The Invisibles

1

Some time ago, I did away with the whole notion of time. More precisely, I stopped believing that time necessarily flows from the past to the future. I realized that yesterday and tomorrow are the same. People tend to be at the mercy of their pasts and constantly talk about their futures. Moreover, the present, the exact moment which should be of the greatest concern is, unfortunately, lost altogether.

I think that at about the same time, I stopped being able to believe in what I saw. I came to the conclusion that although every person assumes that he sees what everyone else does, in fact it is as if we are not seeing at all. To put it more precisely, people grasp only what they see, and wrongly assume that they have seen it all; thus, they make no attempt to even try to understand the Invisibles and because of that, it is exactly as if no one comprehends the true essence of the world. Everyone is looking, but no one is seeing. Humans blindly follow the measure of time, never questioning it or who created it, accepting only what meets their naked eyes... and that is how they live their lives. They spend all of their time talking about hearsay that floats to them like an echo from who knows where. They are obsessed with those rumors, which are repeated ad nauseam. Sometimes, I think, 'If people only quieted down for a moment...'

2

Currently, I am living in Normandy with my dog. Here in Normandy, it is easy to sense the presence of the Invisibles. To many, my works may appear to be abstract paintings. However, in actuality, the works are the result of intense inspection, and minute detailing. As I gaze out on the Channel that lies between France and Britain throughout the day, I feel comfort in that the border between the sky and the sea is, like me, unclear and ambiguous. Now that I mention it, this ambiguity has been with me since when I was a toddler. In my childhood, I lived in city called Obihiro, in Hokkaido. During winter, the temperature can plunge below thirty degrees Celsius. Snow appears suddenly from some point in the ash-colored sky and falls to earth. I really liked the way that it appears in an ambiguous way at some indiscernible point. When I tried to paint that, my fine arts teacher Miyazawa-sensei said to me, "you must become a painter." But I didn't think so myself. In the Hokkaido's winter, the Tokachi River freezes over. Being extra careful, I would walk out, halfway across the river. There, I enjoyed observing the ice crystals. The crystals melted in my hand and disappeared. In an attempt to grasp that ephemerality, I first became a poet. I discovered that words are so rigid and restrictive that they are perfect at unmasking the secrets of the world. Therefore, the beginning point of all my art can be found in poetic sentiment.

3

Just after the Second World War, my grandfather collected and ground the bones of a few thousand people to make a statue of the Buddha. It is an icon of the Buddha made from human bones and endowed with a soul. That statue of the Buddha is enshrined in the Shōrakuji Temple in my parents' birthplace of Ōnoshima, Kyushu. It is called the "White Buddha". I recall standing in front of it. My body bent forward as if to bow on its own accord. I remember desperately trying to straighten up, but my body would not budge. After a short time, I was enveloped by thousands of points of light. In that moment, I experienced some "thing" that completely transcended explanation or reason. I did not feel dread, in fact I did my best to capture that "guiding light". The first painting I made back when I was a child was an oil painting depicting a soul. The first time that I saw that White Buddha Statue was when I was thirty-seven. More so than any of the energy I was able to incapsulate in my soul-painting, the Buddha statue had a much greater amount of that "thing". I am unable to articulate it well, but both my art and the statue are connected by the same kind of "thing". I believe that that "thing" is prayer. It is not salvation nor hope, but prayer. Unfortunately, humans cannot see prayer. Nor is it easy to explain prayer.

4

When I was a child, I experienced déjà vu dozens of times a day. Just before I turned a corner, I would start to have déjà vu. Before I even knew what was going on, I would experience the feeling that I remembered what I was seeing from before. By the time that I was in high school and then continuing into college, my psyche was seriously muddled. I think that a great many of the remnants of that déjà vu are lying asleep in my paintings. As I gaze upon the point where the Normandy sky meets the ocean, I trace my memories. I wander in my memories of strange familiarity in the past. Until now, there has never been even one night that I have not dreamt. Particularly in my youth, I awoke in the morning covered in sweat. I travelled deep into the far reaches of worlds which I had never visited in real life. Like the endless story in Arabian Nights, I constantly had one long extended dream whose story never ended. When I awoke, I was again racked by a bizarre feeling of déjà vu. An endless stream of language would flood my brain. I often found myself drowning between the lines of those overflowing stories. After a time, I realized that the best way to steady my imbalanced mental state was through painting. When I faced my canvas, I was able to return to "mu" or "nothingness". Therefore, even after I developed from poet to novelist, I continued my painting in order to maintain my equilibrium. I put my finished works in storage. Not until recently did I talk about these paintings to anyone.

5

I think that instead of trying to explain the paintings, it would be better to sing. More than swearing my love, I prefer to gaze upon the borderline between the sky and the ocean.

Normandy, September 2023