On urbanity and nature in Tokyo
Guest columnist Jack Milne, Rough Milne Mitchell’s Tony Milne’s son, shares reflections from his new home in Tokyo, Japan.
Tokyo is one of the greatest modern cities. This seems to be widely known. And as such, there is not a lot that I can say about its liberty of experience, its safety, its food, its public transport – frankly, its convenience – that has not already been said by somebody who has visited this city and enjoyed their time here. I am one of those people. I visited the city and, feeling rather entrapped by it, I have now returned to live here. I really do like it here. And the more time I spend in Tokyo, the more I’m captivated by the city’s inherent contrasts and the rare occasions on which these opposites come together.
When I speak of contrasts, what I mean is the striking difference between tradition and modernity, between urbanity and nature, that coexist in this city. Picture Shinkansen trains speeding over old markets where elderly men sell – or at least try to sell – dried squid. Or Bon Odori festivals, where hundreds of people in kimonos eat yakitori and dance in the shadow of skyscrapers. It’s brilliant. But where this demarcation gets a bit fuzzy, and these opposites start to synthesise, is in the cramped spaces between the towers of concrete and glass that define this massive city; nestled here, you can regularly find miniature Japanese gardens.
The gardens are beautiful. That is a simple description, but they are simple spaces. And while design elements do differ depending on the style of garden (which are too numerous to list), each space aims to create its own scene of nature. These gardens are not simply aesthetic statements; they are functional, and they are supposed to be used by the people of this city. They are impressive examples of public-serving landscape architecture, such as spaces like Nezu Museum Garden, Hibiya Park and Himonya Park (which I stumble through each evening). These are all relatively small areas with a central body of water, a trimmed canopy of oppressively verdant trees and carved paving stones that lead you nowhere but on a slow journey under the trees and around the water’s edge. And though beautiful, these gardens are inextricably uncanny. For they are the perfect synthesis between capital and creation (in an irreligious sense). Yet the experience they provide is a sort of bite-size distillation of nature. Rather appropriately, I find them to be simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant spaces. This polarity is likely a personal neurosis, and I do not wish to detract from their heritage. But if you ever find yourself in one of these gardens, I urge you to consider this feeling as you look up at the skyscrapers leaning over you. Like much in this city, what the gardens effectively offer is convenience. And whether nature should be made convenient and bite-sized is an ethical question beyond my thinking ability. But in a city of such magnitude, I’m starting to realise that these gardens might be oases, in the truest sense of the word.
