eyes

Eyes of the Moon
(The Yanaka tower)
at Gallery Kingyo, June 7 - 26, 2005

Marunochi moon window

Ink painting whispers rather than shouts and waits patiently for you to make of it what you will.
My newest exhibition awaits you on a quiet back alley in Yanaka. The theme is the great Yanaka pagoda, tallest and highest of the Edo towers, having survived the great quake of ’23 and the bombs of war it was burned 50 years ago by a couple in their love suicide, proving love the most devastating of all.
And what a fire - everyone here alive that night remembers it.
Gone and no one to rebuild it in this biggest 50 years of construction boom in the history of the world.
So it goes.
So I paint. But as it is gone I don’t paint it, but from it’s eyes, Tokyo, still on the boom.
Kabukicho 3 am

Ueno part, top of the world Ma (detail)

Kana's visit to Kingyo
notes from my studio January 2005
The Yanaka Tower survived the Great Kanto Earthquake, survived the firebombs that rained down on Tokyo during the Second World War. But it could not survive love.
     The great tower of Yanaka was burned by a couple in a love suicide nearly 50 years ago.
      My matsuri friend told me, “They must be happy.” But we all know Matsuri people are mad.
      My American neighbor said the couple was selfish to burn down our tower.
But I have been in love. And I have been in marriage. The flames of a burning wood floor beneath your feet would, at times, be a relief.
        A pagoda is in essence a prayer. It is made of wood and clay. It contains a bone from a mortal god. It is a radiation, a prayer. And what a prayer that couple made. Every one who lived near the mountain remembers it still.
    What a flame. What a surprise.
     It was not a Zen pagoda. But it was certainly a Zen prayer. Burn the scripture! The Nichiren sect that built the tower does not burn scripture, but they burn incense certainly. It was just a little bigger fire.
     It was past time for the greatest pagoda of Edo to burn. It was just being stubborn to stand so long. Clearly no one here wants it any more.
      In 50 years of the most dramatic urban development in human history, no one has seen fit to rebuild it. The locals obviously think it was time for it to go.
       A few stones now remain. They remain where they were placed in 1664. A small wire fence has been erected around them. They are caged now like an animal, to prevent them from chasing people down the street.
     These stones are the remains of the prayer. Or maybe they are just taking up space, space that could be more productively filled by cement block apartments, or a tall glass and steel hotel.
I am not thinking these things as I sit on an old tatami mat in my drafty old room. I am not thinking these things as I face a soft sheet of paper. I dip my brush into black ink, and splash it. A building appears, another and another and I am climbing a hill. I am going up Sansaki Zaka.
     I used to be an outside artist, painting in oils, wild on the street, in the wind and the smells and passer bys asking,   “What’ya doin’, painting?”
     Now I am in my room nearly empty but for the white sheet of paper, the stone where I ground the ink, and the brush I took down from a nail.
     I paint my way up Sansaki Zaka, a path up a hill nearby. All the slopes in Japan had names, but none of the streets. It used to be the way, name every slope, every bridge. Leave the streets and the alleys alone. I have walked up this path 100, 100 times. I have sketched every rock, every temple, and tree. But my sketchbooks are not open, just my empty room, my empty paper, and me. At the top it appears – the “gojunoto” the pagoda, the great Yanaka Tower, tallest of all the towers, burnt to the ground before I was born. But I see it. I feel it. I paint it here at the top of the hill where it stood, still stands on my page.
      I sit back.
      I look up Sansaki Zaka and realize I have just painted Ueno Mountain’s ass. The front is on the other side, facing the castle, facing the second shogun that built the Kanei-ji on top, the great temple to protect all of Edo. They all knew trouble comes from the Northeast. He ordered his temple built to block it. Kanei-ji’s graveyard still holds many shoguns bones.
     The mouth of the mountain is on his side, with a grand cherry tree promenade.
     But I do not climb that side. I climb up the ass, from the swamp, the “Nezu,” the tidal pools and mosquitos. Water comes in, and goes out. It used to before the land fills. “Mizu Shobai,” Water Business. This is how Mizu Shobai got the name. Rising up with the tide, the floating world, then receding again.
      Mizu Shobai is a hard phrase to translate into English. We don’t have the idea. So I transcribe the words, “Water Business.”
      The ladies in this second largest licensed district in Japan were taken out of Nezu in 1888, transported, relocated, moved cross town to a sand bar near Fukagawa. They could not stay in Nezu anymore – too close to the new Imperial University. Too many young men sliding down the hill.
But of course this water business grew up for the priests, and the parade of visitors to the Ueno Mountain.
     Trouble comes from the Northeast.
      I find a clean piece of paper. I paint my way again, up the mountain. Again the great pagoda rises at the top.
After 51 years, why do I persist? The locals want it down. The last time it burnt it took them 19 years to rebuild it. And back then they had no bulldozers, diesel cranes, nor cement trucks. And the Edoko rebuilt it bigger than it had been before it burnt.
     It has been down for nearly 50 years now – Japan has lots of capital for slabs of cement, and girders of steel, but none for a tower of wood.
     Urban renewal, time to “sweep the mountain.” It’s an inside joke. It is what the local homeless call it when the emperor visits, “Sweep the mountain!” It means they must take down all of their 492 blue plastic tents, and mill around, try and not to look homeless for a couple of hours until the emperor leaves Ueno. Then they resurrect their homeless homes.
     The cops sweep the mountain, but the residents rebuild their tents every time. They put up what they need and go on with life.
     But no one put up the great pagoda this time.
      I take a clean piece of paper. Again I paint the mountain and again I find the pagoda at the top. What a fool I am. What a joke my life has been, painting up pagodas better left burnt down.

Yanaka Tower painting


Ink painting whispers rather than shouts and waits patiently for you to make of it what you will. My newest exhibition awaits you on a quiet back alley in Yanaka. The theme is the great Yanaka pagoda, tallest and highest of the Edo towers, having survived the great quake of ’23 and the bombs of war it was burned 50 years ago by a couple in their love suicide, proving love the most devastating of all. And what a fire - everyone here alive that night remembers it. Gone and no one to rebuild it in this biggest 50 years of construction boom in the history of the world. So it goes. So I paint. But as it is gone I don’t paint it, but from it’s eyes, Tokyo, still on the boom.	Kabukicho 3 am
Ueno part, top of the world Ma (detail) Kana's visit to Kingyo	notes from my studio January 2005 The Yanaka Tower survived the Great Kanto Earthquake, survived the firebombs that rained down on Tokyo during the Second World War. But it could not survive love. The great tower of Yanaka was burned by a couple in a love suicide nearly 50 years ago. My matsuri friend told me, “They must be happy.” But we all know Matsuri people are mad. My American neighbor said the couple was selfish to burn down our tower. But I have been in love. And I have been in marriage. The flames of a burning wood floor beneath your feet would, at times, be a relief. A pagoda is in essence a prayer. It is made of wood and clay. It contains a bone from a mortal god. It is a radiation, a prayer. And what a prayer that couple made. Every one who lived near the mountain remembers it still. What a flame. What a surprise. It was not a Zen pagoda. But it was certainly a Zen prayer. Burn the scripture! The Nichiren sect that built the tower does not burn scripture, but they burn incense certainly. It was just a little bigger fire. It was past time for the greatest pagoda of Edo to burn. It was just being stubborn to stand so long. Clearly no one here wants it any more. In 50 years of the most dramatic urban development in human history, no one has seen fit to rebuild it. The locals obviously think it was time for it to go. A few stones now remain. They remain where they were placed in 1664. A small wire fence has been erected around them. They are caged now like an animal, to prevent them from chasing people down the street. These stones are the remains of the prayer. Or maybe they are just taking up space, space that could be more productively filled by cement block apartments, or a tall glass and steel hotel. I am not thinking these things as I sit on an old tatami mat in my drafty old room. I am not thinking these things as I face a soft sheet of paper. I dip my brush into black ink, and splash it. A building appears, another and another and I am climbing a hill. I am going up Sansaki Zaka. I used to be an outside artist, painting in oils, wild on the street, in the wind and the smells and passer bys asking, “What’ya doin’, painting?” Now I am in my room nearly empty but for the white sheet of paper, the stone where I ground the ink, and the brush I took down from a nail. I paint my way up Sansaki Zaka, a path up a hill nearby. All the slopes in Japan had names, but none of the streets. It used to be the way, name every slope, every bridge. Leave the streets and the alleys alone. I have walked up this path 100, 100 times. I have sketched every rock, every temple, and tree. But my sketchbooks are not open, just my empty room, my empty paper, and me. At the top it appears – the “gojunoto” the pagoda, the great Yanaka Tower, tallest of all the towers, burnt to the ground before I was born. But I see it. I feel it. I paint it here at the top of the hill where it stood, still stands on my page. I sit back. I look up Sansaki Zaka and realize I have just painted Ueno Mountain’s ass. The front is on the other side, facing the castle, facing the second shogun that built the Kanei-ji on top, the great temple to protect all of Edo. They all knew trouble comes from the Northeast. He ordered his temple built to block it. Kanei-ji’s graveyard still holds many shoguns bones. The mouth of the mountain is on his side, with a grand cherry tree promenade. But I do not climb that side. I climb up the ass, from the swamp, the “Nezu,” the tidal pools and mosquitos. Water comes in, and goes out. It used to before the land fills. “Mizu Shobai,” Water Business. This is how Mizu Shobai got the name. Rising up with the tide, the floating world, then receding again. Mizu Shobai is a hard phrase to translate into English. We don’t have the idea. So I transcribe the words, “Water Business.” The ladies in this second largest licensed district in Japan were taken out of Nezu in 1888, transported, relocated, moved cross town to a sand bar near Fukagawa. They could not stay in Nezu anymore – too close to the new Imperial University. Too many young men sliding down the hill. But of course this water business grew up for the priests, and the parade of visitors to the Ueno Mountain. Trouble comes from the Northeast. I find a clean piece of paper. I paint my way again, up the mountain. Again the great pagoda rises at the top. After 51 years, why do I persist? The locals want it down. The last time it burnt it took them 19 years to rebuild it. And back then they had no bulldozers, diesel cranes, nor cement trucks. And the Edoko rebuilt it bigger than it had been before it burnt. It has been down for nearly 50 years now – Japan has lots of capital for slabs of cement, and girders of steel, but none for a tower of wood. Urban renewal, time to “sweep the mountain.” It’s an inside joke. It is what the local homeless call it when the emperor visits, “Sweep the mountain!” It means they must take down all of their 492 blue plastic tents, and mill around, try and not to look homeless for a couple of hours until the emperor leaves Ueno. Then they resurrect their homeless homes. The cops sweep the mountain, but the residents rebuild their tents every time. They put up what they need and go on with life. But no one put up the great pagoda this time. I take a clean piece of paper. Again I paint the mountain and again I find the pagoda at the top. What a fool I am. What a joke my life has been, painting up pagodas better left burnt down.