a carpenter understands and respects those ideas and practices, he really cannot play an important role in their design and construction. This is true, he said, for any kind of work. Whatever a person is involved in making, it is essential to have a good grasp of its underlying meaning and purpose. Because of this, “understanding” is the first essential ability a temple carpenter must have.
四神というのは中国から伝わった四つの方位の神様 伽藍の造営には四神相応に地を選べ
“When designing a temple complex, find a site that suits the requirements of the ‘Shishin’ (Four Gods).”
“The ‘Four Gods’ are a Chinese concept concerning
deities related to the four compass directions:
Seiryu (Azure Dragon):
Presides over spring and the east.
Suzaku (Vermilion Bird):
Presides over summer and the south.
Byakko (White Tiger):
Presides over autumn and the west.
Genbu (Black Tortoise):
Presides over winter and the north.”
Nishioka described these deities as metaphors for natural forces associated with aspects of topography and the environment, geomantic principles which have practical implications. The Azure Dragon (Seiryu) is a pun that also means “clear stream” in Japanese. According to Nishioka’s tradition, a good temple site will have a stream or river to the east, which is important primarily as a water supply that should make use of spring floods. The Vermilion Bird (sometimes translated as “phoenix”) refers to a lake or marsh to the south, on ground slightly lower than the temple complex, which is important for adequate drainage during the rainy season. The White Tiger symbolizes a wide road to the west of the temple, important for transporting materials easily when the temple is under construction and for preserving its prominence and status in future generations. The Black Tortoise, usually depicted as a tortoise and snake together, is a mountain shaped like a tortoise’s shell. Unless there is one to the north of the temple complex, the complex will be too exposed to the northern winds of winter.
Figure 9 Detail showing the clean and careful chisel work of the decorative pendant (gegyo). (See also Fig. 201 and photo page 73.)
Introduction to the First Edition
In the very broadest terms, in this book I have attempted to provide a survey of the unique restoration work and new construction presently in progress at the 1,300-year-old Yakushiji temple in Nara, Japan. More specifically, my aim has been to chronicle the building of one new temple within that compound, the Picture Hall in the Sanzō-in subcompound. The entire project is being carried out under the direction of a remarkable eighty-year-old carpenter, Tsunekazu Nishioka. Part of a line of craftsmen extending back over a thousand years, Nishioka is one of the few master temple carpenters, or miya-daiku, remaining in Japan. Such miya-daiku specialize in the construction and repair of Shintō shrines and Buddhist temples, and in the case of Nishioka his attitude toward his work is deeply influenced by the philosophy of Buddhism. Without him, very likely this book would never have been undertaken, let alone the Yakushiji project itself.
The parameters of the book are shaped primarily by my personal observations of the Yakushiji reconstruction project over a three-year period from 1985 to the present, though my interest in temple architecture dates from the late 1970s when I was an undergraduate art student. This is not a history book, although history plays an important role; neither is it a “how-to” book, though I would be pleased if designers or carpenters found some inspiration in its descriptions and illustrations. It is an on the scenes account of a complex process of construction, reworked and digested for a lay audience. Since many readers, particularly those with a background in Western crafts or architecture, may be unfamiliar with the design, development, and atmosphere of Japanese temples, I will begin with a few general comments.
Temples of Buddhism
A Buddhist temple can be considered a physical model of the abstract philosophy of Buddhism. It is an architectural composition intended to provide a physical and sensual experience conducive to the mental and spiritual experience of the Buddhist faith, with virtually every element designed for both sensual and symbolic value. Admittedly, this relationship is by no means unique to Buddhist temples. Cathedrals, mosques, synagogues, Hindu temples, Stonehenge, Mayan pyramids, and the kivas of the American Southwest, for instance, are in each case both extraordinary physical experiences as well as models of a particular cosmology. The uniqueness of Buddhist temples, however, is a function of the way in which the development and spread of Buddhism throughout Asia engendered cumulative architectural change. Thus, one can find Buddhist temples that share the same underlying conceptual basis but are nonetheless distinctly Indian, Thai, Chinese, Korean, or Japanese in form and detail.
What then, one may ask, is a Japanese temple? Let me first state that it should be distinguished from a shrine, that is, a Shintō religious structure, although the two may often look quite similar. Second, Japanese temples are almost invariably made of wood, in contrast to Indian and certain Chinese varieties; and they usually, but not always, consist of more than one building, with major structures being considerably larger than the average house. They can be found in the middle of fields and in the mountains; on islands or hemmed in by skyscrapers; pristine or in ruins; gaudy or severe; deserted or thronged with tourists; and, perhaps lastly, contemporary in appearance or more or less ancient in form. And yet, despite this variety, some might agree with a casual acquaintance of mine who remarked, as our train passed through the outskirts of Nara, “You know, the thing about these temples is that they all look alike.”
Temples may look alike to some degree, but only to the extent that operas or sailboats or plates of pasta look alike. If one is looking for general similarities, they can be found in abundance. If one is alert to differences, there is an unfathomable richness of variety and refinement. It entirely depends on the eye of the observer.
Buddhist architecture came into being as a towerlike tomb in India called a stupa, which was built to enshrine the cremated remains of the historical Buddha, Gautama Shakyamuni, who is said to have lived in the sixth century BC. It set an important precedent. While the objects of worship were actually the relics hidden deep within, the tower itself became the visible object of devotion, a representation of the Buddha. Its structural configuration and decorations were designed to illustrate certain aspects of Buddhist belief, such as “upward development,” “the earth,” “the elements,” “cycles of being,” and others. Buddhist sculpture appeared shortly thereafter, strongly influenced by the arrival of Alexander the Great’s armies in the Gandara region (now in Pakistan) in the fourth century v. Craftsmen traveling with these armies introduced Hellenistic styles of figurative sculpture, particularly the standing pose, which seems to have been modified slightly and adopted in Buddhist images. The recorded teachings of the Buddha, known as sutras, were collected and copied in Sanskrit and Pali, the primary languages of the region, along with monastic rules and commentary. Thus, by about 100 BC, three primary means of dissemination of the Buddhist faith had arisen: architecture, fine art, and writing.
Buddhism spread to China in AD 64 by way of central Asia, with important schools being established in Tibet as a sort of midway point. Chinese civilization had already experienced centuries of a high level of development and boasted a sophisticated imperial and bureaucratic architecture.
