“Were it not for shadows, there would be no beauty.” 

This delicious line comes from Jun'ichirō Tanizaki’s seminal essay, In Praise of Shadows.  

The question then becomes, what is it about the darkness that allows one to extract beauty from out of the shadows? 

When observing the concept of shadows, one may immediately conceive of a negative undertone that is typically associated with the darkness that comes from the shadow. Our culture has primed us to believe that being happy is the ultimate and only goal. We have become so accustomed to “thinking positive” and “being positive,” that we tend to shy away from anything that might force us to come face to face with the realities of our pains or anxieties. The ‘good vibes’ mantra is the common slogan coursing through the culture; and to display any form of sadness is considered to be a sign of weakness and defeat. There is a word to describe this enigma, and many are referring to it as toxic positivity — the false outward expression of positivity and the suppression of feelings related to pain or sadness. It’s the coercion to put on a mask, further fueled by way of the false state of “happiness” displayed on social media; to the suppression of feelings using illicit drugs and even the ones legally prescribed by general practitioners and pharmacists. We do this to ourselves, also, when we refuse to sit in silence — another phenomenon, in my view. Our devices have become the perfect breeding ground for this; providing endless amounts of distractions and stimulants. This constant need for noise, noise, noise; doesn’t allow for one to sit in ones’ head and reflect on what is happening in our inner being. We are like hamsters on crack, forever chasing that next dopamine hit — And whilst positivity is a wonderful thing, it first and foremost must be authentic. In order for happiness and joy to be real, we must praise the shadows and not shy away from the darkness. 

Nothing illustrates this notion more perfectly than in Pixar’s’ masterpiece: Inside Out. Much of the film takes place inside the head of 11-year-old Riley, during the tumult of a move from Minnesota to San Francisco. We are taken inside her mind, where five emotions — personified as the characters Anger, Disgust, Fear, Sadness and Joy, drive, so to speak, her outward expressions. Joy is the leader of the group. She believes that her job is the most important one of them all, which is to keep Riley happy… period! She does this, most pertinently, by suppressing the character Sadness. Joy essentially gaslights Sadness; censoring this emotion in a very unhealthy manner. After a freak accident, when Joy forcefully attempts to stop Sadness from doing her job, the two find themselves sucked into a tube and out of the confines of headquarters, leaving Riley without the desires of joy and sadness. She can only react to the outside through the emotions of anger, disgust and fear. 

Eventually, at the behest of the confusion of the other emotions, the control panel goes into overdrive and shuts off completely. And so, she feels nothing, really. This, on part of the directors, is brilliant, in my opinion, in the way in which we, as humans, can tend to close off when we are overwhelmed — a great insight, I think, into what depression might feel like. On the other side of the realm of Riley’s mind, we are taken on a journey through the lens of Joy. Throughout the tumultuous journey back into the main facility, we learn about the importance of the character Sadness — who is integral in the developmental growth of Riley. For without sadness, one cannot truly have joy — and Joy eventually learns this painfully. When she finally relishes her control and allows for Sadness to do her thing, can Riley progress on the path toward genuine happiness. Riley is given full access and range to feel the emotion of sadness — then, and only then, does she begin to heal from the drastic changes that have turned Riley’s life upside down. 

How many of us can relate to Riley’s predicament? Of being forced to feel happy and suppressing our real desire to feel sad; removing the opportunity to face reality, thus stifling the journey to begin to heal what is hurting us? 

This happened to me very recently. A little while back, I was feeling particularly sensitive in response to something hurtful that was happening. I had been gaslighted from external sources for a time, leaving me both confused and anxious. This suppression manifested itself outwardly in a physical manner, which I believe, was my body’s way of telling me that something was wrong. When I tried to open up to a number of people, my feelings were automatically dismissed and I was shut down, admonished or laughed at for the process I took in order to come to terms with what was happening. I felt as though my feelings were forced to be swept under the rug, and I was, in what felt like an order, to leave things in the past and get over it. And this suffocated me. There was a real ominous pressure to go into automatic positivity mode, as though a conducing of an amnesiac procedure might be prompted; and just by willing to “ignore” what was troublesome, may somehow make it all magically go away.

And so, I pushed and I pushed, yet still felt the weight of it all press down so heavily upon me. By this point, I think the damage was done. Things went haywire with many of the “Joy’s” in my life, and to a certain degree, thank goodness for that — because when it did, that weight was lifted off my chest and I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I was able to crawl into the solace of the darkness; curl up into the confines of the abyss; and allay in the tranquility of the shadows. I was given the gift of an alcove to reflect and listen in on the silence of my being; rather than hearkening to the boisterous clamour of the outside, which had, for such a time, submerged the truth of my anguish. And it ached. It was painful. It—hurt—so—much. Coming face to face with the wounds of your heart is not easy, but to truly occupy the wells of obscurity, was the process that was needed in order to begin healing; as opposed to pretending I was ok, which I was not. And from that point, I was able to  move forward and seek joy and grow in a really healthy and beautiful way. It was the panacea to soothe my mental, physical and spiritual health and well-being.

“For darkness restores what light cannot repair.” [1]

In Rainer Maria Rilke’s moving book, Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke, advising a young poet about some particular sad period this young recipient was going through, bestows this piece of consolatory wisdom upon him, “People have tended (with the help of conventions) to resolve everything in the direction of easiness, of the light, and on the lightest side of the light; but it is clear that we must hold to the heavy, the difficult. All living things do this, everything in nature grows and defends itself according to its kind and is a distinct creature from out of its own resources, strives to be so at any cost and in the face of all resistance. We know little, but that we must hold fast to what is difficult should be one more reason to do it...”  

“...But I ask you to consider whether these great unhappinesses did not rather pass through you. Whether much within you has not changed, whether somewhere, in some part of your being, you were not transformed while you were unhappy? The only sorrows which are harmful and bad are those one takes among people in order to drown them out. Like diseases which are treated superficially and inexpertly, they only abate, and after a short pause break out again with more terrible force, and accumulate inside and are life, unlived, rejected, lost life – from which we can die. If it were possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches, and a little beyond the outworks of our intuitions, perhaps we should then bear our sadnesses with greater assurance than our joys. For they are the moments when something new enters into us, something unknown to us; our feelings, shy an inhibited, fall silent, everything in us withdraws, a stillness settles on us, and at the centre of it is the new presence that nobody yet knows, making no sound... That is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the apparently uneventful and static moment when our future comes upon us is so much closer to life... the quieter, the more patient and open we are in our sadness, the deeper and more unerringly the new will penetrate into us, the better we shall acquire it, the more it will be our fate…” 

“So, dear Mr Kappus, you shouldn't be dismayed if sadness rises up in front of you, greater than any you have ever seen before; or if a disquiet plays over your hands and over all your doings like light and cloud-shadow. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why should you want to exclude from your life all unsettling, all pain, all depression of spirit, when you don’t know what work it is these states are performing within you?... then remember that sickness is the means by which an organism rids itself of something foreign to it.” 

Ok, so, what does all this have to do with design and architecture?

Tanizaki tells us, “The quality that we call beauty... must always grow from the realities of life.” The way in which we design our spaces; to make them beautiful; to speak to the human requisite; to pave the way of pulchritude; must be extracted from the sensibility of life: to create places that manifest the metaphors of the metaphysical part of our being. Part of the process to achieve this, I believe, is to praise the shadows and to allow for the facilitation of the real human need to dwell within the domain of solitude.

Barragan said, in his Pritzker prize speech, "It is alarming that publications devoted to architecture have banished from their pages… the concepts of serenity, silence, intimacy and amazement. All these have nestled in my soul, and though I am fully aware that I have not done them complete justice in my work, they have never ceased to be my guiding lights.” Speaking about solitude, he tells us, “Solitude. Only in intimate communion with solitude may man find himself. Solitude is good company and my architecture is not for those who fear or shun it.”

This advice, or should I say, guiding light, by Barragan, is paramount if one seeks to approach architecture by way of embodying space that takes this phenomenological approach.

That’s what Tanazaki’s essay seems to do. It appears as though this piece is a heart-wrenching and nostalgic cry for the reacquaintance of the philosophies of his oriental origins. It is a love letter, you might say, for his longing of the softer, the quieter, the reflective, the pensive, the more shadowy outlook; and in turn, the aesthetics that are a result of this thinking — it is his atonement on part of the brighter, more garish way of living that our modern culture has become somewhat accustomed to.

“We Orientals tend to seek our satisfactions,” Tanizaki says, “In whatever surroundings we happen to find ourselves, to content ourselves with things as they are; and so darkness causes us no discontent, we resign ourselves to it as inevitable. If light is scarce, then light is scarce; we will immerse ourselves in the darkness and there discover its own particular beauty. But the progressive Westerner is determined always to better his lot. From candle to oil lamp, oil lamp to gaslight, gaslight to electric light—his quest for a brighter light never ceases, he spares no pains to eradicate even the minutest shadow.”   

Speaking about Japanese architecture, he begins to bolster his musings, “Whenever I see the alcove of a tastefully built Japanese room, I marvel at our comprehension of the secrets of shadows, our sensitive use of shadow and light. For the beauty of the alcove is not the work of some clever device. An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so that the light drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness. There is nothing more. And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway.”  

Our culture prefers daylight, pleasant things, connection to others and company. But just as sleep restores the body and mind, some struggles of the human heart can only be worked through in darkness, in uncertainty, in solitude, separated from others. It is difficult but inevitable and necessary. Our buildings should perhaps speak of, influence and bestow this real human need.

This philosophy is a reminder that no matter what darkness may befall us, we can be inspired to find solace and extract beauty from out of the shadows. So, the next time you catch a glimpse of a shadow, take some time to observe and contemplate the poetic exchange of light and darkness; give it full reign to grant you stillness, to console your spirit and to stir hope within your heart.

I will finish off by giving the final word to Tanizaki, from his beautiful essay, In Praise of Shadows:

“We find beauty not in the thing itself but in the patterns of shadows, the light and the darkness, that one thing against another creates… Were it not for shadows, there would be no beauty.”

Below are images of some of my favourite Masters - an architect and baroque painter, who are well-known for their application of light and shadow in their works:

Tadao Ando’s, Church of Light, Ibaraki, Osaka, 1989.

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio’s, The Calling of St Matthew, 1599–1600 and The Conversion on the Way to Damascus, 1601.

Church of Light Photo: Masaru Tezuka

[1] Quote attributed to Joseph Brodsky

[2] Wikipedia