"Oh, Ikebana? That's just ugly." #8
- Ilse Beunen
- Mar 18
- 5 min read
Updated: 6 days ago
Imagine a grand castle, a floral wonderland brimming with the scent of a thousand blossoms, where florists flitted about like artists at an easel, conjuring up extravagant displays of color and texture.
The energy was high, an atmosphere of admiration and inspiration surrounding the space.
I was engaged in a conversation with another participant when her daughter, unaware that I was the ikebana exhibitor, blurted out her unfiltered opinion:
"Oh, ikebana? That's just ugly." Young Florist at Florist Exhibition 2018
Her mother looked startled, realizing the awkwardness of the moment. But rather than feeling offended, I was curious. I simply asked the daughter, 'Why do you think that?'
Curious, she followed me—and as her eyes moved over the arrangements, I saw her expression shift from skepticism to intrigue. It was more than just a personal change of heart; it was a glimpse into the wider perception gap between ikebana and floristry.
That moment stayed with me. It crystallized something I had already begun to sense—ikebana was often misunderstood, seen as sparse or peculiar in a world that celebrated abundance. Yet, undeterred, I, together with a friend, set out on a mission to fuse ikebana with Western floristry. We believed that by intertwining the two, we could create something fresh, something unexpected—perhaps even a new movement in floral design.
That moment stayed with me. It crystallized something I had already begun to sense—ikebana was often misunderstood, seen as sparse or peculiar in a world that celebrated abundance.
Yet, undeterred, I, together with a friend, had set out on a mission to fuse ikebana with Western floristry. We believed that by intertwining the two, we could create something fresh, something unexpected—perhaps even a new movement in floral design.
We threw ourselves into the world of floral exhibitions—grand affairs held in castles, the stately halls of Antwerp’s City Hall, and the glittering spectacle of high-profile events like the Antwerp Diner charity gala, where we adorned hundreds of tables with our creations.
At first, it felt as though we had unlocked some secret formula—a floral philosopher’s stone, transforming disparate traditions into something dazzlingly new. People admired the work, invitations poured in, and for a brief moment, we believed we had set something in motion.
But soon, a quiet dissonance began to hum beneath the surface. While the beauty of our arrangements was acknowledged, the concept itself—the fusion of ikebana and Western floristry—seemed to perplex more than inspire.
Customers either wanted lush, abundant floristry or the quiet refinement of ikebana—rarely both. Many had never even heard of ikebana, let alone understood its philosophy. The attempt at merging these two distinct worlds, rather than creating a seamless blend, seemed instead to highlight the very gap we were trying to bridge.
And personally, I couldn’t shake a lingering sense of unease, though at the time, I struggled to articulate why.
It took years for me to fully grasp the profound differences between ikebana and floristry—distinctions that extend far beyond mere aesthetics. But before I unravel that, let’s pause for a rather unexpected similarity.
It wasn’t until I found myself working alongside a celebrated florist that I noticed something striking: at a certain level, ikebana and high-end floristry can appear uncannily alike. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising—after all, both rest upon the same fundamental principles of art: balance, harmony, and composition. And yet, despite this visual overlap, the deeper contrast was waiting just beneath the surface, ready to reveal itself.
But the true chasm between ikebana and floristry is not found in the way they look but in the way they breathe. I once arranged a workshop where florists and ikebanists, armed with the same materials, worked side by side. It was a study in contrasts—while an accomplished florist wove through five arrangements with the effortless grace of a violinist performing a familiar sonata, the ikebanists were still tilting their heads, considering the space, the line, the dialogue between the elements.
That was the moment it dawned on me: in ikebana, the journey is not just important—it is the whole point. This is why it is called kado, the way of flowers, just as chado, the way of tea, is about the meditative act rather than the liquid in the cup. The movement, the breath, the silent contemplation before a branch is even placed—these are not steps toward a result but the essence of the art itself.
And then, as if fate had a sense of irony, another defining moment arrived—this time not in a grand hall or a workshop, but in the mundane scroll of an Instagram feed. There it was, an advertisement gleaming with digital confidence: 500 recipes for floral arrangements!
I stopped mid-scroll, my tea cooling beside me. Ikebana doesn’t work like that. It isn’t a formula to be memorized, nor a pattern to be mechanically repeated. Each arrangement is a fleeting creation, a dialogue between arranger and material, an ephemeral whisper rather than a rehearsed speech.
Can florists and ikebanists work together and learn from each other? Without a doubt.
Floristry could take a leaf—quite literally—from ikebana’s devotion to sustainability, trading floral foam for more natural, eco-friendly fixation techniques.
And ikebanists, in turn, might glean valuable lessons from florists: the art of pricing, efficiency, and the delicate dance of meeting client expectations without compromising one’s vision. But before we start blending these two worlds like an overenthusiastic alchemist, it’s essential to acknowledge the divide.
One of my former students, well-versed in both ikebana and floristry, now runs a thriving flower shop, deftly weaving the quiet aesthetics of ikebana into commercially viable designs—an elegant balancing act between art and business.
Many Japanese florists also have ikebana training, but their hearts remain firmly in floristry. They adapt, recalibrate, and refine, taking what serves them while leaving behind what does not.
While ikebana may instill a refined sense of balance and form, their approach remains grounded in floristry’s undeniable practicality—after all, few customers would return for an arrangement whose main selling point is its dignified decay.
Flower fusion never quite settled in my hands. It was like trying to compose a duet with two instruments that simply refused to harmonize—each beautiful in its own right, yet fundamentally speaking different languages.
The more I tried to blend them, the more apparent their contrasts became. In the end, I found myself drawn back to the quiet defiance of ikebana—its purity, its depth, its steadfast rejection of mass production.
There was a certainty, a clarity in its restraint, like poetry stripped of excess. And so, I let go of fusion and returned to my roots—pure ikebana.
Ikebana—so often lumped under the woefully inadequate term ‘Japanese flower arranging’—what an absurd misnomer! It led me down a garden path of false assumptions, whispering that it must be a cousin to Western floristry, merely a different accent of the same floral language.
Ikebana is Ikebana Ilse, 2025
But no—ikebana is, well, ikebana. Just as bonsai is not simply 'Japanese tree pruning,' ikebana is not a mere rearrangement of flowers; it is philosophy in plant form, a quiet dialogue between nature and arranger, a meditation in stem and space that no translation can fully grasp.
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