Just look at the Bento box a mother makes for a 4-year-old or the masterpieces of the Japanese filmmaker Yasujiro Ozu. It’s in the architecture, where panels are carefully measured and placed, where windows look out into windows. It’s evident in the sacred gates of Shinto that serve as open doorways to places of awe; it’s in the wicker rope tied around trees.

Everything in Japan is about smaller parts.

Ozu
Donald Richie described the working process of Ozu in his excellent book, “Japanese Portraits.” He watched Ozu film a scene of dialogue between two young women. Ozu placed the camera three feet high – eye level, if you are in a country that sits on the floor – and moved it only once.

Ozu had the actress read each line, stopping the camera after each. They’d review it as if it were the entire scene. After all of her lines were recorded, he rotated the camera and began to shoot the other actress.

Ozu treats each shot as many directors treat an entire scene.

Bento

Bento is a small plastic case filled with tiny portions of many foods. They’re sent to school with children by mothers competing to craft a perfect lunch. They’re also eaten by salarymen and anyone who lives near the many specialty shops that make them.

In the case of the child’s bento, moms go through elaborate efforts to make lunch tasty and beautiful. You’ll see an enormous variety of foods for a bento: Tiny hot dogs. Mushrooms, soaked in soy sauce, wrapped in a thick seaweed and tied together with a shoelace of three noodles. A single meatball. A single nugget of fried chicken. A pickled lotus root. Radish. A small onigiri. A single piece of sushi.

These are all served as a single bento, segmented into tiny squares in the bento box. The bits are organized in each square to fill the space elegantly. Each piece is a universe of its own.

Architecture

Enter any traditional Japanese building and you’ll notice squares. Japan has never been excited by circles. Circles leave space in between, after all, and Japan doesn’t have much space. So four corners is the norm: Square gardens, rectangle tatami mats. Square wall tiles, rectangle sliding doors.

When there is a ring – such as in Sumo or the flag – it is within a square or rectangle. This, I propose, is why Japanese stories are filled with terrifying holes. From the well in Ringu and The Wind Up Bird Chronicles to the hole of dead bodies in Onibaba, holes are pretty serious business. They can’t be contained to the nice, pleasant arrangements of squares.

Circles are agitators. Even watermelons conform.

Sometimes there are even square or rectangle patterns inside of squares and rectangle patterns. This is a sign that the work is particularly ornate, crafted by someone who knows that four corners pays the bills. The smaller you can partition off the segments of your craft, the more mastery you seem to have.

But none of these smaller sections can really stand out. You would hate to have a door with one really awesome square surrounded by just OK squares.