Eight Kilograms of Choices
- Ilse Beunen
- 21 hours ago
- 2 min read
The car moved slowly through the countryside, as if it had decided that speed would be inappropriate. Soft pink blossoms drifted across the road, occasionally landing with quiet authority on the windshield.
For a moment, it felt less like driving and more like passing through a painting that had forgotten it was supposed to stay still.
And somewhere between those quiet moments, I realised something. Containers do strange things to you.
In the weeks before leaving for Japan, I found myself taking them to bed. Not literally, of course, but close enough. Late at night, scrolling through the Instagram of Modernist Ikebana, studying shapes, textures, edges… and, I will admit, producing an entirely unreasonable amount of saliva.
By the time I arrived in Japan, there was a persistent force inside me that said: you should contact them. So I did.
In the middle of Tokyo. In a phone booth. Hiding from the noise. What followed was a ninety-minute conversation, speaking about containers as if they were living beings.
By the time I stepped out of the booth, the city was still loud. But the path had become clear. Not for a hotel, not for a restaurant. But for containers.
The next day. An early train. A short drive under blooming cherry blossoms. And then we arrived.
They were everywhere. On shelves, on the floor, tucked into corners as if they had quietly multiplied overnight. Some tall and elegant, others heavy and slightly argumentative. Some seemed to whisper, others had opinions.
And then there were the vases that made you stop.
The ones that felt… right. And that is when it becomes clear. Being an ikebanist means you are always searching for containers.
Being an ikebanist means you are always searching for containers.
Ilse Beunen, April 2026
Because container and arrangement are not separate. They grow into each other. One suggests the other. During my visit, something else was quietly present.
That very evening, we would leave for Belgium. I knew exactly how much space was left. Exactly how much weight I could still carry. So there we were.
A limit. Eight kilograms.
Holding a container. Imagining the first arrangement in it. Weighing it. Putting it back. Picking it up again. A quiet negotiation, not with the seller, but with ourselves. Choice becomes very precise when you cannot take everything. And perhaps that was the point.
After we returned home, it was video week. We were working on the theme of mass. A curious subject. Almost like a riddle. How do you give something weight… without making it heavy?
I could not resist using the new containers.
A container is not just something you place an arrangement in. It participates.
If you feel drawn to rescue a piece that would otherwise be forgotten, have a look at Modernist Ikebana on Instagram. You might find something that has been waiting for you.
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