Genkan (entrance foyer)​​​​​​​​​​​: Part 1

In Japanese homes, the genkan (Fig. 190) is a small, foyer-like area just inside the main entrance, where guests and family members remove their shoes before entering the house proper. The custom of banning outdoor footwear from indoor spaces can be traced back to the Heian period (794-1185), when that footwear consisted primarily of straw sandals (ori) and clogs (geta) in a landscape of muddy fields and unpaved roads. (Given the Japanese tradition of eating, sitting and sleeping directly on hardwood flooring or tatami mats, separating dirty footwear from living spaces was the hygienic choice.) The etiquette, history and symbolism of the genkan, however, go far beyond footwear.

Etiquette

For starters, the etiquette to be followed in entering a non-family member’s house is more involved than just slipping off one’s shoes at the door. Below is modern Japan’s step-by-step protocol for visits from genkan to sitting room:

History and Symbolism

The word genkan first appears in ancient Chinese texts of the Neidan school of Taoist internal alchemy, indicating the spiritual gateway from which ki—the life force—enters the body. Centuries later, genkan reappears in Japanese Zen Buddhism, this time designating a physical space in monasteries where monks take their first step in a life of devotion, compassion and service on the path to enlightenment.​

At first glance, there would seem to be a deep disconnect between the everyday, “homey” feel of the modern Japanese genkan and the term’s origins in Taoism and Zen. A closer look at the ideograms that make up the word, however—gen (玄) and kan (関)—reveals a more enigmatic side to this unpretentious “room” with coats hanging on walls and shoes strewn over tile floors. One source lists gen as “mysterious” or “profound,” and kan as a “barrier” or “connection point,” while in another gen is “occultness,” “mystery,” or “black,” and kan a “boundary” or “gateway.” These sources characterize the term genkan as “a mysterious entrance to something dark and unrecognizable, but spiritually profound.” So, how is the genkan’s sacred history reconciled with the realities of its secular present?

Until the post-war era, the genkan of Rinzai monasteries—one of the two main schools of Zen—symbolized, to new trainees, in particular, the first step on the path of Zen. From the early Edo period, when novices approached a monastery requesting admission, they were required to undergo a pre-initiation rite known as niwazume (Fig. 192, 193), in which they were forced to do seated meditation (zazen) in the genkan from morning to night for a period of two to five days. (This was followed by a second phase known as tangazume that mandated two additional days of zazen in a corner of the temple proper.) While the esoteric meaning of these rites is largely lost in today’s modern family life, the areas just inside the main entrances to temples, monasteries, and private homes, where footwear is removed and stored, are still known as genkan.

In the late seventeenth century, high-ranking samurai, possibly inspired by monastery genkan, added spaces for footwear removal inside the entrances to their own homes—spaces that likewise came to symbolize gateways of loyalty and service to one’s master. The trend was enthusiastically adopted by nouveau riche urban merchants of the era, if without the symbolic commitment to the master, after which the common classes followed suit as the once spiritually symbolic genkan was reduced to little more than a trendy “accent” in houses able to accommodate it.

Secularization

This secularization, or loss of meaning, of sacred traditions is evident in the example of the genkan with the increase in its numbers and popularity over the course of its sustained adoption by progressively lower social classes. Sacred rites and traditions were originally means of communicating with the gods with the intent of persuading them to use their powers to grant human prayers. That is, these rites, as the means to this end, were instruments of power. Moreover, social classes that had this power as keepers and beneficiaries of these rites—aristocrats, priests, and samurai—attached critical importance to them, because the rites were power. To classes with no power, on the other hand—farmers, craftsmen, and merchants—sacred rites, traditions and artifacts, as means to power, were irrelevant.

In contrast, while sacred rites were immaterial to the powerless common classes, secular versions of sacred traditions and artifacts commanded strong appeal. Like sacred rites, sacred traditions were means to the end of manipulating the gods, but with secularization, these traditions became ends in themselves. Sacred music, dance, and theater, for instance, continued to be performed at festivals to entertain the gods, but as their sacred meaning waned and these arts came to be performed at not only sacred, but non-sacred times and venues, they drew progressively larger audiences that came for the performance and that alone. The objective of these “new” performances was immediate audience enjoyment—not as the means to an end, but as the end product itself. Audiences were no longer observers, but consumers, and the purpose of the events they consumed was to keep them so engaged and satisfied they’d come back for more. With this goal of repeat customers in mind, program content was tailored to audience tastes, including, on a case-by-case basis, sexual humor, current events and other down-to-earth secular themes.

Since the common classes had traditionally been prohibited from participating in sacred activities outside of festivals and other sacred events, when these restrictions were relaxed in the Edo period (1603-1868), they flocked to the recreational and artistic pursuits that had formerly been available only to the power elite. The yearning for upward social mobility was at work in the case of the genkan as well; the common classes fantasized belonging to the upper classes themselves by “appropriating” upper class lifestyles. The reality underlying this wholesale adoption of once sacred traditions accessible only to the elite echelons, however, was that commoners had little if any understanding or appreciation of the history and symbolic import of these new modes of entertainment and recreation.

From Religious to Social Functions

Today, genkan are no longer points of departure for esoteric journeys or trendy features in Japanese homes. They’re standard, taken for granted, facts of residential life. Although the historical symbolism has been lost, all homes, condominiums, and apartments, no matter how small, have some form of genkan. At the same time, it remains more than just a place for trading shoes and slippers on one’s way in or out of the house.

One symbolic role the genkan plays is the household’s “social” face—the first sight that greets visitors upon entering. It is a statement of identity: formal or relaxed, a snapshot of family life and values. There is another, more complex role, however, as a gateway between the household’s public and private worlds where visitors are screened with ritual challenges: the rules of etiquette outlined earlier, and the actual step or steps leading up to the household interior (Fig. 194), although the latter is conducted as part of the former. (The genkan is positioned one to two steps below house floor level, allowing household members to “look down” on visitors as they interact.) The question is, why ritualize visitor entry into the home? The answer lies deep in Japanese DNA from before the dawn of time.

Genkan in Satsuma

Below are four different traditional entranceways, each from a different class of owner. Hosshinji's genkan is regal and large, with much space for the shoes of many guests. Next is my great-uncle's genkan, very small to match the size of the house and the position of the family. Below that, you can see my uncle's genkan which is much more modern than the last. This is much more representative of what is seen in most houses that can afford it. Finally is the genkan of the samurai house at Iriki Fumoto, very spacious for the servants to work in and showcase the powerful position of a samurai.

Week 8: The Misty Island

Week 8 arrived with a new reminder to expect the unexpected. After thinking the interior demolition had been completed the previous Friday and Tsuruzono-san out buying supplies Monday, I arrived at work Tuesday morning to find the new residents had decided they wanted a bigger kitchen. To open up the floor space necessary for the enlargement, Tsuruzono-san and I removed the indented doorway to the kitchen and installed a pillar at what will be the junction of the exterior walls when added (Fig. 200).

Demolishing this house, along with nearly two months of studying the architecture here, has impressed on me that one of the most significant differences between American and traditional Japanese architecture is standard American stick-framing versus Japanese timber frame pillar-style construction. American architecture relies on pillars, of course, especially in residential foundations, but Japan’s entire architectural style is based on the pillar. A building's skeletal structure, and that alone, must be fully planned to support its live and dead loads—not just vertical, but horizontal loads from regular earthquakes as well. It is precisely the attention to detail in load placement and distribution, as well as ventilation and climatic challenges that have helped assure the longevity of these structures over centuries of environmental stress.

Meanwhile, back at the renovation, Wednesday brought the next change of plans. No sooner had we run wall joists to the kitchen pillar and finished lunch, than Tsuruzono-san announced that the sub-flooring planks for the hardwood floors had still not arrived, so we were done for the day.

Three of the house’s original five rooms were tatami, with two hardwoods. This time, three renovated rooms will have hardwood floors, leaving the house with only one tatami room. From a practical standpoint, hardwood floors are easier to clean, and tatami are more vulnerable to mold, wear and tear, but as trends go, hardwood is more “modern.” At the same time, many Japanese of all ages are still partial to traditional features, which accounts for the “token” tatami room in many new residential structures, including multi-unit high-rise apartments. The new residents in my great-uncle’s house are in their late thirties with no plans for children, but unfortunately I did not get a chance to discuss their preferences as representatives of their age group.

Wednesday turned out to be the last day of my apprenticeship, although I was unaware of that at the time. That night was a busy one, with preparations underway for the full four-member family excursion to Kirishima the next day, but we pulled up to the Seiryuso Inn (Inn of the Quiet Current) (Fig. 201) on schedule Thursday afternoon. We had selected traditional accommodations for obvious reasons, but interestingly, found few traditional touches until we reached our room. There, they were abundant (Fig. 202): unfinished wood joints and surfaces, tatami flooring, fusuma closet doors with natural motifs, and a tokonoma with hanging scroll (Fig. 203).

One of the things I love most on earth are Japanese public baths and hot springs, so soon after arrival, I reserved a tub and left the others to their own devices. The inn offered three bathing areas: an indoor/outdoor public tub for visitors separated into men’s and women’s sections; an indoor family bath reserved at fifty-minute intervals; and an outdoor version with a thirty-minute option (Figs. 204, 205). I had the cozy, outdoor bath all to myself and, settling in, I maxed out my time before I knew it.

With our entire clan—grandmother, aunt, mother and me—having reserved a single room for the night, we returned from dinner to find four futon laid out side-by-side. This sleeping arrangement is known as zakone (Fig. 206), the Japanese characters for which translate into the admittedly unappealing, “mixed fish sleeping together.” (Fig. 207) On the other hand, it certainly cuts costs and, if you like shoulder-to-shoulder “skinship,” which many Japanese do, enhances the intimacy of the encounter. Upon Googling zakone, however, I found that it, too, came from sacred origins:

The next morning was blocked out for Kirishima Shrine (Figs. 208), one of Japan’s most famous—and for good reason. It enshrines the god Ninigi-no-mikoto, grandson of the sun goddess Amaterasu, who dispatched him to earth to bring peace to humankind, sending him off with a sacred sword, mirror and jewel—what are known today as Japan’s Imperial Regalia—to ensure his success. The Kirishima mountains were his point of descent from the heavens—the mythical origin of the Japanese as direct descendants of Amaterasu and their common heritage as not only countrymen, but family.

As we climbed the steps to the red torii gate to the main shrine complex, I could not help but admire a massive sacred cedar tree nearby in the courtyard (Fig. 209). Another Google visit revealed that not only has this monolith graced shrine grounds for 800 years, but according to local belief, it is the ancestor of the cedar tree population of southern Kyushu.

After purifying our hands and mouths at the sacred water dispensary, we prayed at the shrine, following Shinto protocol.

• Bow before approaching the offertory box outside the offering hall. (Some shrines have bells, which are rung to draw the god’s attention before praying.)

• Toss several coins into the box. (The normal offering is several dollars, but depends on the prayer.)

• Clap twice, then offer your prayer to the god.

• Once finished, bow again and back away reverently. 

The general public has access to only one of the sacred structures of the main complex, the haiden (hall of worship) (Fig. 210, while the heiden (offering hall) only allows the public in on special occasions and the honden (most sacred inner sanctum where the god is enshrined) is strictly off-limits at all times (Fig. 211). Only priests can enter the innermost structure.

Unlike the small Satsuma shrines without resident priests, Kirishima Shrine is a properly staffed shrine and tourist attraction. It sells omikuji and ema (see Week 5), as well as omamori, or protective personal amulets. Depending on the deity of the shrine, these amulets offer a range of specialized powers, including success on exams, safe childbirth, abundant offspring, business prosperity and many more. Once we got back in the car to leave, I noticed what turned out to be my aunt’s new accident protection omamori hanging from the rearview mirror.

After leaving the shrine, we drove to Kareigawa Railway Station (Fig. 212). Built in 1903, it is the oldest train station in Kagoshima prefecture. As I had hoped, it was showcase of traditional Japanese architecture, especially wooden joinery (Fig. 213). Commissioned after the Japanese railway system was established in the Meiji era once Japan had been opened to the West, there were the inevitable nails and screws in some joints, but the main pillars were locked in place with wooden blocks. In the back of my mind, however, I could hear my father telling me about Japanese nerds until the 1990s and the advent of video games: the fascination with trains and books of train schedules, which they would pour over, memorize, and even trade at gatherings. For many, the preoccupation was literally debilitating. 

Kareigawa Station is looked after by a lone caretaker and a stray cat, named San-chan, who has become something of a local celebrity—the stuff that popular movie scripts like Hachiko are made of (Fig. 214). Yet notwithstanding its age, diminutive size and “extremely rural” location, Kareigawa station is very much still operational. Servicing ten trains a day on workdays, it is one hub in a vital transportation system for local citizens along the JR (Japan Railway) Hisatsu Line. We were lucky enough to encounter one train pulling in just after we arrived (Fig. 215), then watch as more passengers boarded and exited than we had anticipated on a weekday afternoon. I remember thinking, this was a living museum, and long may it run.

That wraps up Week 8, which has left me with a new appreciation of the historical meaning and context of many actions we normally take for granted. Week 9 will be my last installment, but packed with content from the prefectural capital of Kagoshima, the most warlike samurai stronghold in feudal Kyushu, and multiple locations in Tokyo. Once again, I greatly appreciate your interest, have very much enjoyed sharing the experience, and hope you got more than you came for. I look forward to seeing you in Week 9.