Reconciling Cracks in Wabi-Sabi

In the spirit of “Ode to Reconciliation”—where the Totus mark was laid down, destroyed, wiped across the canvas, and transformed into something new through scraping, flinging, and balancing—I’ve been reflecting on the deeper currents shaping future work at Fives.Studio.

In my last post, I made lighthearted reference to the thinking I share below. It was something that I’ve been working through for a while. I do look to authentically explore the meaning behind of our mantra:

Honest. Human. Raw.

These are my nonnegotiables. From here, the paint and process power the journey. I’ve been reflecting on the great work that has come before, and the historical movements I find deep structural alignment with (the legacy of the New York School and the radiant flat stains of the Washington Color School, to name two).

But the philosophy that dogs me is wabi-sabi.

Who better than a broken bowl to appreciate this than a bowl himself? I see the beauty in the imperfect because of my lived experience. My disease has additionally unveiled for me other people who also can’t mimic what the world says is the ideal, yet reveal awe-inspiring qualities.

If art can do something similar—if it can be unafraid of flaws, unmask delight, and see perfection in imperfection—then it gets close to what I’m chasing.

Where I depart is when the philosophy seems to idolize the broken as the end. The worn-out wood, the crooked lines, the discordant image treated as the highest plateau.

But it’s not.

I firmly believe that human efforts to simulate perfection are futile. In (relatively) recent times, Abstract Expressionism and the mid-century masters of color field emerged as necessary vehicles to open portals on contemporary scenes that were almost too dark—capturing emotions that only inner imagining could do justice to.

I recently confronted the weight of the nuclear age and the horrors of WWII while sitting in front of a Mark Rothko canvas, wondering how wabi-sabi would handle the same subjects.

Abstraction is a necessary vehicle for the unimaginable; it acts as a circuitous route to our own emotional depths, letting our brains process tragedy at a pace we can actually handle. Rothko is articulate enough to hold space for the abyss without destroying the viewer.

But wabi-sabi is built for the quiet, G-rated decay of simple things—a weathered fence or a cracked teacup. If you try to apply that philosophy to absolute horror, like the literal image of a gas chamber or a slaughtered child, it fails. It either sanitizes the atrocity by treating it as 'natural weathering,' or it collapses into the grotesque mechanics of a snuff film. Wabi-sabi cannot grasp or digest that level of catastrophic brokennessi.

I know I am doing violence to a peaceful artistic idea by making that comparison, but it illustrates my point: wabi-sabi is fundamentally unequipped for the true scale of human suffering. (Or probably unimaginable joy very well either, while we’re at it. )

I see two traditions. One is the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi. The other is the lineage of Western civilization shaped by the radical humility of the Christian gospel. One celebrates imperfection as it is. The other declares that imperfection is precisely where grace chooses to dwell, radically transforming it into something greater.

Wabi-sabi invites us to honor the cracked vessel, the weathered surface, and the brushstroke that refuses to stay neat. It whispers that nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect—and that in this acceptance, some may find serenity. This frees the artist to leave visible texture, drips, seams, and raw edges. The “flaws” are the honest marks of time, touch, and presence.

This is where I must depart from it. Wabi-sabi offers a beautiful, passive resignation to the small cracks of time. But when faced with the massive, jagged fractures of human history and personal trauma, I need a tradition that doesn't just accept the damage, but promises that the fracture is precisely where a redeeming Love enters.

I want to pursue art that reveals that honesty, but also what unites us: our shared brokenness, hoping and aspiring to be healed.

This is the reconciliation I look for in every piece. I want work that holds both realities: wabi-sabi’s gentle acceptance of the humble and fleeting, and the Western theological ideal which promises that our imperfection is met by a perfect Love that redeems it. We can exalt the simple and the flawed because they are the very materials God uses.

It struck me that this feature of Christendom was sometimes obscured in the aftermath of the dark ages by the pursuit of mathematical symmetry, Greek forms, and ordered worlds. But looking carefully at Michelangelo's Pieta or the grizzled faces in Raphael’s masterpieces, the brokenness is right there.

It is the thorn in Paul’s side—the radical paradox where human weakness becomes the exact vehicle for divine strength. It is God born in a stable, washing His apostles' feet, or the torture and humiliation on Good Friday.

Imperfection isn’t a bug; it is a feature. A feature loved and used by God. But it is not the final stop, and it is not a place to idolize.

I understand how wabi-sabi finds beauty here—as does God, as we should —but I want my art to unveil the potential for what comes next. The repaired cracks in my bowl are wonderful, but they are part of a larger story. One of hope, joy, and restoration. The cracks are imperfections that ultimately make the vessel better.

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