There is something about landscaped Japanese gardens that suggests timelessness, a phenomenon apparently contrary to that Japanese tendency to locate beauty in what is fleeting in this world.

A similar contradiction (and where would Japan be without its contradictions?) is found in the shaped trees that lend the gardens at least half of their timeless effect. While the techniques and aesthetics that govern the shaping of the trees date back beyond Heian times, the topiarists themselves, specifically ones who do it for a living, have a brief history.

All of this is common knowledge to Yoichi Mori, a full-time gardener and president of a company which cares for, among other places, Fukuoka City's most prestigious Japanese gardens, in Ohori Park.

His company was launched by his uncle, who was introduced to the job shortly after the war through an employment center on an American military base. Although most people had previously cut their own trees, the rapid industrialization after the war, which placed increasing numbers of people in factories, created a need for topiarists. Which raises the question of why there should be any need to cut -- some would say "butcher" -- the trees anyway.

The answer is both aesthetic and pragmatic. Mori explains the latter by showing a small handbook he carries with him. Initial diagrams and commentary look like something out of a book for novice gardeners, though further inspection reveals specifications for urban greenery: how high limbs must be cut to allow for large trucks to pass; how much room to leave between buildings and power lines; and the like.

Mori jokes that sometimes trees are hacked back because shop owners, who traditionally sweep their store-front sidewalks, hate the autumn leaves. He also laments in the same breath, with a note of resignation, that most trees in the city don't receive much attention. Now local governments, naturally more concerned with the tax money they are using, hire laborers to do the work instead of gardeners. "The governments don't have any love for the trees, but the work must be done," he says.

Mori's group would never approach their work with the same haste and unrefined skill. Responsible instead for the care of gardens, Mori asserts that they give ample consideration before making a cut. "A mistake will take three to five years to correct," he says.

Learning how to cut takes longer still. Part of the reason is that there is a paucity of landscaping and agricultural schools in Japan. Hence, inductees must study for years and, of course, continue to develop their own skills after they have been passed the shears. What each master hands on to his pupil are loosely defined aesthetic rules that have been refined over the centuries. Gardeners generally try to recapture the look of, say, a lonely windswept pine on a mountainside. In other words, they are mimicking nature.

So why would you not simply let the trees grow naturally? Mori explains that trees must be cut to fit the scale of the gardens, which are usually small. Western tree trimmers, he notes, are very adept at climbing large trees and using rope techniques, but their Japanese counterparts tend to avoid the inherent risks and keep trees small enough to be manageable with ladders. Anything larger would likely look out of place anyway.

Mori recommends that beginners start as small as possible -- with bonsai. "The materials are cheaper and won't set you back if you mess up," he says. The rules for topiary are no different than those his gardeners follow. Asymmetry and odd numbers of branches can effectively create a "representation," if you will, of nature.

Mori also recommends taking a heavy hand to the tree until it matures. "Beginners are timid about cutting branches," he explains, "but the result is that trees end up looking leggy and disproportionate."

The trees to use are the same as those found in gardens, most notably pines. Other suitable species include plums, ginkgo and zelkova. These varieties also prove easier to cut, in part because they are fast growers and because the direction of growth of new limbs is more easily calculated.

One tree he warns against taking a blade to, however, is the cherry. "The wounds rot easily," he says, "and the trees cannot withstand the same stress as others."

As if it were not enough to discover that the tree most cherished by Japanese is the one that should be spared from the otherwise common pruning, Mori adds one thing. When asked which tree he likes the most, he smiles, nods and answers, as most Japanese would: the cherry.