Expression is Life Itself

In the autumn, I helped with an exhibition by an artist I respect, Aki Yamamoto. The work was an installation that expressed a "watershed" using thousands of threads of different colors, set in a rice granary in Kiso, Shinshu, that was over 100 years old.

The two-dimensional works I see at her Tokyo exhibitions are also always wonderful, with colors that are vivid yet deep. That suddenly came to mind, so I muttered, "There are no (two-dimensional) paintings this time," and after a moment, she fluttered some documents and replied like this.

"What? These are all my paintings."

Yes, paintings are not just two-dimensional, and what is exhibited is not the only work. The terminology changes depending on the medium used for expression in daily life. It could be painting, music, novels, photography, and so on. In any case, the act of expression begins long before one actually draws or creates something. Moreover, it has no end. The entire process can be called the work.

This time, I was also able to get a glimpse of the preparation stage, and it was a very long road. It started with research and interviews, followed by conceptualization, sourcing materials, and preparation. There were countless course corrections along the way. Construction and destruction. And then, the actual event. Furthermore, even now that the exhibition is over, the production continues.

I wonder how much hesitation there is in daily life. In the process of creating, the more you enter the climax, the more you must constantly destroy what came before. It is also a denial of the self that thinks it has reached a certain point, and it is a task that cannot be moved forward without facing it with tremendous courage. And in the end, you land in a state of mind that is close to resignation.

I want to encounter what is expressed as a result of that.

But that is by no means a path chosen only by those called artists. I am convinced that everyone is essentially an artist. Masao, a 94-year-old I met in Kiso, was an artist in his very existence, a farmer, and just himself. He must have had various events in the life he had walked. Just by standing there, that was conveyed to me, and the depths of my being were shaken.

Masao taught me that living itself is expression.

Therefore, there is no need for borrowed words or things meant to seek external evaluation. Something that seems to have been squeezed out from the depths of one's own being. It might be something so faint that you might miss it if you are not careful.

It may be hidden on the back of a leaf, lurking in the presentation of a dish, or in a call to someone.

I want to spend my days listening to that modest voice so that I can respond at any time. And since I have decided to express something to this world, I will continue to build while always carrying "destruction" with me.

That is my expression.