Exploring Ikebana: A Reconstruction of Evolving Japanese Floral Arrangements

Embarking on a trip halfway across the world, my mom and I stood gazing up at a serene landscape that brought us closer with nature than we had ever known. Our destination was Ryōan-ji, the Kyoto Zen temple enclosing one of the world’s most renowned and celebrated rock gardens. The impetus for our journey was, on paper, a job opportunity I’d been grateful to secure in the animated corporate scenes of Tokyo, but this valuable learning replete with connections forged with co-workers need not preclude us from exploring the bedrock of Japanese culture, we joyously decided. And so, satiating our drive for true cultural immersion, we navigated the inconspicuous path of Ryōan-ji flanked by luscious greenery ornate with hydrangea that overlooked a reflective pond and, stepping through the torii gate into a humble, sheltered alcove, arrived before the meticulously placed, scattered stones suspended in raked gravel.

Our tour guide, voicing an avid appreciation for its austere image inspired by Zen values, explained that the rock garden is a conduit for mindfulness and spiritual reflection. With the turbulence of the Muromachi Period that witnessed its construction, a heightened interest in Zen ethos mounted to grapple with the imminent impermanence of wartime. Zen is not a theory or idea, nor a perpetuated parcel of knowledge, but rather a practical experience that exists beyond words and transcends reasoning, accessed only by emptying one’s thoughts (Copeland). Its worldview colored the aesthetics of cultural expression, motivating rock gardens defined by the understated beauty of negative space – and whose asymmetrical, unbalanced designs unlocked enigmatic viewing experiences that precluded simultaneous perception of their rocks no matter the angle. Bridging a Zen outlook to Muromachi visual arts was the wabi-sabi aesthetic, which celebrates personal separation and the passage of time as devices for peaceful thinking. The garden offers a window into the restlessly moving world, whose stones represent islands enduring the ripples of the raked gravel. To energize this concept from the remote corners of our minds, the tour guide pointed to the image of an 生け花 flower arrangement. Featuring but few selections of branches and flowers, the visual composition is a detached microcosm of nature presented with empty space and imbalanced form, underscoring the depth and dynamism of its components and their harmonious relationship to the viewer and wider setting. Its beauty is found in restraint, experienced as peaceful introspection echoing the same Zen teachings that governed the very place we then stood. Ryōan-ji was where my intrigue for 生け花 first began, as I grappled with the insight that this humble, compact glance into nature could speak to broader cultural values emanating from premodern Japan and into the present day.

At the turn of the thirteenth century, the Japanese center of command was diffused across a dual structure spearheaded by figureheads, themselves manipulated by a Hojo advisor and former emperors (Copeland). Enduring a Mongol wave of expansion imposed pressure on this fragmented government, which devolved into the Muromachi bakufu. Looking to the once mighty Taira clan as a blueprint for their rule, the shogun and his feudal lords returned to Kyoto to accrue cultural capital, fancying themselves aristocrats ingratiated with refined, courtly endeavors. Within this newfound peace, trade with Korea was revived, coins were introduced as currency, and economic centers witnessing the burgeoning markets transformed into impressive cities. The fruits of a stable bakufu were not confined to economic opportunities alone, but also extended to a reinvigorated flowering of Japanese arts that rivaled the golden Heian age. As new attitudes and aesthetic tastes emerged that found beauty in understatedness, practitioners of craft designed rock gardens, composed ink paintings, and practiced the tea ceremony. The shogun offered patronage to Sarugaku entertainment troops, helping the art form flourish into a sophisticated stage of messaging for Zen values. As a precursor to the Noh theater enjoyed today, the stage was adorned with minimal features, boasting only a pine tree that functioned as a gateway for a character’s spirit troubled by unresolved attachment to this world. The symbols expressed as physical props extend to the performance itself, wherein the masked main character connotes emotions not with a change of facial expression but through subtle, understated movements. The actor does not imitate a role but instead functions as an emblematic vessel, elevating the art form to a space of rich reflection – a cornerstone of cultural expression in the Muromachi bakufu embedded most strongly in the burgeoning art of flower arrangement. As a window into growing Zen influence, 生け花 saw practitioners develop rules on the selection and presentation of plant materials that ultimately enriched the ethos of the period. 

A deep reverence for nature is intrinsic to Japanese culture. The aristocracy of the Heian period, for example, occupied palatial homes that evoked the outdoors experience, which opened up to a courtyard that mimicked the grandeur of nature (Sato 7). Embedded in the Japanese psyche from this time is the freeing acceptance that any expression of form ultimately returns to dust, echoed in the teaching of mujo that reminds of the world’s ephemeral spirit. Flowers are a visual lesson in mujo, motivating artists to imagine their presentation as punctuating the beauty of transience beyond what’s felt in nature in an appeal to the emotions of viewers. The art form is a language that articulates our shared humanity as the product of our place in the world. Floral arrangements were first presented before the icons of monasteries during the seventh century, and in the Heian Period, flowering branches were attached to poetry sent between romantic partners as a signal of affection (Sato 13). Soon, floral arrangements would shift from a mode of exchange to a lasting fixture of the home, showcased as a decorative feature in the residences of high-ranking court officials and warriors. The tokonoma, or recessed alcove, boasted fine arts that denoted the cultural capital accrued by feudal lords with prowess for more than just the sword. Composed of rectangular surfaces and neutral colors, the alcove shaped floral proportions selected in accordance with the space a tatami mat would occupy – with curved arrangements that contrasted refreshingly with the straight-cast backdrop, the art form functioned as a harmonious point of intersection with its environment.

Flower arranging represented a highly developed art long before the oldest surviving text on its best practices, the Sendensho, was composed in 1445 (Sato 26). The treatise provides not a continuous narrative from a single authoritative source but rather a succession of rules, explaining how an arrangement ought to complement special occasions and reflect the current season via the placement of its main and secondary branches. As flower arranging aroused written consideration striving to preserve the integrity of the practitioner’s spirit, the Rikka style flourished: ornate and sumptuous, its floral decorations were designed to emanate an ethereal beauty that transcends the natural world, capturing our shared ideal view of the cosmos. This classical school reinforces the art form’s inseparable history from Japan’s growing spiritual practices, an instrument of offering founded on the same Zen principles shared by priests in monasteries. An exemplary Rikka arrangement was fashioned on a three-tiered vase, composed of seven fixed parts that spoke to a burgeoning set of technical rules – one that both empowered a wider demographic to entertain the art form as accepting agents of the elegant standard but restricted personal freedom of creative expression (Sato 28). But the austere sentiment of Zen teachings was soon poised to recast the art form on a different trajectory as the antithesis to classical arrangements: beginning in the late twelfth century, a new outlet for the subdued and introspective aesthetic ideal emerged in the tea ceremony ritual, whose practitioners incorporated floral arrangements of no more than a single flower to reinforce the viewing experience.

When contemporary scholars reflect on the history of Japanese flower arrangement, they articulate its underlying spirit with the phrase fūryū no asobi, which captures the peace enjoyed by renouncing earthly attachments. Expressing love for nature’s peace, the art form’s beauty is found in its imperfections as an outward canvas for the forces of time, elevating an everyday aesthetic of existence experienced not only among its floral elements but by you and me. Further, the sight of something worn and tested, defined by deformities culminating in a meager appearance, helps us appreciate it as the product of its place within a larger environment – thus rendering flower arrangements a window into the intersecting planes that harmoniously connect one to each other and to the wider world. That which is fūryū, far from occupying an unscathed vacuum free of imperfections, brings its onlooker inward peace by rejecting a covetous response. This preferred aesthetic is deeply ingrained in Japanese history. After a long, contentious period of unrest, warriors who carved out local spheres of influence could enjoy differentiation from their formidable counterparts by patronizing expressions of fūryū, and an appreciation for its refined taste brought adequately high esteem to overshadow low social rank (Nishikawa 4). The art form was even enjoyed by samurai immersed in an intensely prescriptive bushido code at odds with its appeal to detach from desire and embrace austere thinking, a paradox that echoes Japan’s fundamental spirit of navigating a historical balancing act in cultivating a native identity in the face of outside influences. Floral arrangements are a window into the Japanese way, a voice of shared identity: with an enduring sentiment of pride for the country’s variety of natural scenery, practitioners paid homage to their closeness with nature by featuring irregular perturbations in their designs, those acutely prominent twists or cuts in an otherwise uniform scene.

Flower arranging in contemporary Japan is motivated by the certainty that a careful combination of floral materials, no matter how seemingly trivial this microcosm is, can elevate the viewing experience far beyond stepping into the most expansive garden. As imagined today, the art form does more than construct a harmonious tie with the environment, but brings forth our innermost emotions and lays our heart bare. In its modern conception, this effect is incomplete without proper consideration of the vessel containing the floral arrangement and its altogether situated context, deepening its role as a conduit for personal expression. One popular approach today, the Sogetsu school, strives for the utmost dynamism by designing its floral arrangements to suit any environment and evoke the same emotion irrespective of the viewing angle – a nod to the restlessly evolving natural world we occupy. Its founder, Sofu Teshigahara, suggests that the beauty of floral arrangements is in restoring grace to materials deformed by detachment from their natural form (Teshigahara 6). His approach encourages greater freedom of personal expression in a departure from the rigid classical style whose technical rules were enforced, in part, as a signal of aristocratic refinement in the 15th and 16th centuries to uphold the existing social stratification. Alongside the Sogetsu revolution in contemporary flower arranging are the Moribana and Nageire styles, inspired by a steady abandonment of the tokonoma alcove fixture in a changing residential landscape swept by Western influences. Once this artistic showcase saw hanging interior arrangements hooked from a basket vase, but to harmonize with the dynamism of modern spaces, the Nageire school encourages an informalness marked by free, spontaneous design in a slender, columnar vessel that brings attention to the unrestrained spirit of each floral component branching out. Celebrating the same expressive fluidity, the Moribana style encourages a heaped effect of flowers in a low, bowl-shaped vessel that emphasizes volumetric depth. 

For my reconstruction, I explored the evolving styles of flower arranging to investigate how the practice functioned as both art and cultural expression throughout Japanese history. An aesthetic shaped by a Zen backdrop, floral arrangements represented not only a contemplative pastime but also a path to true spiritual reflection and social etiquette. Beginning in the 15th century, manuals and treatises written elaborate rules of proportion and balance, sketching arrangements that appropriately capture the essence of nature and inward sentiment of their practitioner. Through my reconstruction, I aimed to experience how space and seasonal awareness were elegantly balanced to express a microcosm of nature in an interior setting – and more widely, how Japanese artisans upheld cultural principles in their hands-on practice. The physical process of selecting and cutting branches, preserving blossoms, and positioning each element at precise angles uncovers a tacit knowledge largely transmitted by demonstration. Modern practitioners face new obstacles in sourcing representative flora of premodern times and appreciating the seasonal connotations and symbols assigned to plants. By investigating historical drawings, I set out to emulate a classical Rikka-style arrangement and find personal expression in a contemporary landscape shaped by the Moribana and Nageire schools. Ultimately, through hands-on immersion, I can uncover the tacit knowledge early artisans conveyed through practice rather than text alone, helping me appreciate how surviving principles can be upheld in a modern context. The ephemeral character of flower arrangements can truly coalesce larger cultural values and spiritual convictions.

The Shinsen Heika Zui, translated as “New Selection of Flower Arrangement,” is a seminal two-volume manuscript boasting one hundred watercolor sketches, with captions elaborating best practices for preserving the spirit of classical Rikka style (The University of Edinburgh). Arranged in 1698 by Yamanaka Chuzaemon, the manual showcases a series of intricate, hand-drawn arrangements that capture natural landscapes within a single vase. Produced during the Edo Period, the Shinsen Heika Zui reflects Japan’s cultural flourishing that rendered flower arranging a refined art enjoyed by samurai, aristocrats, and soon a larger demographic. This resource offers insight into the cultural values that shaped the early elaborate designs enjoyed by the art’s forebearers.

For inspiration paying homage to the ornamental aesthetics propagated in premodern Japan within the context of modern constraints, I investigated 心の花. Translated to The Spirit of Ikebana, this late twentieth century selection composed by practitioner Rimei Ogo features the inner beauty of the floral elements, respecting their natural form. The plant is arranged in a triangular structure, whose three main branches signify heaven, earth, and man in a harmonizing sight. Further, to immerse myself in an evolving modern landscape shaped by the Sogetsu, Moribana, and Nageire approaches, I consulted The Art of Ikebana by the son of celebrated practitioner Sofu Teshigahara. In this volume, Hiroshi reveals that the art form depends on a fundamental style needed for creative expression to flourish. Larger complementary floral elements, such as a wooden branch, are placed behind their compact flower or grass counterparts, in an arrangement with a minimum of three chief branches or shushi. The length of these stems is a function of the vessel’s size, which is determined by summing the container’s breadth and height: the first chief branch extends beyond this value by an added half, whereas the second is three quarters of the former and so on for the third. When the shushi are insufficient to complete the arrangement’s form, with excess empty space, shorter secondary branches or jushi are added. As Hiroshi explains, the ineffable intricacies of this art regulated by tacit knowledge manifest in minor ways, such as determining which side of the first shushi ought to face the front. In the upright Moribana arrangement, the first chief branch is slanted ten-fifteen degrees to the left from an imaginary vertical axis orthogonal to the vessel’s base. Emphasizing this aesthetic, the second slopes forty-fifty degrees to the left, and the third, for contrast, leans strongly to the right at an eighty degree angle. A slanted Moribana arrangement has the front-left situated first branch slanted forty-fifty degrees, whose second counterpart sits in the back-center sloping but ten-fifteen degrees and the contrasting third tipped an emphatic eighty degrees to the right. In the free-spirited, spontaneous Nageire arrangement, the upright form adopts the same principles, but the third shushi need not be a single, clearly defined branch, instead free to include a concoction of stems. The vase’s thin brim precludes the use of the sharp-pronged metal plate or kenzan otherwise used to secure flower stems in place, relying instead on a cross-fixture that provides a stable platform for the floral elements.

Embarking on a journey to source representative flora, I was first captivated by the image of partnering with a local florist, whose tasteful and curated offerings already emanated the spirit of Japanese flower arranging – the whole time relaying their inspiring hands-on knowledge. Fortunately, the first shop I contacted picked up the phone only to offer a perplexing pin-drop quiet, so instead of negotiating a customized ideal among their opulent, costly offerings, I pivoted. I arrived at the Schnucks Floral Design Center warehouse with an enthusiastic catalog of plants that carried a special seasonal connotation and significance in premodern Japan, ranging from chrysanthemum and iris to hydrangea, orchids, and even pine or flowering branches. Thanks to their enormously helpful staff, versed already in supplying springtime blooms to decorate WashU’s campus, I obtained an amalgamation of white chrysanthemum, purple cremones, Blue eryngo, pink stargazers, and red carnations – enriched further by hydrangeas, orchids, green trick, curly osier branches, ruscus, and a mixed green bouquet composed of ferns, ruscus, variegated pittosporum, and lemongrass. For my freer modern imitations, I energized the vessels with spray roses and cheiranthus, complete with a hefty box to carry my treasured flora in. Before I could jump in, I had to get into the headspace of an eminent practitioner whose floral designs inspired treatises, so I resorted to the only rational course of action and constructed a Lego model – though quite proud of this creation, I fear that premodern Japanese flower arrangers sense an interference in the peace of their eternal slumber. Fortified with this practice, I was ready, designing a classical Rikka, upright and slanted Moribana, free-spirited voluminous Nagiere, fundamental form elucidated by Teshigahara, and his Sogetsu approach to a dynamic arrangement capable of harmonizing with any environment.

Flower arranging is synonymous with the history and spirit of Japan. From the first written records and anthologies, Japanese people were enamored by the ephemeral flower and composed poems inspired by the landscape of Yamato:

〰️

When I look into the evening flower, I see in its heart my loved one, whom I can never forget (Ohara 3).

〰️ When I look into the evening flower, I see in its heart my loved one, whom I can never forget (Ohara 3).

In reflecting on this journey of learning with my own hands, I appreciate that the most decisive lessons were kinaesthetic: how a twig’s natural bend determines the angle achieved, or how a 1-mm shift in a kenzan changes the entire form. These lessons do not exist in the 17th century watercolor sketches I explored, but only in repeated gestures. Premodern floral experts encouraged apprenticeship since the art trains intuition as much as it does the mind. I also found that arranging each stem or branch pushed me to consider empty space as a design element, particularly in the upright Moribana where the water’s mirror itself became a purposeful void. Striving to source floral materials appropriate to a historical Japanese context, I practiced weighing what each bloom “says” in a Japanese calendar as an artistic expression steeped in figurative nods to the current season – but for my classical arrangement, I was unable to locate the early-spring symbols of pine or plum. Designing arrangements taught me how deeply the art functioned as a coded seasonal journal in premodern Japan: knowing a plant’s connotations was part of a refined person’s social repertoire, but modern global supply chains flatten this nuance, motivating contemporary schools to emphasize color and form over seasonal considerations. Modern substitutes can subtly shift the arrangement’s aesthetic: replacing bamboo with aspidistra or hand-thrown suiban with a transparent plastic pot removes a quiet weight of earthy texture that reinforces the minimal wabi-sabi taste. Experiencing this modern constraint, however, reveals the meticulous historical subtext. In my classical arrangement, I worked to unify the trifecta of heaven, man, and earth at the specified 7:5:3 proportional ratio, which is testament to a Confucian worldview that signaled special occasion and elevated rank. Departing from this principle in my Moribana imitations, I saw firsthand a palpable mood change in the freer dynamism unlocked from only the length of stem. Musing over my classical design, I could sense its hierarchy of branches befitting an alcove showcase, an instrument of courtly refinement and social differentiation. My contemporary arrangements, less steadfast in their vertical orientation and freely asymmetrical, packed more meaning in their color contrasts and vessel enclosure. 

Uncovering a place for each reconstruction around the inconsistent backdrop of my humble, unsuspecting apartment revealed the harmonizing function of historical tokonoma alcoves. Without the formal, straight-edged background a classical arrangement is suited for, I improvised with low tables and ledges, reminded of the art’s co-evolution with architecture. By iteratively trimming and arranging, a journey of recursive adjustments, I found a calming mindfulness that was therapeutic and evocative of Zen detachment. I also felt an acute awareness of my arrangements’ transience, experiencing the cultural lamentation of mono no aware that requires true beauty to be poignant by ultimately passing. Since each stem negotiates with its neighbors, my final products reflect mutual accommodation, a metaphor for harmonious coexistence not only with each other but with nature itself. Imagining future routes to elevate my appreciation of the art, I could document tacit moves, using recorded footage to gain clarity on the hand angles and gestures needed to produce faithful arrangements. I could also source heirloom floral varieties via botanical gardens, or recreate an arrangement inside a tea-room alcove to see how a backdrop consonant with the art’s historical development alters the viewing emotion evoked. And to truly lean into the practice, I can immerse myself in Heian Period Japan by composing a short poem that shares the arrangement’s seasonal theme. 

Designing emulations faithful to enduring principles and simultaneously locating my own voice to give form to emotion is no easy feat. Looking back on my reconstruction, I learned that 生け花 is less a set of static rules than a breathing grammar in which every cut stem is a word that speaks to a centuries-long conversation about nature, mindfulness, and social grace. Its early pioneers encoded seasonal symbols, aesthetic elegance, and careful spatial design in their arrangements to reinforce burgeoning spiritual sentiments. Sometimes working outside of these principles, such as arranging a Phalaenopsis orchid beside variegated fern in a truly unorthodox palette that rendered me a co-author rather than mere emulator of custom, I could appreciate the enduring cultural values of spatial sensitivity and seasonal consciousness that overcome evolving materials and backdrops. Continuing to treat my apartment’s countertop as a historical laboratory is a glance into how craft can embody culture in ways no text can altogether articulate.

Works Cited

Chuzaemon, Yamanaka. “Shinsen Heika Zui, Volume 1.” University of Minnesota, UMedia 

Libraries, 1698, umedia.lib.umn.edu/item/p16022coll675:1387/p16022coll675:1337?child_index=3&query=&sidebar_page=2. 

Copeland, Rebecca. “Japanese Civilization.” 13-15 Nov. 2023, Washington University in St. 

Louis, St. Louis, MO. Lecture.

Nishikawa, Issōtei. Floral Art of Japan. Edited by Issen Nishikawa, Dai Nippon Printing Co., 

1936.

Ogo, Rimei. The Spirit of Ikebana: Rimei Ogo’s Koryu Seika Arrangements. Kyuryudo, 1999.

Satō, Shōzō. Ikebana: The Art of Arranging Flowers. Tuttle Publishing, 2013.

Teshigahara, Hiroshi. The Art of Ikebana. Shufunotomo Co., 1996.

“Shinsen Heika Zui - Yamanaka Chuzaemon.” Google Arts and Culture, The University of 

Edinburgh, Rare Books Collection, artsandculture.google.com/asset/shinsen-heika-zui-yamanaka-chuzaemon/XgErTIO3LeCeFQ?hl=en. Accessed 5 May

2025.

Link to PowerPoint Presentation: https://www.canva.com/design/DAGlc3Zg5Ls/qPv85O8RZLqxf5pdSJRXcg/edit?utm_content=DAGlc3Zg5Ls&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link2&utm_source=sharebutton