Purple Magazine
— Purple #43 S/S 2025
The Tokyo Diary Issue

yoko and john in karuizawa

essay

by FRANÇOIS SIMON

 

French writer and food critic François Simon published ‘Le Silence de l’Amour (The Silence of Love)’, a novel describing one of his trips to Japan, where he patiently waits for the Japanese woman he loves. He experiences solitude in the countryside and follows in the footsteps of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, who spent a lot of time in Japan, far from the media. He imagines how buddhism deeply transformed Lennon’s artistic sensibility.

 

In Karuizawa, Yoko Ono introduced John Lennon to everyday Japan. Biking through the resort town, they’d stop wherever the wind took them, sometimes parting the noren — curtains at an inn’s entrance — for a moment of comfort. Often, Yoko reminded him, one is struck by the need to bow to enter, feeling a slight unease as one draws aside the fabric panels. It would be so simple to clear the way, to even anticipate the entrance with automatic doors. Yet there’s an allegory to be read there — a glimpse into a new world. In that simple gesture, like pushing aside branches, he opened himself to an inner space blending all levels of society, whether noble or humble. In some houses, the entrance is strangely small (69 x 51 centimeters), a feature known as a nijiriguchi: a crawl-in entrance. This is deliberate, to momentarily erase social differences between guests. Going even further with its symbolism, the word tainai-kuguri implies a “passing through the womb.” Yoko Ono would later say, “If politicians could go through a teahouse door (lowered, so people must bend very low to get through) before they discuss anything and spend a day watching the fountain water dance at the nearest park, then world business may slow down a little, but we may have peace.” Much of Yoko Ono’s work reminds us that we should strive for humility.

John Lennon was deeply affected by his visit to the Golden Pavilion in Kyoto, particularly its recent history. On July 2, 1950, the beauty of Kinkaku-ji left such an impression on a young Buddhist monk, Shoken Hayashi, that he set it on fire, overwhelmed by the sight of its reflection in the adjacent pond. He claimed, before being confined, that he had destroyed it to preserve its stunning image forever in his mind. This became the central theme of Yukio Mishima’s novel Kinkaku-ji (The Temple of the Golden Pavilion), published in 1956. The structure was rebuilt identically in 1955, illustrating the Japanese people’s delicate relationship with historical buildings. Often eroded by humidity, temples are routinely reconstructed in their exact likeness, with cypress bark shingles restored every 20 years, echoing the concept of impermanence. Yoko felt that John adopted this idea by “ending the Beatles before they dissolved, so they could remain a perfect myth forever.” After his death, Yoko wished for no ceremony, no pilgrimage tomb; John Lennon’s body was cremated, and his ashes’ resting place remains unknown.

In this “floating” world of deconstruction, constant metaphors, and setsuna or fleeting moments, John Lennon began to see things differently. His Western perspective was constantly challenged. Even the idea that raw fish could have flavors beyond blandness was a revelation — there were rich, translucent, briny, gelatinous, and elastic textures to explore. He immersed himself in an interstitial world where time constantly played with space, searching for the origin of emotion. All of these moments became potential metaphors, endless reflections. John embraced the transient nature of the moment, infusing these experiences into family life.

He also discovered that paths in Japan emphasize the journey itself rather than the destination. Temples are often long-awaited, hidden by stairways, corners, and tree curtains, while in the West, cathedrals stand boldly in open spaces. John entered this hybrid world with delight, encountering parallel worlds that bent his mind in ways he welcomed.

After some time, he lost all sense of direction. He let himself drift into the clandestine side of reality. A quiet voice whispers behind you, a ceramic bell rings softly in the wind. It isn’t a matter of boldly stepping forward but of savoring the ma, the interval: “the sun shows itself in the gap between two doors.” Rediscovering a childlike joy in the twists of a garden, the still waves of gravel,
the touch of moss, the brush of the air. The conceptual dimension fades; one passes to the other side of the mirror, with a smooth, calm face like that of Buddha in Nicolas Bouvier’s words, “shining with mischief and radiant with compassion.”

This same face can be seen in Polaroids of John’s stays in Japan. “He had three small but distinct moles,” Yoko Ono recalls, “straight down the center of his broad forehead, end­ing where the third eye was. Buddha was supposed to have had one mole in the center of his fore­head, and that was regarded in Oriental physiognomy as a sign of a very wise man. I always thought John’s oval and well-chiseled classic face looked very much like a Kabuki mask or a face you’d expect to see in a Shakespearean play. And he carried his body with a certain lightness that gave grace to his movements. He was in his 20s when I met him. I was eight years older than him. But I never thought of him as somebody younger than me. When you were near him, the strong mental vibe he sent out was too heavy for a young person. Some people are born old. That was John. […] It was obvious to any­body around him that he was actually a very heavy dude: not a prince, but a king.”

Those stays in Karuizawa were more than idle escapes; they offered John Lennon an entry into a world that was more instinctual, filled with subtleties, intimacy, and harmony. Ultimately, he was just a gaijin, a foreigner, never fully integrated. Vast plains of idleness lay before him, and he had nothing left to do but mentally embed himself in them.

Here, John took in his own paradoxes and contradictions, inspired by ikebana, the art of flower arranging, and the principle of asymmetry as a universal law — the same balance found in the arrangement of stones and their unpredictable forms. He found, in this rejection of worldly life, a refined aesthetic rooted in wabi-sabi, the art of perfect imperfection embodied in the tea ceremony. This somewhat ritualistic and sometimes touristic moment was far from futile. It was meant to encourage solitude and a calm, positive appreciation, much like that of hermits inspired by Chinese eremitism. John Lennon dove curiously into this philosophical movement, which served as a magical mirror, reflecting back what he lacked. The wabi-cha or tea ceremony found its master in Rikyu¯ (1522-1591), who defined its spirit and even the architecture suitable for this meditative moment. The entrance to the teahouse is incredibly small once again, requiring one to crawl through and preventing access to anyone carrying weapons.

With a waiting area for friends, the tea pavilion is precisely modest, with an area of four and a half tatami mats, each measuring 1.80 x 0.90 meters. Inside the tokonoma, the room itself, there are tiny windows, almost no decoration, and a single flower in a bamboo vase. The path leading to the pavilion is understated, helping visitors focus. Evergreen trees line the way, without flowers. A story illustrates the mindset surrounding this moment: Rikyu¯’s son had just finished sweeping the garden leading to the pavilion. His father passed by and scolded him, “It’s not enough to sweep the path — put in a bit more effort!” Later, he returned and admired the work as his son looked on, relieved. The father shook a tree branch, letting a few leaves fall to give the garden a poetic, natural veil — the gentle beauty of imperfection.

Initially, the word wabi had a negative connotation, implying regret or apology, but during the Kamakura period (1185-1333), especially with the development of the tea ceremony, its meaning shifted to acceptance of the imperfect, of asymmetry. This became the ideal counterpoint to societies intent on conquering, imposing, and succeeding at all costs. It embraces flaws and imperfections, not out of sorrow but with appreciation. Flaws are part of a whole, as natural as life itself. There’s nothing more boring than dull perfection.

During these stays, John Lennon discovered the rare generosity of attention. He stopped rushing around and discovered the simple joys and beauty at his feet. Still, he retained the romantic melancholy of someone who no longer had a place in society. In one photo, he’s shown holding his teacup with both hands, as one does to show respect for even the simplest things. Grasping something this way means fully immersing oneself in the act — whether it’s a business card, a sheet of paper, a gift, or even something trivial. It brings sincere, deep meaning. By slowly holding his irregularly edged earthenware teacup, he was able to experience a new life, that of an ascetic awakened to a new dimension; he felt the aesthetics of life’s flow. The same sentiment is expressed in a poem by Saigyō (1118-1190):

An unfeeling body, and yet emotion is revealed in the flight of a snipe from the marsh on an autumn evening.

END

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Purple #43 S/S 2025 The Tokyo Diary Issue

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