. Current research into hospitals strongly correlates greenspace viewed through a window to swifter healing. And studies of a person seated in a car going though a concrete-saturated urban space with body sensors attached is anxious; that same person driving down a street with even 50% green cover is a totally different person, calmer, happier even.
It is likely that bonsai can also serve as a similar green space balm, and indeed, health and therapy may well be part of our connection to bonsai.
While the inspirational view of bonsai is as a stalwart survivor of life’s storms—and it is indeed inspirational—it also only relates to half of bonsai. Deciduous trees and accent plants often offer a different feeling, more one of nature’s healing and benevolence.
This is one we don’t often think about, and yet practitioners come up against it eventually. For tool choice predicts outcome.
Perhaps we used to write with a pen, and now our letters, quite overnight, have become emails and texts. The former method of working with bonsai using hand tools is being supplanted by power tools, because speed is so on our minds these days, and the switch is natural. But also a bit unthinking. For in that reflex is the assumption that faster is better. And yet as with many things, time saving strategies create problems that weren’t there before.
What I find, being a writer, is that fountain pens and computers really don’t offer the same result, and neither do chisels and flex-shaft Foredoms. When I sit down with a computer there is a distance between myself and the words, a screen and a barrier. With a fountain pen not only am I more linked to what I’m doing, but there’s fewer fluff words, less chaff. I write slower, and because of that there is time for contemplation, with less editing, and the floor softens beneath the work and seems to adds something. With a power tool we tend to introduce those same errata and unnecessary walls and and extraneous pieces of ‘chaff-information’, for lack of a better descriptor, as a computer. They literally need to be removed later, if that’s even possible, and often it seems it isn’t, for the work to look natural. But one has already lost the connection to the tree, and so there are two losses. And the work is so fast that it’s as if we’re simply trying to get to the next tree.
All these comments are made in the shadow of the fact that I do use both computers and power tools, and feel completely complicit in their use because they are ridiculously useful. But I notice that they are predictors of outcome, too.
A chisel is an extension of one’s bone. A power tool, though often useful and sometimes even necessary for some work, is yet a barrier. And in addition to expression, bonsai is for most people a form of connection, and there is little that is less connecting than a power tool. It’s just something to notice and think about, because I do believe tool choice determines product, and certainly also our experience, too.
The fourth thing that bonsai confronts us with is our notion of success. What is the end goal of a bonsai? Where do we claim our victory, plant our flag? Our feelings of fulfillment and success are oddly tied to how well we belly up to the expectations of our culture—that fast-driving, forward-ho, take-no-prisoners accent that so many of us share as a career trajectory. And yet bonsai, curiously, often teaches that those expectations are a false friend. That success can come as a surprise.
My own story of meeting success sideways came the year I spaced my sister’s 50th birthday. (She was pretty clear about pointing that out.) Partly as a reaction to this and needing to slow down, and partly also wanting to make do with less, in 2017 I built a micro home to live in, and relinquished my larger suburban home to my apprentices (I wrote a blog post about that year-long adventure). Like everyone (most everyone) I fell into working and living as if I were a bird, flocking with our group expectations of more being better. And yet over-stuffed, busy lives and grandiose environs do not make us grander in our interiors, as any few lines of Thoreau suggest and current happiness research proves. As Shaun Achor states in his hilarious and thought-provoking TED talk, we are very good at putting happiness over the cognitive horizon, so that we never attain it: “If we get good grades we need better grades, if we hit the sales target, we need to change the sales target. Every time we have a success, we just change the goalpost of what success looks like.”
All of which was a humbling revelation, of course, having admired for years the small trees on the mountaintops that seemed to make do with so much less. And did so with such grace. My ideas of personal success and working with bonsai have shifted following these experiences. For to create and maintain bonsai is to engage in a win-less act, where to compete isn’t the point, where more things and bigger things aren’t better things. Success is ongoing. It grows. It changes. It isn’t what you thought it was. It’s better.
‘Spirit’ is a pretty big word, but another way to say this is that it can relate to anything bigger than oneself. Or as 12 Step programs say, ‘anything larger than your ego’. Which might include bonsai. Or the community that supports it.
Why we do bonsai is intensely personal. And no one should tell you why you’re doing it. Tradition, if you wanted it to, would give you an answer for that, but you might not connect with the answer it gave. Vanishingly few Westerners truly connect with the quiet wabi-sabi aesthetic philosophy of the Japanese arts. And although there’s a lot of beauty there, it might not be for you.
Many of us Westerners need something edgier in bonsai, something to jump around and bite things with, as Barbara Kingsolver says is the purpose of an electric guitar. Although the middle road of mixing the gift of your nationality—whatever that might be—with the gift of tradition might be the strongest and most authentic route, no one can guide you here. Two interesting things that tradition insists on, however, which are technique, and the insistence that bonsai mean something beyond the act of bending a branch. Westerners may wish to pay attention to this.
The English potter Bernard Leach said ‘extremes touch’, and I think this insight has great relevance to bonsai and how it is transforming and finding new expressions across the globe. For we have much to share with Japan, too.
My teacher, Mr. Shinji Suzuki, used to say bonsai was about peace, and not to be shy about talking about that. For years I didn’t, mostly because I didn’t understand what he meant. But I didn’t forget what he said, either, and in 2017 I went to Taiwan to teach at a multi-convention event. On the first day there was a huge welcoming ceremony with tons of food and a fair number of local politicians who took turns thanking us for being there (and enhancing the local economy). I made a new friend from Poland, a man seated to my right. Above us there was a display of the national flags of the participants: 57 countries were represented there. For any who think bonsai is simply about bending branches and puffing out the artist’s chest, this was an arresting sight. And I began to think Mr. Suzuki’s philosophy of bonsai was pretty good. For if there is one overarching meaning in bonsai that applies to what we do—and not the personal one that we must find for ourselves—it is that bonsai is about peace. Bonsai both offers it and is created by it. And perishes in its absence.
Statement of Orientation
Most artists would probably refer to this as the ‘artist’s statement,’ so you can call it that if you wish.
One part of bonsai that I find particularly resonant is the chance for the artist to be a bit invisible, to have the tree eventually be its own spokesperson. I think the highest form of the art is where the artist’s fingerprints are obliterated by the tree itself, and the tree takes over possession of itself again as its own expression and statement.
Another awareness with bonsai is that it is analog. One can digitize and mechanize nearly anything, including bonsai, but in my own work and when with students I try to keep bonsai as direct as possible. Portland’s own Gary Wogowski wrote Handmade, in which he says ‘Long ago we learned to think by using our hands, not the other way around.’
Having just moved to a city I am deeply aware of urbanization, and these days think a lot about what is wild. I am arrested by natural beauty, the kind of beauty that is not created but born. The use of collected trees, even deciduous, as ‘found objects’ has allowed some exploration of these themes of wildness and naturalness. Also the minimization of the bonsai container to the point of it vanishing completely has had continued relevance in my recent work (a bit ironic given that I’m a potter), which brings the tree into the foreground. At least that’s the intention.
I really don’t think we need wabi-sabi to make viable and excellent bonsai, having been to Southeast Asia and other places where there’s almost none of it and yet one sees brilliant bonsai. But for me the original, raw aesthetic values that gave birth to bonsai are still meaningful and often guide my work, even if I sometimes use unconventional and irreverent means of getting there.
Though I avidly work with all kinds of trees and enjoy thick-trunked trees for their grounding qualities, thin-trunked trees have perennially touched me for their poetic potential—as those very old, slender trees pack the wallop of a haiku—and are unmatched for expression in sekikazari, bonsai display in a tokonoma.
Often, and irrationally, I think of the Robert Browning poem that starts ‘Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be…’ as the perfect beginning of a poem about bonsai, but his poem runs off into other territory and doesn’t mention bonsai even once. Still, it’s a nice beginning.
‘Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.’ — The Secret Life of Walter Mitty