Kyoto: to See? to Feel?

While walking around Nijo Castle in Kyoto, three things caught my eye:

1.      I noticed wall art from the 1700s that looked like cubist paintings. Surprised, I decided to take a picture, when I noticed—

2.      A sign that said “No Photography Allowed”. I understand, photography can sometimes damage delicate art. I decided to draw a picture of it, but then I noticed—

3.      A sign that said “No Drawing or Scribbling”

Excuse me?

I couldn’t stop thinking about why “drawing or scribbling” was against the rules. Why don’t you want people to see what’s inside the castle, Japan? But my question should have instead been directed to UNESCO—the UN’s committee of preserving historical locations. Nijo Castle is on UNESCO’s World Heritage List, a list of 900 or so places compiled “to encourage the identification, protection and preservation of cultural and natural heritage around the world considered to be of outstanding value to humanity”.

Outstanding value to humanity, you say? This is why I’m not allowed to share what I see with people through doodles and “scribbles”? You don’t fool me, UNESCO. I’m onto you. If this castle is secretive, it becomes elusive. If it’s elusive, people will come to see for themselves, which means more tickets being sold, which means more money. Unless, of course, people use Google. 

Is this castle really something people should experience? Is looking not enough?

A few hours later, I walk through an ornate, wooden arch that makes Nijo Castle look quaint. Nishi-Honganji is a Buddhist temple and significantly larger and more ornate than Nijo Castle. They allow photographs inside, too.

 

Nijo Castle: mrrrrr

Nishi Honganji: MRRRRR!!

As I step inside the prayer room, I pull in the smell of aged wood and incense into my lungs, and they sit there, slowly absorbing into me. The room is at least a hundred feet wide and fifty feet long. The walls are made of the darkest wood, and bamboo mats seamlessly line the floor. The wall which holds the shrine is gold-plated, with elegant engravings all over. Silence dissolves when a crowd of priests begin praying.

I start exploring the setting for opportunities for good pictures. The gilded wall? The tapestries and statues inside the shrine? The muted, traditional sliding doors that let in just the right amount of light? The iron lamps with dragons engraved into them? The ceiling, a beautiful composition of dark wood and white-painted designs? The calligraphy which lines the trim around the doors? 

No.  

What picture will capture the way the wood planks rock subtly as you walk over them? How will it show that, when over one-hundred priests pray, you feel the vibrations of their words in your bones? How can it reveal that when your forehead rests on the cold, bamboo mat, you can feel your breath touch your knees? How will it convey that the ceiling pulls your spine towards it when you close your eyes?

As the priests finish chanting, horns blare, their shrieks echoing uncomfortably into every corner of the room. A single drum-beat stills them, it calms them into submission. They topple onto the bodies in the room, bodies that are humbly kneeling, actively connecting.

"Do you want to take a picture? It's allowed," my mother suggests after spotting others taking pictures.

"Nah," I say. This temple is something people should experience. Looking won't be enough.