【Cohort】

As soon as I started peering into the world of art, I hit a wall. Fundamentally, I realized I didn't know history. Neither Japanese nor world history. I intended to grasp the texture of art, but it was history. Then I also realized I really didn't know geography. I intended to feel the essence of art, but it was geography. New walls appeared, and the cycle repeated.

 

Perhaps because terms like "recurrent education for middle-aged and older adults" are flying around, I fortunately developed a positive feeling that revisiting the social studies I neglected in middle and high school might be worthwhile. I decided to casually look into things starting with whatever seemed accessible. What was happening in Japan during the time when historical events or figures that immediately come to mind were active?

 

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Roughly 500 years ago, around 1500, was the Renaissance period. Leonardo da Vinci was making tremendous strides with his incredible observational skills, including in anatomy. Of course, the captivating "Mona Lisa" and "The Last Supper" come to mind, but also that sketch of a naked man with arms outstretched, surrounded by a perfect circle—I feel like most Japanese people can picture this one too. Where did that image get imprinted?

 

I got really excited researching who was in Japan around that time. With six national treasure paintings, the undisputed number one: Sesshu! When you hear "ink wash painting," doesn't Sesshu's work, or paintings reminiscent of his style, immediately come to mind? (Am I exaggerating?) While flipping through books like "Shogakukan's NEO Art Encyclopedia: First National Treasures," there's one painting that's been bothering me immensely. I even made my way to the Osaka City Museum of Fine Arts to see the original at the Japanese National Treasures exhibition. It was Sesshu's "Portrait of Ke Ka Cutting Off His Arm." Eka danpi zu. I couldn't read it, couldn't remember it, and repeated it countless times.

 

It depicts the story of Daruma, the model for the Daruma dolls, but setting that tale aside, the way it's painted is baffling. In the crowded exhibition hall, I couldn't help but blurt out, "That's weird, huh~." While the rock surface is painted in a very Seishu-like style (almost as if to say, "I've sprinkled on more black dots than usual!"), Daruma's body is boldly simplified. And while the face is unnervingly realistic, the features are so disjointed it makes you wonder, "From what angle are we seeing this?" It looks like a Picasso painting. It reminded me of the anime "Captain Tsubasa" I watched as a kid. The dribbling scenes were mostly from the side or at an angle, right? But the character's mouth was almost always facing straight forward, so it looked like it was stuck to their cheek...

 

But as a whole dish, I found it delicious. There's substance to savor in every part. There's also a change of flavor (and what a luxury—the same exhibition room also had the "Landscape Scroll" and "Amanohashidate," so being able to compare them probably made a big difference). I was completely blown away by its inexplicable, delicious presence that laughs off contradictions.

 

Their approaches feel quite different from Da Vinci's, yet both are utterly captivating. How thrilling that two geniuses with such extraordinary observational skills lived in the same era! I couldn't help but fantasize: if they'd had a way to know each other around 1500, they absolutely would have been aware of one another. Spatial perception and reproduction, the relationship between portraiture and landscape. Imagining them discussing Cubism centuries before Picasso was born—even as an outsider living in the 21st century, I felt a deep sense of pride.

 

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Moving a bit closer in time, about 200 years ago. I only remember the year 1789—the French Revolution—because it's easy to recall numerically; the details completely escape me. It's probably different in nature from the Renaissance, but I find myself wondering, even as I do a quick search, if Europe's history is fundamentally one of liberation, of gaining freedom. Then, the Louvre Museum opened in 1793. I hear it was originally built as a fortress. The symbolic glass pyramid was added relatively recently. Its collection also originated from the royal family. It seems like a living witness to the history of art opening up from privileged circles.

 

Now, what was happening in Japan around that time? It was the era of the weekly historical drama "Berabou," which I looked forward to every week! Yo, Tsutajū. The large-headed portraits (ōkubie) of Utamaro's Three Beauties date around 1793, while Sharaku's uncannily realistic kabuki actor prints emerged around 1794. Behind Tsutaya Jūzaburō's rise as a producer showcasing his talent in both beauty paintings and actor prints lay the "Kansei Reforms" – familiar from the phrase "In the clear waters of Shirakawa, no fish remain..."? The shogunate's edicts of "Frugality! No moral decay!" dealt Tsutae Shigezaburō a severe blow. Yet, rather than bowing out, he pivoted—anticipating trends, driving the era. Practicing the principle that defeat is not truly defeat. Hats off to him.

 

Why did the Kansei Reforms happen? Looking at the bigger picture, it might be uniquely Japanese: floods, droughts, volcanic eruptions, the "Meiwa Fire" (which I think we learned about in social studies), and the "Tenmei Famine." In short, Japan is a nation prone to disasters. By the way, have you heard of the "Meireki 'Great Monster'" instead of the "Meireki Fire"? The manga "Kaiju 8". Cleverly framing disasters as monsters. Since it's Meireki, that's about 100 years before Meiwa. I've gone off on a tangent. A hundred years off.

 

I have absolutely no idea how much events like the French Revolution or the opening of the Louvre Museum relate to Europe's natural environment. But when I delve into Japan's history, discussions about the natural environment tend to surface. Perhaps the fundamental difference lies in what dominates each culture. Personally, Japan's animism, the concept of millions of gods, resonates with me quite naturally.

 

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Now, to the present. I find myself daydreaming about the Venice Biennale, which I hope to visit someday. The International Art Exhibition and the International Architecture Exhibition alternate annually. 2024 is the year of the International Art Exhibition. Its theme is "Foreigners Everywhere." The Golden Lion for the National Pavilion section went to the Australian Pavilion, where an artist with Indigenous roots exhibited a work based on a family tree. The Golden Lion for the Participating Artists section was awarded to a group of Māori artists from New Zealand. The Golden Lion seems to be the top prize, similar to the Golden Lion at the Venice International Film Festival that Japanese people often see on TV (the lion being Venice's guardian deity, sort of).

 

The artist for the Japanese Pavilion at that time was Yuko Mouri. The timing overlapped slightly, as an exhibition of Mouri's work was being held at the Artizon Museum in Japan. Venice is far away, but Kyobashi is close, so I decided to go. As far as the eye could see, a fusion of retro technology and craftsmanship? How should I interpret this collection of works? I observed them, pondering this and that, and attended Mouri's talk event. In the end, I visited the Artizon Museum four times.

 

Mori-san says she doesn't use objects to create some kind of form, but rather handles the formless "phenomena" of nature through them. She also says that small fluctuations, like fruit gradually rotting, and large surges like social change, are equally constant movements of the world and the world itself. What a delicate and keenly observant eye she has.

 

Even more impressive is how he makes viewers aware of these things—the more I learn, the more I'm in awe. The exhibition title "On Physis" uses "physis," which seems to be translated as "the nature of nature." He makes us aware of the world's movements (fluctuations)—the kind we might otherwise miss—in disaster-prone Japan, or rather in Kyobashi, through the medium of art, an artificial thing. By deliberately utilizing outdated technology and equipment from a bygone era (or perhaps precisely because of this), the aura of nature materialized. It certainly materialized before my eyes. In the era of Sesshu, in the era of Tsutajū, Japan was a foreign land at the eastern edge of the Asian continent. Now, in this age of advanced globalization, not just Japan but every country is one of many diverse foreign lands. These small fluctuations and diverse foreign lands feel connected, and I felt an indescribable sense of pride.

 

I had the chance to ask Mr. Mouri himself, "What kind of existence are curators and the responsible curator?" His first words were that art transcends time. He said the curator for this exhibition is from a younger generation than himself, and that creates a dialogue unique to that relationship. He continued, speaking of the resonance between his own work and that of Duchamp or Matisse – a dialogue that transcends time. Dialogue across generations and dialogue across time. So that's the tangible feel of art transcending time.

 

I'm not a researcher, so I can't possibly claim to have a correct understanding of history, but exploring like this was incredibly enjoyable. Whether you could call it relearning is questionable. Next time, maybe I'll peek into America, or Asia, or even Africa.

 

Image Production: Satoshi Iwashita