Introduction
In Japan, there’s a traditional sense of beauty called iki.
It’s used as a compliment in all sorts of situations, for the way someone behaves, the way they dress, even the atmosphere of a space.
It often gets translated as chic, stylish or cool, but as a Japanese person, none of those words feels quite right to me.
That’s because there’s something more tangled up in iki. A pull towards someone, a quiet strength, and a sense of distance, all at once.
For example, one Japanese philosopher says that a slightly undone hairstyle can feel more iki than a perfectly arranged one. He also says that a room with some shadow and uneven light can feel more iki than one that’s brightly and evenly lit.
Would you simply call that stylish?
Hi, I’m Satomi.
The philosopher I just mentioned is Kuki Shūzō.
Recently, I read his book, The Structure of Iki. In it, he breaks down this Japanese feeling in a very theoretical way, and reading it, I felt like I finally understood a little of why the word is so hard to describe.
So let me try to explain what this long-standing Japanese feeling of iki actually is, as simply as I can.
Kuki Shūzō and the Three Elements of Iki
First of all, a little about Kuki Shūzō himself.
He was a Japanese philosopher who spent years in Europe, but he wasn’t just a serious academic. Back in Japan, he was close to the world of geisha and the entertainment districts, so iki wasn’t something he only knew in theory, which makes the book even more interesting.
So Kuki looks at iki from several different angles, but the first question he asks is what actually exists inside this feeling.
He says there are three main elements: bitai, ikiji and akirame.
It might be easiest to picture two people who are attracted to each other as I go through these.
The first element is bitai.
There isn’t a perfect English equivalent, but words like flirtation, coquetry or allure come fairly close.
It can sound as though it simply means flattering someone or trying to please them, but that isn’t quite what Kuki means.
There is a desire to attract the other person, and there is an attempt to reduce the distance between you, but that distance never disappears completely.
You move closer, but some tension and separation still remain.
That is what he means by bitai.
The second element is ikiji.
It can be translated as pride, spirit or strength of character. Here, it means the strength not to lose yourself, even while trying to attract someone.
You don’t completely adapt yourself to the other person, and you don’t bend yourself entirely to please them. There is still a certain firmness and self-respect in you.
And the third element is akirame.
In everyday Japanese, this word often means giving up, so it can sound quite negative. But here, it is closer to a kind of detachment or letting go.
It is more like when you don’t get something you really wanted, and over time, you learn not to cling to it so tightly.
He believed that iki existed when all three were present together.
Iki in Everyday Gestures
Reading this also made me realise that the meaning of iki has broadened over time.
These days, we also use the word for a thoughtful, effortless gesture that quietly makes your heart skip, whether it comes from a man or a woman.
It is not quite the same as Kuki’s original idea, but I think this broader use is lovely in its own way, and very Japanese, so I wanted to share a few examples.
For example, someone might quietly remember that you had something to celebrate, and at the end of the evening, they simply hand you a small gift with a letter. Maybe it comes in a beautiful wooden box, with a few lines written on a lovely piece of traditional Japanese washi paper, like this one.
The point is that they put a little extra care into the details and hand it over without making a big thing of it.
Another example is when you have a meal together and someone quietly settles the bill where you can’t see it, so no one has to feel awkward about it. In Japan it’s often the older person at the table who does this, without saying anything. But I imagine how it works probably differs from culture to culture.
The Delicate Balance of Iki
After that, Kuki compares iki with other ideas that seem quite similar to it.
For example, something elegant has restraint, but without attraction or tension, that alone isn’t iki. Something flashy can draw attention, so in that sense, it comes close to allure, but when the urge to be noticed gets too strong, it loses the distance that detachment needs.
So iki isn’t simply elegant, and it isn’t simply flashy or restrained.
It is a very delicate balance between sensuality, strength and a little bit of distance.
Kuki also believed that even the way someone speaks could feel iki.
Someone might slow down and soften certain words, letting them linger a little, but then finish the phrase quite sharply.
But I have to say, when I read this, I thought, “This is probably something I could never do myself.
I don’t think I speak that way at all, especially when I speak in Japanese. If anything, since moving to the UK, I feel like the way I speak has become a little stronger and more direct.
Iki in Art, Space, and Light
One comparison I found especially interesting was between the nude in Western painting and the image of a woman after a bath in Japanese ukiyo-e.
A Western nude can be openly sensual, and very beautiful, but Kuki would say that sensuality alone isn’t quite iki.
The woman in the ukiyo-e image is still wearing a light kimono, so her body is never fully shown, and the sensuality comes from what stays hidden.
But iki isn’t only about people. Kuki believed it could also appear in the design of a space.
For example, he talks about combining materials with slightly different qualities, such as wood and bamboo, or not making every part of a room feel completely uniform.
Rather than blending everything together perfectly, the idea is to leave a little tension or contrast between different things.
According to Kuki, that is what can make a space feel iki.
He makes a similar point about light.
Instead of lighting the whole room brightly and evenly, eaves, fences or trees in the garden might filter or interrupt some of the light.
By leaving both brighter and darker areas, the space gains a sense of tension and atmosphere.
By leaving both brighter and darker areas, the space gains a sense of tension and atmosphere. So you feel that same tension as bitai, even in the light.
I find that idea quite beautiful, actually.
My Own Sense of Iki
After reading the book, a lot of what Kuki said made sense to me.
If I were to add one word of my own to his explanation, I think iki also contains a sense of holding back, or perhaps a certain kind of humility.
There is something attractive there, but it doesn’t reveal everything, and it doesn’t desperately ask to be noticed.
When I think of someone who feels iki to me, one of the first people who comes to mind is the fashion designer Yohji Yamamoto. In his interviews, he seems so humble and reserved, but there is a very clear will behind him, so it never feels weak or passive. There is a certain distance to him, something mysterious and sensual, and I feel all three of Kuki’s qualities in him.
But of course, iki isn’t the only form of beauty or coolness that I admire.
There are other Japanese aesthetic ideas that I love that wouldn’t be called iki at all.
And it isn’t only Japan. I’m also drawn to a beautifully tailored jacket in Britain, the lines of Italian furniture, and the detail in French haute couture.
But the thing that stayed with me was the idea that, just as Kuki tried to put iki into words, we can also try to put into words what we ourselves find beautiful or cool.
What exactly are we drawn to, and why?
We are constantly surrounded by trends, speed and other people’s opinions, so putting our own sense of beauty into words can help us become a little more conscious of what we actually want to hold on to.
And I think these small, thoughtful gestures like the ones I mentioned today are often the first things we lose when everything becomes about speed and efficiency.
That is exactly why I would like to keep some of them alive, in my own way.
And it is something I am thinking about in my own work too.
One day, I would love to create a space that combines Japanese iki with the different kinds of beauty I have encountered elsewhere, so that it becomes my own version of iki.
And I hope that one day, I’ll be able to build that space and let other people experience it too.
Closing Thoughts
So what kind of person, object or space feels iki to you?
I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
Maybe we should start an Iki club or something one day.
Not a self-improvement club. Just a club for becoming slightly more iki.
I’d actually quite like that.
Thank you for watching.
If you enjoyed this video, I think you’ll probably enjoy these ones too, so have a look after this video.
I’ll see you in the next video.
