In Search of Shibui – FineWoodworking

There is a special presence that some pieces possess. They do not demand attention, and yet seem to attract it. They are the summation of many tiny details built upon strong foundations, with proportions that “feel” right and a harmony of visual elements. As the viewer gets closer, a trail of breadcrumbs invites them in. Subtle insets provide visual variety. A delicate drawer pull invites the hand to interact. Inside the drawer, hidden details that spark a quiet moment of joy. They are simple, but not plain.

And yet this special quality resists easy naming. That’s because in the West, our design vernacular tends to place us in camps that are often quite far apart, and misses the magic that can exist in-between. We are either labelled minimalists, producing work considered cold and uninteresting, or encouraged to be maximalists creating highly stimulating pieces that some find overwhelming. And both of these terms miss the spiritual dimension of making.

I struggled with this tension for years. From a design perspective I knew that I was neither a minimalist nor a maximalist, but I didn’t know how to express what I was. This dissonance was all the more jarring because Western woodworking tradition (and social media) often tends to focus on the dramatic: highly ornamental carving, crazy inlays, and visually arresting bookmatched figures. I love all of those things and they are part of the wonderful diversity of our craft, and I’m not here to argue against their value. But they aren’t me.

So when I discovered that there might be a set of Japanese ideas that seemed to describe the more nuanced type of beauty I am drawn to—a more understated, contextual, and thoughtful kind that encouraged quiet reflection—it captured my imagination. This was because it gave me a new vocabulary to express myself and explore my own voice. It’s called shibusa (shibui in the adjective form), and by the end of this article you may just find that you’ve been drawn to it yourself for years without realizing it.

I stumbled upon the concept somewhat coincidentally. I’d already spent time exploring Japanese design, techniques, and craft philosophy, including a life-changing immersive at Somakosha in Okayama, Japan. But it was only when I read Tad Baum’s recent piece on studying with John Reed Fox, that I found myself embarking on a deeper dive into this topic. John had told Tad that good furniture can be “simple but not plain,” that a good piece “knows what it is,” and that “good craft has no ego.” These ideas spoke to me deeply. A handful of comments on that piece suggested that these ideas struck a chord with other makers too.

That was enough to send me digging. What follows is what I found. While I am by no means an authority on the topic, I will lay out the findings from my research as clearly as I can, offer my own interpretation of them, and bring in talented makers to share their perspectives too.

What is shibui?

In its literal sense, the term means “bitter” or “astringent,” a meaning which you’ll come to realize later is rather pertinent to its connotations. But beyond that dictionary definition, the answer to this question very much depends on who you ask.

That’s because in Japan, shibui is living vocabulary, and to this day is intentionally loosely codified. In the West, inspired academics attempted to crisply define it and apply it in the context of craft, which over time evolved into a commonly accepted definition. Over decades, the result is that we now have a diverging pair of meanings that share a common DNA but that have evolved to be somewhat different. The below traces that lineage.

In his book A Glimpse of Japanese Ideal, J. Harada describes shibui this way: “It is that quality which is quiet and subdued. It is natural and has depth, but avoids being too apparent, or ostentatious. It is simple without being crude, austere without being severe. It is that refinement that gives spiritual joy.” Yanagi Sōetsu (1889–1961), the philosopher behind Japan’s mingei (folk-craft) movement, went a little further to try to bridge to a craft context. He gives a view that shibusa (the noun form of shibui) is less a style and more a kind of mindfulness made visible in an object. In The Beauty of Everyday Things, Yanagi describes shibui as “simple, subtle, and unobtrusive beauty” that creates “a profound, unassuming, quiet feeling.” It can be demonstrated by shape, color, and pattern. Shibusa “is a mirror reflecting inner nature.” An object infused with shibui simultaneously possesses simplicity and layers that reveal themselves through time and attention. In The Unknown Craftsman, Yanagi writes, “It is not a beauty displayed before the viewer by its creator; creation here means, rather, making a piece that will lead to viewer to draw beauty out of it for himself. In this sense, shibui beauty, the beauty of the Tea ceremony, is beauty that makes an artist of the viewer.”

Others explained to me that time was a key attribute of shibui; an artisanal Japanese friend of the family, Mari, showed to me a cherished piece of Okinawan-style embroidery from her mother. When initially made, the craft was at risk of extinction. And since, over almost 80 years, time had altered the colors from their initial boldness to something much more mature. The context, time itself, and the effect of time had all imbued the piece with shibui. In her view, this concept was something for craftspeople to embrace.

Now let’s explore how the understood meanings of shibui began to branch between East and West. In the mid–twentieth century there was an effort in the West to break down and codify this nuanced idea into something that could be more understood and applied practically to a craft context.

Sawada and Young interpreted seven elements from Yanagi’s ideas. To the best of my research, the list never directly appeared in Yanagi’s own writings, and these elements have evolved further over time to form the basis of what you find if you search for “shibui” online. Ironically, even the scholars who first put the list to paper admitted that carving shibui into seven tidy pieces was, in itself, a rather un-shibui thing to do! The elements below are as they are commonly described today in the West:

• Silence: The object encourages appreciation and mindfulness, and there is an absence of unnecessary visual and conceptual noise or conflict.
• Naturalness: The material is encouraged to be itself, rather than embellished, disguised, or transformed into something else.
• Simplicity: The refined expression of an object’s essence, simplicity is a paring back to what is truly necessary so that harmony can emerge.
• Implicitness: The object offers new meaning with each encounter, through details that draw the viewer in and encourage them to be present.
• Modesty: A shibui-infused object has a humility of presence. It does not demand importance; it earns it.
• Everydayness: The object is made for use and for living with, not for display, and there is a quiet joy in that ordinariness.
• Imperfection: The object embraces the character of the material, its maker, and time. Subtle irregularities are not flaws to be hidden but are embraced.

When I asked Japanese makers about these seven elements, I was mostly met with polite but blank looks. There isn’t huge awareness in Japan of the Western interpretation and how it has captured imaginations over the decades.

Nonetheless, by the end of my research journey, I came to believe that understanding both Western and Eastern interpretations has value for us as makers. Doing so expands our design vocabulary and allows us to participate in a much bigger conversation about shibui and to follow what inspires us.

Next, I explored shibui in the real world. I spoke to two makers I deeply respect—Jon Stollenmeyer and Brian Holcombe—for their perspectives.

Jon Stollenmeyer

Jon is a partner and head carpenter at Somakosha, a workshop and school in Okayama, Japan. He helped me to explore the traditional Japanese meaning of the term.

As an architect and carpenter from Ohio who built a life in Japan, Jon often encounters shibui. He thinks of it as a nuanced idea that captures a timeless humanity that we see as special, rooted in the deeply authentic ways people express themselves. He believes that items infused with shibui invoke a feeling of calmness, harmony, reflection, and appreciation—and in that sense, silence. Regarding the technical definition of shibui (“bitterness”), he felt it was apt: “Shibui ‘bites’ whether you like it or not. It hits you with its authenticity!” In other words, shibui in Japan is a moving target that meets us as much as we meet it. The maker enjoys reflecting on a narrative that arises and executes this with meticulous attention to detail. The narrator interprets the maker’s work with their own narrative, and enjoys this moment too—and they meet there with authenticity.

Brian Holcombe

My next conversation explored how these ideas might exist in the context of furniture. Brian Holcombe designs and builds original work, drawing influence from Japanese Sashimono and furniture of the Ming Dynasty, focusing on cabinetry, casework, tables, boxes, art framing and traditional Japanese sliding doors known as shoji. Brian and I discussed a couple of his pieces that spoke to his design philosophy and explored the elements of shibui they quietly express. He explained that he doesn’t seek to incorporate shibui in his designs. Rather, he has always been intrinsically drawn to the themes that the idea relates to, particularly simplicity, naturalness, and implicitness. His interest in these concepts began long before Japanese designers such as George Nakashima captured his imagination, with interests in adjacent styles such as mid-century modern and Danish studio furniture informing his earlier path.

The Waney Edged Cabinet

When Brian showed me this cabinet in walnut, a few themes of shibui immediately jumped out at me. First and foremost, it invoked in me the silence and quiet appreciation for nature that Jon had spoken of. The wide, earthly, grounded structure and proportions of the form invoked a peacefulness reminiscent of a landscape. You could tell Brian had exercised a great level of intentional restraint in what he had decided to express. He had thoughtfully curated design features and, at the same time, pared things back to a degree of relative simplicity. He had chosen to let the naturalness of the walnut shine through, including embracing the innate imperfection of the material. A variety of subtle details draw the viewer in, from the shoji doors, to the layers of insets that draw the eye deeper and deeper, encouraging the viewer to slow down and see the beauty of everyday life. The piece does not shout for attention, and yet it would inspire gratitude for those living with it in their space and interacting with it.

Henry: Platform Bed in White Ash

This piece has a particular focus on ideas that speak quite deeply to Brian as a designer: intentionality and harmony. Subtle chamfers draw the eye in through tiny reflections of light. The calmness of the straight grain and proportions invoke nature and a sense of peace. Contrasting wedged through-tenons give a subtle visual pop without the piece shouting among its wider setting. And the subtle shadows where the feet are raised from the ground further the sense of lightness. Brian himself takes particular joy in this aspect of design: “I enjoy discovering the craft and skill of a maker through the little details they include in a piece.”

Through our conversation, I came to have a sense that Brian himself embodies many of the ideas shibui had led me to. A humble and open maker, and deeply skilled, he doesn’t actively seek to be anything grandiose. He seems to want to encourage appreciation of a truer set of things.

For some, none of this will feel new. That may be because you have been practicing the ideas that make up shibui instinctively for years. My hope is that you now have additions to your vocabulary and awareness that let you better explore your creative voice, and express it through woodworking.

With thanks to our contributors and sources:

Brian Holcombe can be found on Instagram and via brianholcombewoodworker.com, where you can find more of his work and classes.

Jon Stollenmeyer can be found at Somakosha on Instagram and at somakoshaschool.com.

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