An Oral History of Seattle Japanese Garden, Story No. 3: A Japanese Gardener in America

Masa Mizuno and his crew during his last pine pruning week at the Seattle Japanese Garden. 2023 (Photo: Chie Iida)

This post is the third of the Toro no Akari blog series, an oral history of the Seattle Japanese Garden as told from the perspective of those who know its every inch most intimately: the gardeners. The series reveals a little-known history of stewardship and mentoring—of alighting each other’s paths as a toro lantern would—that’s continued for over sixty years.

In this interview, Masa Mizuno, who recently retired from consulting for Seattle Japanese Garden after more than thirty years, reflects on how the culture of the United States changed the way he approaches his work and how he came to understand what makes the garden fit so well into the chosen site. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Coming to America

I didn't get traditional training before leaving Japan in the 1970s. I was just a garden technician with basic techniques. And also, I did not speak any English. So, at first, I hesitated even to consider the opportunity to work at Portland Japanese Garden.

One day, the gentleman who encouraged me to apply for the job asked, “So, do you want to go or not?” His question taught me not to think so much about what I can’t do—and to do my best to show what I can do.

In Japan, in the society where I grew up, mistakes are costly. Every mistake is costly to your life and your family. Your mistakes aren’t easily forgotten, so it discourages people from taking chances. I learned that in the culture of the United States, a mistake is forgiven as long as you admit to making it. And then it’s, “Okay. Yeah. here’s a second chance.”

So by the time I became part of Dick Yamasaki’s pruning crew at Seattle Japanese Garden in the 1980s, my motto was “No fear of failure. Just show what you can do.”

How To Achieve Desired Form

At that time, Mr. Yamasaki’s pruning team worked twice a year, one in the spring and one in autumn. We took care of the pine trees. We worked six days and still had a hard time with the volume. Some pine trees were not developing to the desired form, and they wouldn’t no matter how well our crew worked. So I suggested to Mr. Yamasaki, “We have a little problem. You know, between the number of specimens we have to take care of and the location where they are, it's not worth it.”

“Don’t forget what the garden’s intention was.”

He had to think deeply about what I said; what did that mean? It took a while, but finally, he arrived at a dramatic solution. Mr. Yamasaki committed to reducing the number of pine trees we cared for. He took a chance to reduce the quantity to achieve quality. There wouldn’t be as many pines, but what was there would be better.

I was a team member from 1983 to 1999, then Mr. Yamasaki retired, and I succeeded in his role. He told me then, “Don't forget what the garden's intention was. The more you develop new ideas, the more we must visit the original intention and show respect.” That was the big lesson, what he shared from his heart.

First Understanding The Garden Inch By Inch, Then Imagining it a Decade From Now

Juki Iida’s design intention was to get people to pay attention to nature seen just outside you in innovative ways. In the Kyoto area, there’s a lot of red pine on the hills in the distance. Each site has a surrounding influence from the neighbor's vegetation. Not one space looks exactly like another. It really makes sense, then, to study what is already established: the nature of nature around you.

It makes the whole garden space larger because now this small space that you have connects seamlessly to everything else.

At first, I was just small-minded and detail-oriented, getting familiar with the garden inch by inch. I knew the garden by the ground. It took three years of thinking about the intention, and then, all of a sudden, somebody opened up the window. Look at that contour! The way the hills go from the east to the north and then the southwest. In the winter, when the view was even less blocked by foliage, I was shocked again. 

“If it doesn’t have the opportunity to grow, that tree, a potentially valuable resource for decades to come, dies at an inch and a half around.””

I realized that to take advantage of what this site offers and mature this garden according to its intention, not everything could stay.

The first time I said a few gigantic, 80-year-old trees had to go, I didn’t expect the City of Seattle to act on my request readily. But they did. The trees were extracted in the springtime. When I visited in autumn, I clearly noticed undergrowth. Plants that hadn’t been receiving light were thriving and growing.

It’s difficult to explain the choice to remove living trees. But as the gardener, that's what you have to think about, the trade-off. The young tree is an inch and a half around today. Right? But if it has an opportunity to grow, it becomes that giant tree that everyone loves in fifteen or twenty years. If it doesn't have the opportunity to grow, that tree, a potentially valuable resource for decades to come, dies at an inch and a half around.

Appreciating the Garden Through the Seasons

I get asked about the authenticity of Seattle Japanese Garden. I tell people authenticity of a Japanese garden is not a style of pruning. Or a space that looks like Kyoto. It’s about creating space to appreciate space—between trees, plants, the ground, and the sky. And appreciating the urban setting, the particular ground on which the garden exists.

The authenticity is expressed by the people who maintain the garden. The gardeners need to be dedicated to years and years of studying, holding a vision for how the garden will grow, and making decisions that help the garden grow into a certain form.

“I tell people authenticity of a Japanese garden is not a style of pruning. Or a space that looks like Kyoto. It’s about creating space to appreciate space—between trees, plants, the ground, and the sky.”

Another question I get asked is about the seasons. When is the best time of the year to visit? Of the four seasons, wintertime is my favorite. The reason is that I can see all of the branch structures in the wintertime, and no foliage is blocking the space. Also, the ground is so clean. The summertime is okay, but it’s also when many other visitors come, which can interfere with the experience.

But to truly appreciate the garden, it’s best to become a member and to come in all seasons. Nature and the gardeners are working with many different elements, from the weather to the availability of budget and skilled hands to do the work. Each “season” brings new challenges and reveals something new.

Evolving The Original Intention For a Thriving Future

I also encourage visitors to notice the mountainside, listen to the trickling water, and then enjoy the movement of the water. The boulder selection and placement are really good. It’s uncommon to see large dramatic stones like that integrated into the design. Here, you have a piece that’s really energetic but put together in such a way that the whole composition suggests calm.

It’s also a great location to consider what it means to add something, not to compete against the original idea but to enhance it as times change.

“The essence of a Japanese garden is to learn, to bring nature into our shifting urban grounds, and then maintain.”

Back in the 1990s, when Dick was still consulting, I mentioned the sound of the water could no longer be heard because of increasing traffic on Lake Washington Boulevard. I told him to hear the water, you have to increase the flow.

Dick knew that the original intention was for this waterfall to sound more like a babbling brook, spring water rising, droplets hitting the stones. He felt increasing the water flow would go against what Mr. Iida had wanted.

The essence of a Japanese garden is to learn, to bring nature into our shifting urban grounds, and then maintain. And in this spirit, we eventually increased the water flow. We evolved the original intention. And now, I’m always happy to visit the mountainside and hear the movement of the water.

Yamasaki Pine after pruning. (Photo: Chie Iida)

I hope this essence I mentioned carries over to constructing a piece of architecture on the North Hill. Not just because Mr. Iida had asked for it initially but because a building shapes our vantage point. A roofline restricts what our eyes can take in and opens us up to seeing the garden as it has yet to be seen. And that’s important.

Visit the Oral History Page for other interviews.