What’s Your Level? | Ikebana Stories #11
- Ilse Beunen
- Apr 17
- 4 min read
Updated: Apr 22
It was 2017 and I had just landed in India, invited to give demonstrations and workshops. I was excited, of course—how could one not be, with all those vibrant flowers and spicy colors? There was a kind of energy that wrapped around you like a silk sari in a monsoon breeze. But then came a surprise.
Just as the organizers asked before, many participants asked politely almost shy: "May we ask what your level is in the Sogetsu school?"
My level? I blinked. Until that moment, nobody had ever asked me that. In Europe, it’s simply not a thing. We bond over clippers and kenzans, not over titles.
Often at my workshops, people with a higher degree than mine would sit in the front row with cheerful indifference—no one batted an eyelid, unless a stray branch misbehaved. But here, in this warm and wonderfully curious gathering, my certification mattered. And I was... surprised. Honored but mildly embarrassed.
Later, during workshops in the US, the same question surfaced. Again. And again. At that point, Ben—my husband and ever-wise mirror—watched me wrestle with the growing pressure like someone watching a soufflé rise in the oven—anxious, hopeful, and unable to intervene.
Then he gently nudged me, the way only someone who’s been patiently observing your chaos can. "Think of it like graduating," he said.
"A degree isn't the end, it's a license to begin something new." Ben Huybrechts, 2019
That thought stuck. And that’s when I decided to climb further. Today, I’m one level below Riji, the highest level in the Sogetsu school. I’ve climbed far, yes—but this mountain of ikebana has no summit. And frankly, I rather enjoy the view along the way.
And yet, looking back, my start with Sogetsu was wonderfully unceremonious. No vision from the heavens, no spiritual thunderclap—just a textbook in English and a curious mind that wandered into class like someone who wandered into a museum to avoid the rain and ended up enchanted by the art. They had English textbooks. That was enough for me at the time.
But once I got into it, it fit me like a well-worn pair of gardening gloves. In Belgium, I had studied landscape design. Many of the exercises—thinking in lines, shapes, and space—felt familiar. It wasn’t a stretch; it was more like finding a secret garden I hadn’t known I was missing.
The Sogetsu school was founded in the 20th century by Sofu Teshigahara, and unlike many ikebana schools that date back to the samurai era, this one was built on artistic rebellion.
Respect tradition, yes—but don’t be afraid to jazz it up with a saxophone solo in the middle. Use flowers, of course—but don’t stop there. Bamboo, driftwood, construction debris, metals, plastics? Why not.
Later Sofu's son Hiroshi, also an artist, took over and infused the curriculum with even more art and experimentation. Both Sofu and Hiroshi believed that ikebana must adapt to the times, not remain frozen in tradition. As the Sogetsu school prepares to celebrate its 100th anniversary in 2027, it continues to prove that innovation can have deep roots too.
Like many other ikebana schools, Sogetsu also set up a certification system. The certification journey, much like the practice of ikebana itself, is structured yet full of possibility. You begin with exercises from four main books (plus a recently added fifth if you want to teach). Each completed book earns you a level. From there, you step into teaching territory, and then it’s a ladder, —leading up to titles like Komon or Riji. The highest levels aren’t just about skill; they’re about commitment, vision, and the ability to grow a community.
Why did I hesitate to pursue it earlier? After completing my teaching level, I somehow got stuck somewhere in the middle. In the Sogetsu community in Belgium, and the Netherlands, few people cared about certificates—it simply wasn’t a focus. And I was juggling Japanese gardens, parenting, and building a business.
Sogetsu was always present, like a steady friend at the edge of the room, but it wasn’t yet my compass.
And then India happened—a moment that gently nudged everything into focus.
It’s funny how one question in a new setting can stir a pot that had been simmering quietly on the back burner. So if you’re standing at the edge of Book 2, or wondering whether certification is worth the effort—let me say this: it is. Not because of the piece of paper. But because of who you become along the way.
And who knows? Maybe one day you’ll be asked your level too—and answer with a quiet smile, knowing that titles are less about prestige and more like stage directions in a lifelong performance of creativity.
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