A Profound Bond Between Humans and Trees in Japanese Culture and Ukiyo-e Art
"The trees cry out as they die, but you cannot hear them. I lie here and listen to the pain of the forest..."
— Moro, Princess Mononoke
In the 1930 woodblock print by Kawase Hasui, the avenue leading to the shrine of Shogun Ieyasu Tokugawa in Nikkō is enveloped in the shadow of monumental cryptomeria trees. A simple stone path disappears into the depths of the forest, flanked on both sides by towering trunks whose dark, rhythmic contours resemble the colonnade of some long-forgotten temple of nature. Amidst this silent majesty walks a figure—a small silhouette in traditional attire. There is no drama here, no crowd, no words. Only light and shadow, rhythm and silence. The image does not depict a specific event but rather a state of mind: the encounter of a small, transient human with a tree that has stood here for centuries and remembers everything. This is the essence of Japanese contemplation—rooted in an astonishingly deep, even today, relationship between people and nature.
It is impossible to understand Japan without comprehending its relationship with trees. In a world where every blade of grass may possess a soul, and every trunk can be home to a kami, a tree is not an "object"—it is a being. In Western culture, a tree is often a metaphor for life; in Japan, it is life. It surrounds shrines, becomes a lover in Noh theater, and its leaves move us in haiku poetry. For centuries, the Japanese have not only planted trees in temple gardens—they have revered them, formed emotional bonds with them, listened to their voices in the wind, and remembered their presence as they would that of ancestors. Bonsai is not merely a decoration but a philosophy. Kadomatsu is not just a New Year's ornament but an invitation. And sakura is not merely a flower—it is the heart of national sensitivity.
Today's article will take us on a journey through a land where trees are equal members of the world of sentient beings, and humans regard them with respect. We will pause at selected ukiyo-e to see how artists of the Edo period and later shin-hanga movements depicted trees. We will discuss shimenawa ropes wrapped around ancient trunks, willow spirits who fall in love with humans, smiling flowers, and a grove that refuses to die without a child's song. Because in Japan, everything can have a soul—but trees, more than most, can reveal it.
Participant, Not Background – Trees in Ukiyo-e
Humans and Nature in Ukiyo-e Landscapes
During the Edo period (1603–1868), Japan experienced relative peace and isolation, allowing its culture to flourish in its own internal rhythm. In this world, the art of ukiyo-e—"pictures of the floating world"—emerged, which over time evolved from portraying courtesans and actors to subtle landscapes depicting the fragility of human existence amidst the majesty of nature. Unlike many European works, where nature served as a backdrop for human drama, in ukiyo-e, humans are often mere points, shadows that pass, while mountains, rivers, and trees endure—silent, powerful, unmoved—as the main protagonists of Edo artists' works. It is not humans who dominate the landscape—it is the landscape that shapes humans, their feelings, dramas, and fate.
This is most evident in the works of Hiroshige, especially in his groundbreaking series The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō (1833). Each sheet in this collection is a masterful balance between movement and stillness, between changing weather and the eternal presence of trees, hills, and sky. People—porters, travelers, villagers—are not the heroes of the scene but temporary guests. Their passage lasts a glance, while a pine or cherry tree has stood for generations.
The ukiyo-e technique, based on precise woodblock printing, favored this aesthetic of detail and form restraint. The contour drawing (sen) was key—it was the line that separated sky from water, leaf from branch, human from cloud. Color was not applied arbitrarily—wooden matrices were covered with mineral and organic paints, from Prussian blue to turmeric yellows, with extraordinary attention to subtle tonal transitions. This technique conveyed the roughness of bark, the softness of snow on branches, or the ethereality of rain observed through maple leaves. Trees were not a backdrop—they were the structure of the image, its backbone, its rhythm.
In the landscapes of Hiroshige or Kawase Hasui of the later shin-hanga period, trees are always present—not necessarily as the main subject, but as something without which the depicted world would be empty. They are like music in a film: invisible but giving meaning to every scene.
Trees as Carriers of Emotion
In Japanese imagination, a tree is more than just a plant — it is a being that feels, remembers, and marks the passage of time. The cherry blossom (sakura) blooms briefly, symbolizing the ephemerality of life; the maple (momiji) reddens in autumn, reminding us of the beauty of aging; the pine (matsu) remains green throughout the year, standing as a sign of constancy, fidelity, and longevity. Each tree carries emotion, tells a story, and sets a mood.
A tree may also be a place of revelation — both literal and spiritual. Japanese art and folklore abound with stories of kodama — spirits inhabiting ancient trees — and shinboku — sacred trees in which reside kami, the deities of Shintō. Their presence was marked by shimenawa, ritual ropes tied around their trunks, adorned with hanging strips of paper called shide. Treated with reverence and ritual care, these trees could not be felled. Their presence in the landscape was more than an aesthetic addition — it was a reminder of divine presence in the world.
In ukiyo-e, such trees often become silent witnesses to human events — and sometimes, participants in them. In the works of Utagawa Kuniyoshi or Tsukioka Yoshitoshi, trees even take center stage — as in the depiction of the legend of the willow spirit who assumes the form of a woman and falls in love with a man.
What matters most is this: ukiyo-e teaches us to see trees not as neutral elements of the scenery, but as living beings. They speak — through the rustle of their leaves, the shadows they cast on a path, through what they hide and what they reveal. They are metaphors of the life cycle, of place memory, and the transience of experience. In the world of ukiyo-e, the tree is no longer a plant — it is a presence.
Four Images – Four Perspectives
In Japanese woodblock prints, the landscape may serve as the starting point of a narrative — but it often becomes the story itself. Trees — almost never mentioned in the titles — are frequently central in meaning: they connect the human world with the spirit realm, symbolize time and memory, offer shelter, threaten, or save. In the following four analyses, we will examine four works in which the presence of a tree is not incidental — it is decisive. These are not just plants in the background, but actors in the drama, witnesses, and participants. Their trunks, branches, shadows, or spiritual echoes convey what cannot be seen at first glance.
Spirit of the Willow
柳の精
(Yanagi no sei)
– Hirosada, 1858, Osaka, from a series of kabuki actor portraits
In this 1858 woodblock print by Konishi Hirosada, we see the actor Nakamura Tomijūrō II in the role of Oryū — the spirit of a willow who has taken on human form. The composition is intimate and focused: Oryū gazes to the side, her arms subtly lifted, as though suspended between the human world and the invisible realm of spirits. Dressed in a kimono patterned with cascading willow leaves, she herself seems an extension of the tree. Her black hair flows gently downward like branches, and the calm on her face conveys both sorrow and gratitude. The background lacks landscape details, further emphasizing the spiritual dimension of the image. The willow tree is not depicted literally — it is present as an idea, the source of Oryū’s identity. This aesthetic of “suggestion” is characteristic of kamigata-e — the style of kabuki actor portraits from Osaka that focused on psychological nuance and inner expression.
The image refers to the kabuki play Gion Nyogo Kokonoe Nishiki-e from 1760 — a five-act drama telling the legend of a great willow in Kyoto. During an imperial hunt, a falcon becomes entangled in the tree’s branches. Soldiers wish to cut the tree down to retrieve the bird, but a young man named Heitarō saves both the falcon and the tree. Years later, he lives with his wife Oryū and their son Midorimaru. When, in the imperial palace, an astrologer discovers that the willow is the source of the emperor’s headaches, a decision is made to fell it. The fortune-teller claims that the emperor’s suffering stems from the spiritual entanglement of the willow’s roots, which have coiled around the skull of his previous incarnation — as though the tree itself retained the memory of a former life (yes, this may sound strange, but Buddhist legends are often that way). At the moment the tree is cut, Oryū collapses and reveals her identity: she is the spirit of that very willow. She bids farewell to her family and disappears.
After Oryū’s departure, the trunk of the tree is loaded onto a cart and meant to be transported for the construction of a temple. Yet neither horses nor men can move it — as if the tree itself resists. Only when Heitarō and his son Midorimaru arrive and the boy begins to sing a song full of longing for his mother does the trunk miraculously move on its own. The child’s voice — a symbol of innocence and love — elicits a response. It is a moment of miracle: the tree’s answer to a lost bond.
In the context of this tale, the tree is not merely a backdrop — it is the beginning and end of the drama, the source of both miracle and tragedy. In Japanese culture, the willow symbolizes delicacy, changeability, femininity, and hidden strength in gentleness. Its ability to bend without breaking served as a metaphor for spiritual resilience. In Hirosada’s print, it is the spirit of the tree that expresses emotions inaccessible to humans — love, gratitude, sacrifice. Through its embodiment as a woman, we see how in ukiyo-e, the boundary between the world of nature and the human realm is dissolved. The sensitivity of this portrayal — the hand gesture, facial expression, quiet tension — conveys a profound Shintō philosophy: that every tree has a soul (kami), and that it may become our companion, guardian, or lover.
A version of this print is housed in the collection of the Kobe City Museum. Another interpretation of the same scene was created by Kunisada as early as 1854, attesting to the emotional power and popularity of this story in Edo-period theater and art.
Cherry Blossoms at Heian-jingū Shrine
平安神宮の桜
(Heian Jingū no sakura)
– Kasamatsu Shirō, 1937, Tokyo, shin-hanga
In this woodblock print, Kasamatsu Shirō presents a scene of spring contemplation: two young women dressed in ornate kimonos walk slowly among blooming cherry trees within the grounds of Heian Jingū Shrine in Kyoto. Their elegant figures, gently leaning toward each other, suggest a quiet conversation—or a shared silence in admiration of the sakura’s beauty. Before them stretches a lacework of pink petals, like a canopy woven from ephemeral grace. The branches of the cherry trees curve in a soft rhythm, filling the composition like clouds with delicate contours. Subtle light illuminates the scene without casting shadows—the whole image possesses a dreamlike quality, suspended between reality and memory. In the background, fragments of shrine architecture are discreetly integrated into the scenery, never overpowering the natural landscape. The colors are muted and pastel, the lines soft and undramatic—this is a composition that breathes with tranquility and lightness.
The print was created in the shin-hanga technique, which in the 1930s was a modern incarnation of the traditional ukiyo-e. Shin-hanga drew inspiration from Western Impressionism—hence the soft lighting, delicate shading (bokashi), rich palette, and the attempt to capture the mood of a fleeting moment—yet remained deeply rooted in Japanese spirit and aesthetics. Here, Kasamatsu does not depict sakura as a mere decorative motif—the blooming tree is not only beautiful; it speaks. It speaks of impermanence, of fragile joy, of the fact that the most beautiful things are also the most fleeting (for more on the cultural meaning of sakura in Japan, see: Understanding the Kanji “sakura” (櫻) – the cherry blossom as a way of seeing the world ).
In Japanese culture, sakura embodies a specific worldview—mono no aware—a gentle sadness or poignant awareness of the impermanence of things. In this sense, Kasamatsu offers not merely a temple scene, but a meditation on time and beauty. The trees take on an almost sentient role—they are the hosts of this moment, while the people, though present, are silent, subordinated to the rhythm of nature. This reversal of roles—typical in many ukiyo-e—places nature, not man, at the center of the composition.
Within the sakura lies the essence of the Japanese approach to life: gratitude for the moment, acceptance of transience, tenderness toward fleeting beauty. Kasamatsu, making full use of the expressive capabilities of modern woodblock printing, creates an image that not only delights the eye but causes us to pause—as if we were viewers of hanami, gazing at the pink sky soon to be scattered by the wind (What is hanami? — Hanami – April Day of Reflection on What You Have Now, Which Will Pass and Not Return).
Bonsai Tōkaidō – Nihonbashi
盆栽東海道 日本橋
(Bonsai Tōkaidō – Nihonbashi)
– Yoshishige, 1848, Edo, series “The 53 Stations of the Tōkaidō as Bonsai Trees”
In 1848, an artist known as Yoshishige created one of the most original and conceptually daring series in the entire history of ukiyo-e — Bonsai Tōkaidō. Remember Hiroshige’s “53 Stations of the Tōkaidō”? (See article here: "The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō" by Hiroshige – The Journey Is Not the Destination, but What We Pass Along the Way). Yoshishige made a kind of remake—depicting each station once again, but as a bonsai. Each station appears as a miniature tree in a pot, with tiny elements—a bridge, a hill, a temple, a road, a crane, a rushing traveler—emerging like a microcosm from the meticulously shaped trunk. These prints are not so much landscapes as they are meditations—each tree becomes a landscape of the mind, a world enclosed in a dish.
In the first print of this experimental series, Utagawa Yoshishige presents a miniature landscape in a pot—a bonsai that does not imitate a single tree, but an entire space: Nihonbashi Bridge in Edo, the starting point of the famous Tōkaidō route, nestled within a landscape distilled to its very essence. In the foreground, inside a shallow vessel, the artist arranged stones to represent the terrain, along with tufts of moss mimicking fields and hills. The bridge itself spans a water surface rendered in deep indigo ink. Tiny human figures—travelers, dignitaries, wanderers—are no larger than fingertips, yet depicted with such precision that their movement and intent are clearly conveyed. The bonsai rests on a low stand, yet it holds an entire story—the first steps of a journey, the departure from the city, the moment of transition from the known to the unknown. The very format of the composition resembles a blend of illustration and horticultural guide: how to shape a bonsai to capture the soul of a specific place.
The Bonsai Tōkaidō series is a conceptual gem of late Edo—an idea to reimagine the famous 53 stations of the Tōkaidō route (rather than in the classical landscape style of Hiroshige) as miniature bonsai landscapes. This is more than a formal game—it is a deep reflection on the Japanese way of seeing the world. Bonsai, which originated from the Chinese penjing, in Japan acquired a philosophical dimension: it became not a way to beautify nature, but to contemplate it—a meditation on impermanence, a form of mindful presence. The depiction of Nihonbashi as a microscopic structure within a pot is not merely an artistic gesture—it is also a metaphor for late-Edo Japan: a world controlled, ritualized, immersed in the everyday, and yet deeply yearning for freedom, wildness, and space.
In the context of this work, bonsai trees gain an entirely new status. No longer just symbols of tamed nature, they become instruments of narrative. Each shoot, branch, and stone represents not only a specific topography, but also an emotion tied to the journey—a memory of place, a gesture of farewell. In the case of Nihonbashi, it is above all a beginning—and thus hope, excitement, perhaps a touch of anxiety. Wabi-sabi—the aesthetic of simplicity, asymmetry, and transience—permeates this entire image. Even though we speak of bonsai, what we are truly looking at is Japan itself, contained in a pot: meticulously arranged, melancholic, deeply connected to the rhythm of nature—even if confined within a clay vessel.
This print, and indeed the entire series, stands apart in the world of ukiyo-e. It does not depict theater actors, women in the bath, or samurai on horseback. Instead, it transports us into a world of miniature dreams—ones that can sit on a windowsill, yet contain an entire universe. It is a quiet contemplation—and at the same time, a refined artistic jest.
Avenue in Nikkō – Nikkō Kaidō
日光街道
(Nikkō Kaidō)
– Kawase Hasui, 1930, Tokyo, shin-hanga
In this composition, Kawase Hasui leads us down a forest path—both literally and metaphorically. Before the viewer stretches a straight avenue paved with stone slabs that recedes into the depth of the image. But the road is not the protagonist of this scene. On both sides rise the monumental trunks of cryptomeria trees (sugi), depicted from a low vantage point—their vertical forms dominate the entire frame. The trees are tall, commanding, yet rendered with striking realism. They rise evenly, like the walls of a corridor. The sky is bright, and the long shadows cast across the stone path imbue the space with rhythm and serenity.
Within this surprisingly rhythmic landscape appears a lone figure of a traveler, carrying a yellow basket on his back. He walks slowly, head slightly bowed—perhaps weary, or perhaps in quiet contemplation of the path he treads. His figure is small, nearly insignificant against the grandeur of nature, and yet his presence adds a profound emotional layer: this is a human in harmony with the natural world. Not its master, but a passerby, a guest—perhaps a pilgrim. To his left, a row of sugi; to his right, a swath of greenery; all around—a wall of towering trees. The depth of the composition is enhanced by the light that brightens the distant part of the path, while the foreground remains in shadow—it is this forest shade that gives the scene its particular mood of calm.
Hasui, one of the foremost representatives of the shin-hanga movement, merges traditional Japanese sensitivity with a Western understanding of light and space. These trees are not stylized symbols, but tangible beings: their bark has texture, their shadows carry weight, and the space between them breathes with light. Their orderly presence introduces a rhythm that soothes, guides, and calms.
The avenue in Nikkō is no arbitrary location. It is part of the route leading to the Tōshō-gū temple complex, where Tokugawa Ieyasu is enshrined. The famous cryptomeria avenue was planted as a symbol of permanence and divine presence—these trees were meant not only to shield the path from sun and rain but to form a spiritual corridor through which the energy of the kami would flow. In Hasui’s composition, it is the trees that bestow the landscape with sanctity—not through ornament, but through their form and presence alone.
In this work, we witness the essence of Japan’s relationship with trees: not as background, but as protagonist, witness, guardian. They define the space, lead the gaze, and establish the rhythm. The traveler is just one among many who have passed this way—the trees remain, unchanged, listening to the wind that carries the memory of generations. Hasui does not moralize, nor does he idealize—he simply lets us see a world in which human and tree exist together, in silence, in mutual reverence.
Japan – An Archipelago of Trees
Shinboku – Sacred Trees
In Japan, there exists a word that encapsulates the essence of the relationship between human beings and trees: shinboku (神木) – “divine tree.” In the tradition of shintō, Japan’s native religion, trees are not mere elements of the landscape—they are inhabited by kami, spirits or deities embodying the forces of nature. Unlike many Western (or rather, Middle Eastern-rooted) religious systems—which tend to separate the divine from the organic—Japanese spirituality believes that sacredness manifests most vividly through the natural world. This is a subtle yet profound difference—often overlooked and misunderstood, yet fundamental.
At the entrances of shintō shrines, one almost always encounters trees adorned with a thick, twisted rope made of rice straw—shimenawa (注連縄). This signifies that the tree is sacred—a deity resides within it. Attached to the shimenawa are often white, zigzagging paper streamers called shide (紙垂), symbolizing the presence of a pure, heavenly force. Trees recognized as shinboku are treated with immense reverence—cutting them down would be considered blasphemous.
Some of the most venerated trees grow in sites of long-standing spiritual significance—like the monumental sugi (Japanese cryptomeria) in Nikkō, which line the path to the Tōshōgū shrine complex, forming a green corridor of sorts. Other examples include the towering pines of the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo or the ancient, sprawling roots of venerable trees on Yakushima Island (read more about the extraordinary Yakushima here: Ancient Forests of Yakushima Island – The Inspiration Behind “Princess Mononoke” and the Last of Their Kind).
On New Year’s, the Japanese place kadomatsu (門松) in front of their homes—decorations made of bamboo and pine branches. Matsu (pine) symbolizes endurance and eternal life, and the kadomatsu serves as a gateway for toshigami—the New Year deity descending to bestow blessings for the months ahead. Here again, the tree becomes a bridge between the human and divine worlds—between the present and eternity.
Trees as Heroes of Folklore and Myth
In Japanese folk tales, trees are not merely a backdrop to human action—they are often the protagonists. One of the most famous figures is the kodama (木霊)—a tree spirit (known to many readers not only from Japanese mythology but also from the anime Princess Mononoke). According to legend, a kodama may dwell in particularly old trees. When such a tree is felled without the proper ritual, its spirit may unleash a curse.
Darker incarnations include the jubokko (樹木子)—demonic trees growing on ancient battlefields, nourished by the blood of the fallen. They are like echoes of the past, unresolved and unappeased. Other tales speak of the ninmenju (人面樹)—a tree whose fruit bears human faces that laugh until someone makes them cry. In Japanese folklore, the boundary between plant and person is fluid—a tree can possess a soul, a face, a voice, and desires.
One of the most beautiful myths is that of the Takasago Pines: two trees—Jō and Uba—that grow far apart yet share a single spiritual life. They personify an elderly married couple who meet each evening in the whispers of the wind. Their story appears in poetry, nō drama, and calligraphy, serving as a metaphor for fidelity and devotion. The pines become not just trees, but a love story.
Forests themselves—especially cedar and pine groves—are often described as portals to Yomi (黄泉), the land of the dead (read more about Yomi here: The Tragedy of Izanami and the Fury of Izanagi in the Land of Decay – In Japanese Creation Myths, Death Always Wins). These are liminal spaces of transition, where one might encounter the spirit of a departed loved one—or lose their way back to the world of the living. In Heian literature, especially in The Tale of Genji, trees often “remember”—witnessing human joys and sorrows, remaining steadfast while the human world changes around them.
Hanami and Kōyō – The Aesthetic of Life’s Cycles
The Japanese relationship with trees is not limited to spirituality or mythology—it is also a living, social practice of contemplation, celebrated annually in two grand rituals: hanami (花見) and kōyō (紅葉).
Hanami, or “flower viewing,” is one of Japan’s most beloved springtime traditions. Cherry blossoms—sakura—are not just beautiful; they are symbolic. Their delicate petals fall only days after full bloom, reminding all of the impermanence of what is most precious. They embody the philosophy of mono no aware (物の哀れ)—a tender sadness at the fleeting nature of life. In Ueno Park, beneath the blooming cherry trees, people spread out blue mats, eat bento, drink sake, and laugh—aware that a week later, there will be no more flowers. It is a communal ritual of coming to terms with transience.
In autumn, kōyō follows—the viewing of colorful maple (momiji) and ginkgo leaves. Crimson, orange, and gold spill across mountain slopes and gardens. People travel to Arashiyama, Nikkō, Tōhoku—anywhere the foliage is at its most breathtaking. This season is often called momijigari (紅葉狩り)—“hunting for leaves.” Here too, the tree becomes a mirror of emotion, an inner calendar—a sign that time passes, but leaves behind a trace of beauty.
Conclusion
In ukiyo-e woodblock prints, trees breathe, think, and remember. Sometimes they stand motionless, heavy with the weight of history—like the towering sugi of Nikkō. At other times, they bloom like sakura, carrying the poignant stirrings of mono no aware. Their presence in an image is not merely a record of landscape but an emotional and spiritual chronicle of the relationship between humanity and the natural world. Repeated trunks, bending branches, a lone tree on a hillside, a leaning willow—all form a language through which ukiyo-e speaks of impermanence, beauty, and the transience of existence. In Japanese art, the tree is a dialogue partner—not decoration.
Perhaps that is why woodblock printing—a technique born from wood, in which nature becomes the literal medium of expression—so organically gives voice to trees. The cherry wood blocks used to carve the matrices transferred an image that once again depicted… a tree. In this intricate loop—wood depicting wood—lies a subtle metaphor of Japanese aesthetics: a world in which man does not dominate nature but resonates with it. Or perhaps—like in the legend of Oryū—is more deeply connected to it than he realizes.
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"Strong Japanese Women"
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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