Tanaka Migiwa

2018.6.15

I think the fascinating point of suiboku (ink wash) paintings is encouraging the dialog between the strong images in my mind and the spontaneous events arising from the sumi (black ink).

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Through my search for paper, I found out one thing; to put it simply, the paper made by traditional handwork, by putting in much time and careful labor and without as much as possible using chemicals, endures the longest. The raw materials of traditional Japanese paper are kozo (mulberry), mitsumata (Oriental paper-bush), and gampi (wikstroemia); I am very fond of the simplicity of kozo, and in the course of my paper search, I came into touch with various types of unsized kozo paper for the first time, and was utterly fascinated with its suppleness, pristine texture, and subtle shadings. I also felt applying dosa spoils the texture a little bit. Then, I had a strong desire to paint directly on kigami. But even so, I did not know how to paint in this way, because I had no experience of directly painting on kigami. Then, I thought, “I could learn directly from nature” in the same way as I had done before, and decided to directly paint nature just as it is. Previously, I had first made a sketch outside, and after returning to my studio I produced the finished work by looking at the rough sketch. But this way changed and nowadays, I paint a finished piece directly from the scenery. For the past three years or so, I have searched for rooms with a window overlooking a lake or the sea, or I park by the waterside and paint in my car. If I could paint in the open air like I used to when doing quick charcoal sketching, then that would be good, but because the paper is so thin, many times it was snatched by the wind. Also, when outside, I found the paper was drying too quickly. As a result, now I consider any space at a window from which I can see scenery to my liking is a sort of “pop-up atelier” and I settle in and create my works there.

When using kigami, which is quite different from sized paper, the water and sumi permeate the whole sheet, and at first, I lost my way because it did not work at all in the way I was used to. However, it was when I was painting the moon all night at the tip of a peninsula of Amakusa extending into the East China Sea that finally I was able to familiarize myself with the character of kigami.

The room where I was working had two large windows, one facing the east and one the west, and so I gazed upon the moon rising in the early evening from the east window, and the moon setting at dawn from the west window. When I focus on painting, the self gradually disappears leaving the feeling of being a conduit; that evening I felt that the moonlight passed through me and spread itself on the surface of the paper. I felt rather than me painting, my hand had been gently borrowed to help the sumi and water to freely permeate and spread between the paper fibers as they wanted. I felt the moonlight turning into particles, lightly scattering, and sprinkling across the world, while the moon was breathing and gently sighing. This was the very first time I had heard the sound of the moon. In my way of sensing, the sound was like a fine silver melody played on a string instrument, and it seemed to me that I heard tactually with the skin, not through my ears. It was also a sense that I became fully aware of hearing this amazing sound, rather than just normally hearing it. Then I understood, “Oh, just as I thought, the moon does sing.”

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