The Four Seasons

When I looked at a certain painter's work, it seemed as if it were leaping out from the wall, or perhaps drawing me in.

That painting is proof that the artist lived, and it has become a legacy that continues to live on in the modern day, encouraging those who view it.

Its colors, its brushwork, and its power. The canvas does not move, it is not a photograph, and there is no voice or sound.

All that exists is light.

- Summer - "Father's Sunflowers"

I really shouldn't have come.

I saw a line so long that I felt a little regret.

Even though it is a small, local art museum that one could hardly call famous.

Despite the sweltering heat at the end of the rainy season, I had to wait outside for hours. The merciless, beating sun announced the arrival of summer.

In the first email I had received from my father in a long time, he had written the name of the Dutch painter who enjoys immense popularity in Japan, as if he were a friend.

Van Gogh is beloved by many, not only for his powerful brushwork but also as an artist whose tragic life resonates deeply with the Japanese heart.

Having copied ukiyo-e, a traditional Japanese art form, and depicted it in the backgrounds of his works, he is recognized as a quintessential Japanophile painter.

This exhibition was the one my father, who had fallen in love with Van Gogh and dreamed of organizing an exhibition at the museum where he worked, had spent a long time preparing.

He used to laugh that if you mentioned Van Gogh, people would come from all over Japan, but the line was so long that I truly wondered where they were all coming from.

To be cynical, I think it might be the largest crowd since the museum opened.

The highlight of this exhibition seems to be "Sunflowers."

Van Gogh painted several works with sunflowers as a motif, but the most famous among them is likely the piece where not only the flowers but also the background is yellow, with the entire canvas dyed in yellow.

The cut sunflowers face in random directions, but whether in a vase or in a painting, their vitality overflows.

Though not widely known in Japan, experts are still engaged in heated debates over why Van Gogh chose sunflowers.

In the West, it is said that the sunflower motif is sometimes depicted as 'piety toward God in Christianity.' The flower's characteristic known as heliotropism is superimposed onto the image of a devout believer who keeps their eyes fixed steadily on God.

In reality, the sunflower blossom itself does not exhibit heliotropism. The leaves, which perform photosynthesis, are responsible for that role. It likely just appears that way because the heavy head of the flower happens to tilt.

In his youth, Van Gogh had the bitter experience of failing in his pursuit of a career in the clergy. The suffering of being unable to live with a longing for God as his sustenance is immeasurable. However, the fact that there was a period when he moved his brush as if entrusting something to those sunflowers might just be divine providence.

...Before I knew it, I had started speaking like my father. I grew up to be a son who was 'educated' in just that way.

My father wanted me to work in the arts. But I was drawn to the beauty of numbers, and under the pretext of studying mathematics, I belonged to a graduate school laboratory. Concerned about me, as I spent every day holed up in the lab, my father invited me out.

I joined the long line and moved forward little by little. The art journal site I had pulled up on my smartphone screen featured an article about this exhibition.

It wasn't that I didn't believe my father when he said that if I told them I was a relative, I could get in through the service entrance. But I felt that there might be something in the 'Sunflowers' I hadn't seen yet that I couldn't truly grasp without taking the proper time.

Unfortunately, Japanese people only look at famous paintings.

It is like a task of just confirming the paintings they already know, and even when they come to a special exhibition, crowds form in the most obvious places.

The museum, which was not very large, was also stiflingly hot. Was it the excitement of meeting a rare genius, or was the air simply warming up because there were too many people?

Usually, the air conditioning should be set somewhat cool to protect the paintings. Good grief, my father's troubled face comes to mind; perhaps I still have expectations of him.

Sighs and small cheers could be heard from the place where visitors seemed to be gathered most densely. Although the exhibition rooms, which would normally be separated, were connected and spacious, perhaps it wasn't possible to have a layout where the main piece had a room to itself.

I want to see the 'Sunflowers' from straight on.

Watching my step, I pushed through the crowd to move forward. So many people are moving just to look at a painting that cannot move. My father used to say:

...

The painting was a flood of light.

It is so dazzling that I cannot keep my eyes open.

Even though I had looked at it over and over again in art books, the overwhelming presence of the real thing is just too dazzling.

When I rubbed my eyes because of the glare, I found I was shedding tears.

I cannot believe it.

Is this really that 'Sunflowers'?

Are you alive!

It is as if I can hear the painter's cry.

Where did the painter, who suffered from mental illness and left this world as if fleeing from it, find the strength to live that is packed so intensely into this?

Wanting to live but unable to, that was the same for both the painter and the cut sunflowers, but here and now, they catch the eyes of many and continue to live.

He poured his strength into the paint as if whittling away his own life, as if sharing his life with the work.

Even though the flame of his life grew smaller with every painting he finished.

I am standing in front of the painting that my father used to talk about in that way.

It felt like a dream to be this close to it.

No, that is not right; this is a magnificent dream.

My father made his dream come true.

It is a dream that he pursued with simple honesty and finally achieved.

It was so dazzling. Will my dream ever be fulfilled?

I pick up the exhibition catalog at the museum shop and join the line for the register. As I flip through the pages, sketches and drawings catch my eye amidst the vibrant paintings.

I understand now what he meant when he said he wasn't a genius, but a man of great effort.

As I exit the building, my smartphone vibrates.

I was finally able to introduce you to my friend.

My father's face, smiling shyly, comes to mind.

In-text image
"Sunflowers," 1889, Vincent van Gogh
(Image source: ©︎Public Domain Q)

—Autumn— "Letters to My Brother"

1885, Nuenen, Netherlands.

A painter has finished a single painting.

The light from the lamp hanging from the ceiling illuminates the cramped, dusty room.

On a simple table without a cloth, a large plate is piled with boiled potatoes, white steam rising from them. A warm dining table.

The peasants, wearing clothes still covered in mud, were all thin. Their exhausted faces make the painting feel even darker.

It was a scene of a modest meal for a peasant family, which was by no means an easy life.

I wrote a letter to my brother Theo, as I always do.

I had already written to him many times about how I was repeatedly making numerous sketches. My brother, an art dealer, kept replying, suggesting I try painting in earnest.

What a hateful brother he is. He saw right through me, knowing that I kept repeating those sketches because I lacked confidence in my own paintings.

But he was also the only one who truly believed that my paintings had potential.

He must have been eagerly awaiting the finished work. Sorry to have kept you waiting.

I drew sketches, many of them, over and over again. The hands that dig the soil should be the same as the hands I use to paint, yet they were hopelessly different. I thought that if I could draw those hands, I could capture the truth of that difference.

Hands holding tools, clenched hands, open hands... I wanted to capture not just the joints, the wrinkles in the skin, and what is visible, but also the bones and blood vessels beneath. It had always been so terrifying to paint a picture where various things were lined up.

I want to see my brother, but he is too far away. That is why this painting, along with my letters, connects us.

What my brother sent me was a painting that could be described as rough and immature. If anything, it exuded a gloomy and anxious atmosphere.

But it was a painting composed into a single work that I had been waiting for all this time. While I felt the joy of its completion, I also thought that my brother was still capable of painting even more.

An acquaintance who saw it at a glance, unaware of my brother's painstaking efforts, perhaps disillusioned by the dark canvas, offered harsh words. It seems he was even more displeased that I had brought up Millet in my letter to him.

It only depicts the surface. There is no movement. It is presumptuous to compare him to a genius painter. This painting is not worthy of art.

I hesitated to tell my brother, but these are the words of an important client. Encouraging artists is part of my job as an art dealer. If he reads a letter that I cannot honestly be happy about, my brother might fly into a rage.

A friendship that should have been important was also severed.

But my brother did not give up. I was happy.

I kept staring at reality, while seeking ideals on the screen. I yearned for an ideal land I had yet to know, and wore myself out continuing to create works.

The light that heavily illuminated the faces of the farmers that day would eventually become the light that colors the glamorous cafes of the night. It will become the light of the stars, shining brightly upon the world.

The light you paint, brother, can bring happiness not just to me, but to everyone who sees this painting.

That is what I believe.

The creator and the seller,

despair and hope,

perhaps that is what connected us brothers.

In-text image
"The Potato Eaters", 1885, Vincent van Gogh
(Image source: ©︎Public Domain Q)

—Winter— "Name"

"Happy birthday, big sister!"

Ever since I could remember, that painting had been on the living room wall. Even as our family grew and the land we lived in changed, the living room wall remained the home for that painting.

I looked through my art textbooks, but I couldn't find that painting. It wasn't in any art museums, either.

That painting was like a window, gaping open on that wall.

On a warm morning, several branches with small white flowers blooming on them stretch out against a deep blue background with no scenery.

What kind of flowers are they? Who painted it?

Such questions only exist in front of the painting, drowned out by lively voices, as my reality unfolds before me. By the time I finish looking after my younger siblings, the day is already over. That painting is always just there.

I am the eldest of five siblings. To my lively brothers and sisters, I am a sister, a mom, and sometimes even a dad.

The youngest is my brother, born five years ago. Back then, I couldn't believe that I, too, had such a small beginning. Though now, they are all at that age where they're full of sass.

Right, we were talking about the painting on the wall, weren't we?

My father was a stoic marathon runner in his youth, and my mother was a mountain girl turned mountaineer who traveled the world in search of peaks. I can't imagine for a second that either of them would have an interest in art.

But on my tenth birthday, I asked my father about it.

“This? I got it from someone I respect. Did they paint it? Hmm, probably some foreign artist. I felt it would be rude to ask, so I didn't when I received it.”

“It's cute, and doesn't having a painting on display make us look rich?”

Seriously... Mom knew even less.

Just because a painting is on display doesn't mean we're rich. Besides, this painting isn't an original; it's a reproduction. Someone tell me, who painted this?

When I became a university student, I saw "Art History" on the syllabus, so I decided to go and listen. The professor didn't look like a professor at all; he had a kind, neighborly vibe.

According to the professor, it's not that "artists paint what they want to paint," but rather that "they express what they want to convey through their paintings." Huh.

So, it wasn't just talented people painting to make money. Still, what could they want to convey? Political criticism, perhaps, or an ideal society?

The professor mentioned that he usually works as a cura... what was it? Right, a curator at a small art museum.

“For paintings that cannot move on their own, there are people like me to convey their meaning and move them around.” That was a nice thing to hear.

Having been shown the depth of art, I immediately entered the course name into the registration screen for my general education requirements.

Art history involved tracing groups of works alongside history, and another goal was researching the artists themselves. It goes without saying, but since the lectures couldn't cover every single artist, we had to research them ourselves.

That meant I wouldn't get credit unless I wrote reports for summer and winter assignments (I can't believe there's homework even during winter break!).

I thought I would make the artist who painted the picture on our wall my subject, but as usual, I had no idea who had painted it.

“Huh, well then, how about Van Gogh? In my class, there’s this really heavy book full of paintings. My homeroom teacher, who teaches math, apparently loves Van Gogh.”

My younger sister, who is studying for entrance exams, was supposed to be bad at math, but it seems like the topic of math has come up more often. Did she start liking math... or is that not it?

I’ve decided. I’ll go with something suitable for a beginner.

I’ll choose the Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh, whom my sister—and surely many other Japanese people—loves.

The university library had plenty of reference materials.

Van Gogh died quite young. I was surprised, but it was even more shocking that he continued his creative work despite suffering from mental illness.

I see, maybe he had something he wanted to say.

When the teacher said, “Whenever there’s a Van Gogh exhibition, there’s a long line at any museum,” it must be a sign of the empathy unique to Japanese people, who perceive the painter’s way of life as beauty.

Oh, that’s right, I’ve felt the fascination of the collection of works from the period named the “Blue Period” several times at museums before. Some people might describe it as “abnormality,” but to me, it looked like illustrations in a picture book, and I thought it was “fantasy.”

It’s a dark road at night, but the path of cypress trees illuminated by the moon looked to me as if some kind of excitement was hidden there.

Reading that sentence and turning the page of the book, I let out a gasp.

“Eh! ...Ah!”

The glares directed at me for letting out such a ridiculous sound in the university library were, of course, cold.

There it was, the same painting as that “painting on the wall.” No way. The foreign painter is Van Gogh, he’s super famous, isn’t he?

Even so, this painting was a work from the end of his Blue Period. He couldn’t have known his life was coming to an end. He surely didn’t think he was going to die soon, right?

However, that work was filled with warm, gentle, and soft feelings.

At the end of winter, those flowers bloom quietly one by one, signaling the arrival of spring.

Perhaps the birth of a baby was a life of warm hope for Van Gogh, just like spring.

As someone who has been an eldest daughter for a long time, I was happy when my younger siblings were born, no matter what. It's a bit different from Van Gogh, but I suppose it's a feeling of celebration or gratitude.

Van Gogh poured his joy and expectations into the birth of a life even more precious to his brother, whom he had always cherished so deeply.

He couldn't bring himself to say 'congratulations' because he was too shy, so he painted it instead.

When I got home from university, I cooked dinner for my family for the first time in a while. The menu was potato salad. Ever since I saw the painting of the farmers eating potatoes, potatoes have been my current obsession.

That was around the year my younger brother was born. When I was in junior high school and couldn't go to school for days due to a global pandemic, I got hooked on cooking.

I have a family that eats everything with such relish, so it's worth cooking for them.

I looked it up, and the language of almond blossoms is 'hope'.

And my name, written as 'hope', is 'Nozomi'.

Surely, someone who is knowledgeable about art and as passionate as Van Gogh must have given me this painting as a gift. I wonder if I'll ever meet them.

While gazing at the painting I received for my birthday, I suddenly thought about wanting to live on my own. I am an adult, after all.

And my parents, who loved to travel, said something cool like, 'Living alone is the start and an extension of a journey,' and gave me their permission.

Leaving my family is a bit painful, but it's also a bit exciting. Well, someone once said that having a home to return to at any time is the real thrill of a journey.

On moving day, I wrapped the painting that was on the wall in bubble wrap. I tried to put it in a cardboard box that wasn't sealed yet, but I stopped.

'Please carry the things that are truly important with you yourself, rather than putting them on the truck.'

The mover who came for the estimate said that. He laughed and said that while people only move a few times in their lives, movers move every single day.

From spring, that painting left its place and we decided to travel together.

With me at twenty.

In-text image
"Almond Blossoms" 1890, Vincent van Gogh
(Image source: Wikipedia)

-Spring- "Cherry blossoms for us"

I came to Kyoto with Go.

We took the Shinkansen from Tokyo. It was the second spring since I started working.

I met Go in a university club, and we hit it off because we liked the same games, becoming as close as childhood friends.

I had struggled with job hunting, but finally got an offer and started working at a logistics company. I was assigned to moving sales, and I was busy every day visiting houses to provide quotes for moves or helping out with the work.

Spring, in particular, is the peak season for moving. From the outside, it's called the "moving season," which sounds cool, but for those on the inside, it's the "busy season," and work piles up so much that you can't take time off.

Before or since, I've never had a spring that tough. When those tumultuous days finally ended, I only got two days off.

Go had a job that required him to work on weekends and holidays, so he had weekdays off. We happened to find out our days off aligned, so we decided to go to Kyoto.

"Oh! Teru, you've bulked up. Did you put on some muscle?"

Meeting at Shinagawa Station was something we decided just a few hours earlier.

We only booked our accommodation, and without time to buy guidebooks, we brought ones from a few years ago we had at home, laughing, "Teru, your book is old," and "Yours isn't exactly new either."

Since we both love sweets, we were eating ice cream from the train's snack cart, and before we knew it, we had arrived.

I had forgotten. It was Kyoto.

Spring in Kyoto had welcomed the cherry blossom season.

Kiyomizu-dera, Gion, the Philosopher's Path, Arashiyama—no matter where we went, it was crowded, but the cherry blossoms were so beautiful that such things faded into the background. For us, having just been baptized by the overly harsh busy season of working life, the scenery was almost too dazzling.

I never knew the cherry blossoms in Kyoto were this magnificent.

On a warm night, we took a walk in Maruyama Park, located deep behind Chion-in Temple near our inn.

Young people were having hanami parties, filling the park. There were many loud laughs and many flushed faces lined up. Drinking outdoors under the guise of hanami was a classic way to party for college students with thin wallets.

Spring is the season for "welcome parties," and famous cherry blossom spots were the perfect meeting places. I could hear their lively voices.

I suddenly remembered the time when I first entered university. I had a hanami party at Sotobori Park near the school, just like the students here. The memories of spending spring nights under the cherry trees every year were nostalgic and laid-back, in contrast to my busy life as a working adult.

Feeling a sense of regret for having become a working adult, mixed with nostalgia for my student days, I felt a little lonely.

“Teru... Kyoto in the spring really is nice, isn't it? But it's a little sad. Just a year ago, we were still students.”

So Gou was thinking the same thing... We walked along the lively park path. Spring in Kyoto is also famous for its cherry blossom and temple illuminations. Tourism and history blend well, welcoming visitors in any season.

Distracted by the cherry blossoms above my head, I bumped into something. Surprised, I apologized, saying, “I'm sorry!” and found a man with blue eyes standing there. He looked at me with great surprise, then immediately looked up and scanned his surroundings.

Even though it was already spring, he was wearing an out-of-season, heavy-colored coat and seemed to be there alone.

Gou and I, who had tensed up for a moment, bowed to the man and left the spot.

“Teru, didn't that guy just suddenly appear in front of us?”

“He was a bit strange, wasn't he? Even he seemed surprised.”

As we walked through the park, we came to an exceptionally bright area. I looked up from the stairs and a cheer escaped my lips.

A breathtaking sight.

The cherry blossoms, illuminated against the night sky, seemed to fill my entire field of vision. The master of Maruyama Park, a weeping cherry tree said to be over 90 years old, was in full bloom.

“Are you kidding me... Hey, Teru, look at these cherry blossoms.”

I hadn't even been able to take my time to look at the cherry blossoms in my own hometown. To think I would be able to see such beautiful cherry blossoms here.

"This is... incredible."

In my heart, I piled up wordless feelings of gratitude toward Go, and also toward Kyoto. The cherry blossoms before my eyes began to blur. Pretending to wipe my sweaty forehead, I pressed my handkerchief to my eyes.

Good work! That was tough, wasn't it!

A warm breeze blew, and I heard someone's voice. I glanced to my side, but Go was still staring intently at the cherry blossoms. Was that just the sound of the wind? I suppose I really wanted someone to say that to me.

My first year as a working adult was incredibly busy. It wasn't so much the amount of things I had to learn, but the pain of having to endure so much. Perhaps these cherry blossoms were waiting for me during that time when I felt like I was losing myself.

The lively voices were still there as always, but that spot was very quiet. The weeping cherry tree swaying in the spring breeze shone as white as snow.

Suddenly, a voice came from behind me, and I turned around. The man from before was standing there.

"Almond tree?"

I couldn't tell if he was muttering to himself or asking us, but that's what it sounded like.

Almond, almond... no, that's a cherry tree...

"No, cherry blossom, um, very old."

While I was hesitating, Go answered fluently.

The man looked at us for a moment, but his expression remained one of surprise. With his eyes wide open, he seemed unable to stand still and approached the tree. Leaning over the fence surrounding the cherry tree, he stared intently at the flowers and branches.

I came to my senses when Go nudged me.

"Hey, Teru, I wonder if that guy... has never seen cherry blossoms before."

The man started walking along the fence. Worried that he might be climbing over it, I followed him to keep an eye on him, but... he was gone.

In the spot where the man should have been, a large floodlight for the illumination was pointed diagonally upward, lighting up the flowers.

The next day, on the Shinkansen heading home, I thought of a small possibility.

"That 'old guy' from yesterday, I felt like he somehow resembled Van Gogh, the painter. They say he copied ukiyo-e and admired Japan... don't you think this self-portrait looks like the man from yesterday?"

Gou, who had been staring intently at the screen, licked the wooden spoon he had been holding to his lips.

"Huh, how come you know so much about that?"

"Oh, well, at work, there was a Van Gogh painting at a house I went to for an estimate. I thought it was cherry blossoms and asked, but it was almond blossoms. So, I looked up what he looked like, and it was still in my album."

"Huh. That old guy yesterday was a bit scary, wasn't he?"

While eating ice cream just like on the way there, we laughed as we remembered the tension from last night.

While I was struggling with my ice cream that had finally started to melt, the person in the seat next to me started nodding off. The continuation of our conversation might not happen. But, even though it seems impossible, I think it would be wonderful if something like that had actually happened.

Perhaps he, Van Gogh, was able to come to the Japan he had longed for.

|My conversation partner, Gou, had fallen asleep, and feeling a bit restless, I closed my eyes.

It was a fleeting trip to Kyoto, but the cherry blossoms in Maruyama Park brought tears to my eyes. They were truly breathtaking. It was an irreplaceable sight that I probably won't be able to experience again, even if I come back next year or years from now.

Surrendering myself to the fatigue, I recalled the scenery of the trip.

Last night was truly a dreamlike experience.

By the time we were about an hour away from Tokyo, both Gou and I were breathing softly in our sleep. On the electronic display board above the carriage entrance, the news was scrolling by.

[Art News] Previously unknown work believed to be painted by Dutch artist Van Gogh discovered. Appraiser: "Flowers resembling Japanese cherry blossoms are depicted." / Art Journal

That journey was truly a miracle.

In-text image
"Self-Portrait as a Bonze" 1888, Vincent van Gogh
(Image source: ©︎Public Domain Q )

"The Four Seasons"

—End—

References:

"Van Gogh: The Painter Who Bet on the Dream of Japan" by Tsukasa Kodera (2019)

"Fluctuat nec mergitur" by Maha Harada (2017)

"Revolver" by Maha Harada (2021)

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