Is Cutting Destruction or Creation? - By Ilse Beunen
In ikebana, the Japanese botanical art of arranging flowers and branches, the act of cutting is not just a matter of convenience, it is a deliberate reflective step in the creative process. With scissors in hand and intention in mind, the ikebanist makes quiet decisions that shape the entire arrangement. Each snip is not about taking away, but about giving form, creating empty space, and guiding the viewer's eye.
Design begins long before the branch reaches the container. When I walk into my garden, scissors in hand, I am already creating. A branch from the top of a bush curves differently than one from the base. A line that is curved downward can be difficult to use in basic exercises, while one that extends upward may bring exactly the right flow. I don't just cut what's available. I choose what fits the form I envision, the story I want to tell.
That choice, however, comes with responsibility. In Japan, where I studied both landscape design and ikebana, the culture holds nature in reverence. Trees, stones, flowers, these are not just materials, but vessels of spirit. The lesson is clear: if we remove a flower from its natural setting, we owe it a second life. We must add something of ourselves in return. That could be structure, expression, emotion, but never indifference.
That philosophy is one reason why the tool matters so much. Good ikebana scissors are not just sharp. They are balanced in the hand. The feeling of using them, the resistance, the clean slice, the sense of control, all of it creates confidence. I prefer stainless steel ikenobo scissors: they travel with me across the world, stay sharp, and are easy to clean. Using them becomes a ritual. A moment of clarity.
Yet cutting is hard to teach. What to remove? What to keep? There is no universal rule. During a class with Master Sumura, I asked her to focus on pruning as a lesson. Her advice was simple: when in doubt, prune. It's how you learn. Make the cut, observe, reflect. I often take a picture of the arrangement, prune a bit more, take another photo, compare. Over time, intuition develops. But only through trial and error.
This learning process is often challenging for students. Many hesitate, afraid to ruin something beautiful. But in ikebana, we accept impermanence. We learn by pruning too far. That's how we develop an eye for balance and simplicity. Not every mistake is a loss; many are necessary steps.
There is also a fundamental difference between the Western and Japanese approach to shaping nature. In the West, gardens like Versailles exemplify human control over nature: symmetry, geometry, domination. In Japanese aesthetics, and in ikebana especially, we adapt to nature. We don't force the material to serve our will. We listen. A wild, curved branch is not a problem to fix: it is a unique gesture, full of character and beauty. We honor that.
And this is perhaps the greatest gift of ikebana: it teaches us to see differently. Over time, you begin to notice small details in the wild: the beautiful line of a bent twig, the texture of a fading leaf, a vivid color. You become more careful, more respectful. Many ikebanists carry their scissors like an extension of their own body. They are ready, always, to respond to nature with care.
So is cutting destruction or creation? In ikebana, it is both, and neither. It is transformation. A transition from what was, to what might be. And the scissors? They are not tools of removal. They are instruments of renewal.
