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If I had to define what Wabi-sabi means in my own words, I’d say it is the act of cherishing the beauty found in natural imperfection. In Japan, where this concept originates, it’s not just an aesthetic (like, say, shabby-chic is): it is a whole philosophy – an attitude towards life, even. An integral part of the Japanese culture that has its roots in Zen Buddhism.

As Leonard Koren explains in his book “Wabi-sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets and Philosophers”, even Japanese people struggle when trying to define this concept. It’s more like a feeling, a sensibility one develops (think of a similarly difficult-to-articulate concept, the Danish Hygge – but I digress).

According to Beth Kempton, author of “Wabi-sabi, Japanese wisdom for a perfectly imperfect life”, the word isn’t even listed in the most authoritative Japanese dictionary – such is the reticence of the Japanese to try define this term (and what hubris then on my part to open this article with my own, surely inadequate attempt!)

Wabi-sabi keywords:

Asymmetrical, Atmospheric, Flawed beauty, Humble, Imperfect, Irregular, Marks of the passage of time, Modest, Natural, Nostalgic, Organic, Raw, Restrained, Rough, Rustic, Serence, Simple, Soulful, Subtle, Textured, Understated

Source: Beth Kempton

The closest English word to translate this concept, according to Koren, would be Rustic. When I read this, as I was skimming through my old copy of his book, I was reminded of the many times I heard the word ‘rustic’ being used to describe my house, in particular my kitchen (I clearly recall my neighbour saying it on her first visit post renovation). It’s not necessarily the first word I would use, but I guess it explains why I am so drawn to this concept.

It’s true that I have an inexplicable love for everything that shows signs of ageing, that develops a patina. I often talk about how I love natural materials that do just that – unlaquered brass, marble, wood. I have written a whole article about it recently (see “My Kitchen’s Material Palette”). I am also obsessed with Antiques, which are peppered all around my home.

Perhaps this love is not so inexplicable after all. In Italy, where I grew up, I was constantly surrounded by old things. A medieval castle is the common feature of not just my town, but every medium-sized town in the area. Buildings are gloriously crumbly, revealing layers of plasters and rust. It’s an aesthetic that is familiar to me, that feels like home.

On a material level, Wabi-sabi can be identified in all those materials or objects that show signs of:

But as I said before, Wabi-sabi is not just an aesthetic. On a deeper, philosophical level, it stands for much more. In the words of Koren:

Wabi-sabi is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.
It is a beauty of things modest and humble.
It is a beauty of things unconventional.

The author then proceeds to explain further the three pillars on which Wabi-Sabi is built:

When you look close enough, imperfections can be found in everything (and everyone). Rather than strive for perfection, Wabi-sabi encourages us to to embrace our flaws (something I constantly struggle with, as a self-declared perfectionist and control freak).

Nothing embodies this concept more, for me, than this Antique painting that hangs in our bathroom. I found it during one of our many antique pilgrimages to Rye, a quaint English coast town in Sussex. Something about this image transfixed me, so much so that I couldn’t stop looking at this woman, casually stretching in her birth suit. Perhaps it is the ease with which she seemed to inhabit her own skin, the confidence she exudes in a body that, by today’s standards perhaps, is not completely perfect (that slight bulging of her stomach, all too reminiscent of the constant bloating I have suffered from for years, and which constitutes my biggest insecurity), yet so beautiful.

After some negotiations with the lovely Antique Dealer, I went out on a limb and purchased this painting that I definitely could not afford. I wanted to put it somewhere in the house where I could look at it daily, and our bathroom seemed like the perfect and natural spot for her. Here, in the room of the house where I am at my most vulnerable, she serves as a daily reminder to be kind to my body, in all in its imperfections. Beyond its depiction, the object itself is the perfect representation of Wabi-sabi, with its tears, rough edges and peeling canvas. My antiques-loving and well-meaning uncles once suggested I had the painting restored by a specialist: the colours, they said, would be incredible, and its value would go up. True as that may be, I just love this painting exactly as it is, old varnish and all.

Meaning, nothing ever stays the same, and everything is constantly changing. The Ancient Greeks had a similar concept: “Panta rei os potamòs” used to say the philosopher Heraclitus (if my high school memories serve me right): everything flows like a river.

Change, and (in particular) ageing are two other things that I routinely struggle with, when reflected on myself. Letting go of a sense of nostalgia for my younger self is something I’m still very much working on (and yes, I am acutely aware as I type this that at the age of nearly 35, I can hardly be considered old by any standard). And yet, funnily enough, I love seeing change and ageing in the objects around me – as I stated earlier. It excites me, even. For example, I bought this unlaquered brass tea caddy in Japan, and I can’t wait for it to age and develop its gorgeous patina. I’ve been asking myself: why is that? Perhaps subconsciously, I find some form of comfort in the notion that I’m not the only one who is changing. Or perhaps that part of me knows, deep down, that if we never changed, life would be terribly boring.

Boy, don’t I know it. As everyone who has ever undertaken a renovation process will testify, it’s a never-ending story. There years into living in our home, our list of things that we still need to do around the house is evergrowing: sorting out that atrocious front garden, for starters, repainting and adding a runner to the stairs, sourcing upholstery for the benches. By the time we’ll be “done” with it, it’ll be time to give it all a freshen up and start all over again. It’s a constant dance, made all the more slower by our conscious decision of taking our sweet, sweet time with everything, in the belief that it is worth-while to wait for the right piece to come along.

Take our bedroom, for instance: for over a year, we slept on our mattress on the floor, and I would often be asked if it was my love for Japan that compelled to sleep tatami style. The truth is, we couldn’t made our mind up on exactly which bed to go for, and even when we finally did commit to something, it took a further 8 months for it to be produced and arrive all the way from Italy. And that’s just an example: I don’t consider any room of the house finished. Besides, what would be the fun in that?

Thank you for reading along. If you are as fascinated as I am by Wabi-sabi, I recommend reading these two books below as a good starting point (and if you have any others to recommend, please send my way!)

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͢. Leonard Koren, Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets and Philosophers

͢. Beth Kempton, Wabi Sabi – Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life

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