What is the likelihood of hearing the same term — mono no aware — talked about twice in the course of two weeks? 

Two weeks ago, at my very first Maine Media MFA retreat, I spent a fascinating hour speaking with a fellow student about a Japanese principle  that heavily influences her work: mono no aware.

‘Mono’ means ‘thing’ or ‘things’; ‘aware’ means ‘feeling’ or sentiment, and the particle ‘no’ indicates something an object possesses. So mono no aware signifies the deep emotions (or pathos) of things, the powerful emotions that objects can evoke within us. It is often associated with a poignant feeling of transience —  a beautiful sadness in the passing of lives and objects, like falling leaves or the waning of the moon. 

I love this idea. It’s something I am intuitively drawn to in my work. It’s an acknowledgment and, even more so, an acceptance of the impermanent nature of all of life itself. Nothing lasts forever. I wear my father’s watch, for example. That object is imbued with meaning and memory. It is not “just” how I tell time. It is also how I remember the passing of time. And a deep loss. 

Fast forward a week. I was listening to a glorious presentation, “Collecting Stardust with One Hand” (via APA) by artist Aline Smithson, when she began speaking about — you guessed it — mono no aware. Aline said, “Photographs are a form of stardust,” and I thought to myself, YES, that is exactly it. We are stardust (Joni Mitchell), elements made of dying stars. We are impermanent and this journey of lifetime is defined by its transience. 

Some might find that creepy or frightening; something you do not want to dwell on. I, on the other hand, find it visionary and inspiring. Because, as Aline so brilliantly showed us in her presentation, we may concentrate our attention on a single object and create an extraordinary and emotional moment. That single object, like my father’s 1934 wristwatch, contains within it not only memories but also the sorrow of loss. 

If Covid taught me anything it is that we do not need to travel to exotic locations in order to create meaningful work.  In fact, we do not need to travel at all to create meaningful work. 

Mono no aware gives us an awareness of the fleeting moments in life. A ‘gentle sadness’ for them passing, so to speak. The memory that is held slowly metamorphoses — shifts and changes and becomes more dreamlike than a faithfully documented and meta-tagged point on a timeline. Slowly,  that very memory is replaced by the significance of the particular moment to that particular person. The wristwatch is invaluable to me not because it tells me the time but because of its enormous significance in my life. The wristwatch is my father; how happy I am to have something of his with me, how sad I am to no longer have him here. 

Japanese philosopher Motoori Norinaga (1730-1801), believed that mono no aware is more than just a subjective feeling – it is also a form of knowledge. Norinaga wrote: ‘To know mono no aware is to discern the power and essence, not just of the moon and the cherry blossoms, but of every single thing existing in this world, and to be stirred by each of them.” 

The mono no aware (or pathos) of things in art and nature  teaches  us to become more sensitive to beauty, as Norinaga suggested. But there is more. It can also help us to attain acceptance of the mortality and transience that make life seem so painful at times. As the Buddhist priest Yoshida Kenko (c.1283-c.1350) wrote, ‘If man were never to fade away like the dews of Adashino, never to vanish like the smoke over Toribeyama, how things would lose their power to move us!”

A photograph of a faded, dying rose may, and must, be seen as so much more.