Found this article this morning:
http://www.cnn.com/2016/10/03/travel/china-hunan-glass-toilet/?iid=ob_lockedrail_topeditorial
I'm all about good design. It's important to how one experiences the world, and the built environment is important to people - it's where we spend a large portion of our time.
So when it comes to a bathroom, experience is everything. Scroll down to the end of the article and check out the pictures of toilets in unusual locations. It's worth it. And try to imagine yourself in one of these locations, taking care of the necessary...
All of this reminds me of my favorite bathroom experience. I know, it's not something we talk about, but this one... Yeah. It was memorable.
So I went with the boy to a debate tournament as a judge. I'd done this a couple of times - debate tournaments are always looking for judges, and they'll take just about anyone. This one was more fun than usual because instead of just judging the argument stuff, I also judged some of the speech stuff as well. And that was WAY more fun than I'd thought. After one round, I found myself in need of the facilities. I was in a historic building on the University of Oregon campus, and the bathrooms were located on different floors - the men's room was clear at the top. So I trudged up the additional flights of stairs and found myself at the end of a narrow hallway. The door to the bathroom should have been my first clue - it was painted white and had antique hardware and a frosted window in the upper half. It looked like something from the early part of the last century, and it probably was. The bathroom took up the entire width of the central portion of the upper floor's west end and was a single-person use only. So I locked the door and found myself in a porcelain-tiled sanctum. But the piece de resistance was the windows. There were three large windows that were all very open and facing out across the middle-tops of large pine trees. Not only was the view outstanding, the cool, gentle breeze was so calming and refreshing. Everything was so clean and lovely, and as I sat pondering the singularity of the experience, I nearly forgot what I was doing there. The urgency of the moment was eclipsed by the harmonious combination of the natural surroundings out the window and the elegant refinement of the bathroom itself.
I was reminded of this quote from In Praise of Shadows by Junichiro Tanizaki:
Having done passably well with the heating system, I was then faced with the problem of bath and toilet. My Kairakuen friend could not bear to tile the tub and bathing area, and so built his guest bath entirely of wood. Tile, of course, is infinitely more practical and economical. But when ceiling, pillars, and paneling are of fine Japanese stock, the beauty of the room is utterly destroyed when the rest is done in sparkling tile. The effect may not seem so very displeasing while everything else is still new, but as the years pass and the beauty of the grain begins to emerge on the planks and pillars, that glittering expanse of white tile comes to seem as incongruous as the proverbial bamboo grafted to wood. Still in the bath utility can to some extent be sacrificed to good taste. In the toilet somewhat more vexatious problems arise.
Every time I am shown to an old, dimly lit, and, I would add, impeccably clean toilet in a Nara or Kyoto temple, I am impressed with the singular virtues of Japanese architecture. The parlor may have its charms, but the Japanes toilet truly is a place of spiritual repose. It always stands apart from the main building, at the end of a corridor, in a grove fragrant with leaves and moss. No words can describe that sensation as one sits in the dim light, basking in the faint glow reflected from the shoji, lost in meditation or gazing out at the garden. The novelist Natsume Soseki counted his morning trips to the toilet a great pleasure, 'a physiological delight' he called it. And surely tehre could be no better place to savor this pleasure than a Japanese toilet where, surrounded by tranquil walls and finely grained wood, one looks out upon blue skies and green leaves.
As I have said there are certain prerequisites: a degree of dimness, absolute cleanliness, and quiet so complete one can hear the hum of a mosquito. I love to listen from such a toilet to the sound of softly falling rain, especially if it is a toilet in the Kanto region, with its long, narrow windows at floor level; there one can listen with such a sense of intimacy to the raindrops falling from the eaves and the trees, seeping into the earth as they was over the base of a stone lantern and freshen the moss about the stepping stones. And the toiled is the perfect place to listen to the chirping of insects or the song of the birds, to view the moon, or to enjoy any of those poignant moments that mark the change of the seasons. Here, I suspect, is where haiku poets over the ages have come by a great many of their ideas. Indeed, one could with some justice claim that of all the elements of Japanese architecture, the toilet is the most aesthetic. Our forebears, making poetry of everything in their lives, transformed what by rights should be the most unsanitary room in the house into a place of unsurpassed elegance, replete with fond associations with the beauties of nature. Compared to Westerners, who regard the toilet as utterly unclean and avoid even the mention of it in polite conversation, we are far more sensible and certainly in better taste. The Japanese toilet, I must admit, a bit inconvenient to get to tin the middle of the night, set apart from the main building as it is; and in winter there is always a danger that one might catch cold. But as the poet Saito Ryoku has said, 'elegance is frigid.' Better that the place be as chilly as the out-of-doors; the steamy heat of the Western-style toilet in a hotel is most unpleasant.
Anyone with a taste for traditional architecture must agree that the Japanese toilet is perfection. Yet whatever its virtues in a place like a temple, where the dwelling is large, the inhabitants few, and everyone helps with the cleaning, in an ordinary household it is no easy task to keep it clean. No matter how fastidiously one may be or how diligently one may scrub, dirt will show, particularly on a floor of wood or tatami matting. And so here too it turns out to be more hygienic and efficient to install modern sanitary facilities - tiles and a flush toilet - though at the price of destroying all affinity with 'good taste' and the 'beauties of nature'. That burst of light from those four tile walls hardly puts one in a mood to relish Soseki's 'physiological delight'. There is no denying the cleanliness; every nook and corner is pure white. Yet what need is there to remind us so forcefully of the issue of our own bodies. A beautiful woman, no matter how lovely her skin, would be considered indecent were she to show her bare buttocks or feet in the presence of others; and how very crude and tasteless to expose the toilet to such excessive illumination. The cleanliness of what can be seen only calls up the more clearly thoughts of what cannot be seen. In such places the distinction between the clean and the unclean is best left obscure, shrouded in a dusky haze.
Though I did install modern sanitary facilities when I built my own house, I at least avoided tiles, and had the flood done in camphor wood. To that extent I tried to create a Japanese atmosphere - but was frustrated finally by the toilet fixtures themselves. As everyone knows, flush toilets are made of pure white porcelain and have handles of sparkling metal. Were I able to have things my own way, I would much prefer fixtures - both men's and women's - made of wood. Wood finished in glistening black lacquer is the very best; but even unfinished wood, as it darkens and the grain grows more subtle with the years, acquires an inexplicable power to calm and sooth. The ultimate, of course, is a wooden 'morning glory' urinal filled with boughs of cedar; this is a delight to look at and allows not the slightest sound. I could not afford to indulge in such extravagances. I hoped I might at least have the external fittings made to suit my own taste, and then adapt these to a standard flushing mechanism. But the custom labor would have cost so much that I had no choice but to abandon the idea. It was not that I objected to the conveniences of modern civilization, whether electric lights or heating or toilets, but I did wonder at the time why they could not be designed with a bit more consideration for our own habits and tastes.
http://www.cnn.com/2016/10/03/travel/china-hunan-glass-toilet/?iid=ob_lockedrail_topeditorial
I'm all about good design. It's important to how one experiences the world, and the built environment is important to people - it's where we spend a large portion of our time.
So when it comes to a bathroom, experience is everything. Scroll down to the end of the article and check out the pictures of toilets in unusual locations. It's worth it. And try to imagine yourself in one of these locations, taking care of the necessary...
All of this reminds me of my favorite bathroom experience. I know, it's not something we talk about, but this one... Yeah. It was memorable.
So I went with the boy to a debate tournament as a judge. I'd done this a couple of times - debate tournaments are always looking for judges, and they'll take just about anyone. This one was more fun than usual because instead of just judging the argument stuff, I also judged some of the speech stuff as well. And that was WAY more fun than I'd thought. After one round, I found myself in need of the facilities. I was in a historic building on the University of Oregon campus, and the bathrooms were located on different floors - the men's room was clear at the top. So I trudged up the additional flights of stairs and found myself at the end of a narrow hallway. The door to the bathroom should have been my first clue - it was painted white and had antique hardware and a frosted window in the upper half. It looked like something from the early part of the last century, and it probably was. The bathroom took up the entire width of the central portion of the upper floor's west end and was a single-person use only. So I locked the door and found myself in a porcelain-tiled sanctum. But the piece de resistance was the windows. There were three large windows that were all very open and facing out across the middle-tops of large pine trees. Not only was the view outstanding, the cool, gentle breeze was so calming and refreshing. Everything was so clean and lovely, and as I sat pondering the singularity of the experience, I nearly forgot what I was doing there. The urgency of the moment was eclipsed by the harmonious combination of the natural surroundings out the window and the elegant refinement of the bathroom itself.
I was reminded of this quote from In Praise of Shadows by Junichiro Tanizaki:
Having done passably well with the heating system, I was then faced with the problem of bath and toilet. My Kairakuen friend could not bear to tile the tub and bathing area, and so built his guest bath entirely of wood. Tile, of course, is infinitely more practical and economical. But when ceiling, pillars, and paneling are of fine Japanese stock, the beauty of the room is utterly destroyed when the rest is done in sparkling tile. The effect may not seem so very displeasing while everything else is still new, but as the years pass and the beauty of the grain begins to emerge on the planks and pillars, that glittering expanse of white tile comes to seem as incongruous as the proverbial bamboo grafted to wood. Still in the bath utility can to some extent be sacrificed to good taste. In the toilet somewhat more vexatious problems arise.
Every time I am shown to an old, dimly lit, and, I would add, impeccably clean toilet in a Nara or Kyoto temple, I am impressed with the singular virtues of Japanese architecture. The parlor may have its charms, but the Japanes toilet truly is a place of spiritual repose. It always stands apart from the main building, at the end of a corridor, in a grove fragrant with leaves and moss. No words can describe that sensation as one sits in the dim light, basking in the faint glow reflected from the shoji, lost in meditation or gazing out at the garden. The novelist Natsume Soseki counted his morning trips to the toilet a great pleasure, 'a physiological delight' he called it. And surely tehre could be no better place to savor this pleasure than a Japanese toilet where, surrounded by tranquil walls and finely grained wood, one looks out upon blue skies and green leaves.
As I have said there are certain prerequisites: a degree of dimness, absolute cleanliness, and quiet so complete one can hear the hum of a mosquito. I love to listen from such a toilet to the sound of softly falling rain, especially if it is a toilet in the Kanto region, with its long, narrow windows at floor level; there one can listen with such a sense of intimacy to the raindrops falling from the eaves and the trees, seeping into the earth as they was over the base of a stone lantern and freshen the moss about the stepping stones. And the toiled is the perfect place to listen to the chirping of insects or the song of the birds, to view the moon, or to enjoy any of those poignant moments that mark the change of the seasons. Here, I suspect, is where haiku poets over the ages have come by a great many of their ideas. Indeed, one could with some justice claim that of all the elements of Japanese architecture, the toilet is the most aesthetic. Our forebears, making poetry of everything in their lives, transformed what by rights should be the most unsanitary room in the house into a place of unsurpassed elegance, replete with fond associations with the beauties of nature. Compared to Westerners, who regard the toilet as utterly unclean and avoid even the mention of it in polite conversation, we are far more sensible and certainly in better taste. The Japanese toilet, I must admit, a bit inconvenient to get to tin the middle of the night, set apart from the main building as it is; and in winter there is always a danger that one might catch cold. But as the poet Saito Ryoku has said, 'elegance is frigid.' Better that the place be as chilly as the out-of-doors; the steamy heat of the Western-style toilet in a hotel is most unpleasant.
Anyone with a taste for traditional architecture must agree that the Japanese toilet is perfection. Yet whatever its virtues in a place like a temple, where the dwelling is large, the inhabitants few, and everyone helps with the cleaning, in an ordinary household it is no easy task to keep it clean. No matter how fastidiously one may be or how diligently one may scrub, dirt will show, particularly on a floor of wood or tatami matting. And so here too it turns out to be more hygienic and efficient to install modern sanitary facilities - tiles and a flush toilet - though at the price of destroying all affinity with 'good taste' and the 'beauties of nature'. That burst of light from those four tile walls hardly puts one in a mood to relish Soseki's 'physiological delight'. There is no denying the cleanliness; every nook and corner is pure white. Yet what need is there to remind us so forcefully of the issue of our own bodies. A beautiful woman, no matter how lovely her skin, would be considered indecent were she to show her bare buttocks or feet in the presence of others; and how very crude and tasteless to expose the toilet to such excessive illumination. The cleanliness of what can be seen only calls up the more clearly thoughts of what cannot be seen. In such places the distinction between the clean and the unclean is best left obscure, shrouded in a dusky haze.
Though I did install modern sanitary facilities when I built my own house, I at least avoided tiles, and had the flood done in camphor wood. To that extent I tried to create a Japanese atmosphere - but was frustrated finally by the toilet fixtures themselves. As everyone knows, flush toilets are made of pure white porcelain and have handles of sparkling metal. Were I able to have things my own way, I would much prefer fixtures - both men's and women's - made of wood. Wood finished in glistening black lacquer is the very best; but even unfinished wood, as it darkens and the grain grows more subtle with the years, acquires an inexplicable power to calm and sooth. The ultimate, of course, is a wooden 'morning glory' urinal filled with boughs of cedar; this is a delight to look at and allows not the slightest sound. I could not afford to indulge in such extravagances. I hoped I might at least have the external fittings made to suit my own taste, and then adapt these to a standard flushing mechanism. But the custom labor would have cost so much that I had no choice but to abandon the idea. It was not that I objected to the conveniences of modern civilization, whether electric lights or heating or toilets, but I did wonder at the time why they could not be designed with a bit more consideration for our own habits and tastes.
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