statement

From T’s notes 2012 - 2014
Tsuyoshi Higashijima
2012
August

絵画を屋外で制作し展示するのは、絵が生きているから、LIFE。絵画として成熟したら屋内に移動してゆっくりと眠ってもらう。もう変わることもない。外で日差しやスコール、台風を経験している。その絵画の身辺に起こった出来事とともに、埋葬する。ぼくが知らないところで心地よい風や光そして声も聞いている。

November

美術館のレストランからみた景色。樹々はずっと動いていた。見ていると全部動いていた。水面も。そのとどまっていない様相を含めて、水とよんでいる。諸行無常。特別な存在ではなく、自分の想念が、その形式、形態をとっている。観察してそれを雪とか雫とか細分化する。中庭のスペースに作品を置きたいと思った。雪のなかに。だんだんと雪にうまっていく。

2013
April

「思惟の光」
見える光とつくり出す光。自分で光を見つける。選ぶ。留める。西に沈む光の静けさ。「ねむり」につく前のかすかな光が消えかかる前に一瞬明るくなる。その光をきゅっと集める。その一瞬に焦点をあわせる。悟り。ごく普通のあたりまえに自然と待って溶けてなくなる。その瞬間あかるくなる光。

May

最近、和紙を使うことがある。紙に絵具をのせてdrawする。そのほうがしっくりくるから。

和紙を何枚か重ねて透けるような感じ。重なりのはかない空間や、表面から見えない、犠牲となったそれぞれに敬意をはらっているのかもしれない。どこかでぼくの30歳前からのテーマambiguous virtueを再び感じる。sceneの重なり。

August

ぼくはワンコに話しかける。彼の言葉(音、声)は言葉ではないけど、伝わっているし、彼からの伝言もわりと正確に受けとっている感じがする。ぼくの絵画の伝達方法も似ている。ワンコにわかって欲しくて話しかけるように。

September

絵は生きている。絵を、犬と光とともに追う。いろやかたちを考えながら。未定であいまいな全体と部分が行き来しながら、すこしずつ完結していく。

ぼくの絵は、あっちこっちに行く感じ。でもだんだん時間を積み重ねて、それぞれに大切に思うし、迷うことや希望を、人に見せるとかそうでないとかにかかわらず、痕跡として残している。からだをバロメーターにして、吐きだして、それを繰り返す。それぞれに愛着があるから「それでよい」と思えてきた。美術の歴史やテーマとか、社会とかそういうカテゴライズをかるがると超えてしまう。そのひびきがじぶんの美に対する執着だと思う。

一瞬の至福は相対的に人生に似ている。一瞬が永遠であるかのような感覚。そして永遠は一瞬であるかのように。

2014
February

作品を制作するということは、展示までを含めたあるひとつの時間と空間の構築だと思う。絵である作品。作品という絵。僕にとって木枠をつくることは絵を考えることである。それは準備運動でもありdrawingでもある。ものを生み出す建築者(設計者ではなく)builderとして僕は制作する。

August

モンスーン地域に生息する。湿気を伴うことでの、相貌や声、皮膚感覚。キャベツ畑のキャベツに湿り気を与えるキャベツのまわりの空気や空。時間のうつろいや天気、気象の変化。水がたゆたい、あふれ、水蒸気となって拡散する。 Self-portrait on the Water。水に映る、そして水にはねかえる鏡。その上で舵をとる自画像。その方向を固体としてあるいは気体や液体としての自画像を描いてみる。

曖昧な美徳—まさに地を這っている水のように、たくさんの事象の中かで次第に自分の意識の中へ流れ着いてくるものを美徳とし、それらが集まって結びついていくこと、それが作品になっていくこと。

 

2012
August

Creating, exhibiting a painting outdoors is about life—the painting itself is living. Once the painting has matured, I move it inside and let it sleep for a while. It won't change any further, now. I move it inside and I bury it, along with the things it experienced outside, the things that took place around it: the sun's rays, the downpours, the typhoons. It hears things, too, outside, that I do not hear: a pleasant gust of wind, the sound of the light, voices.

November

The view from the restaurant in an art museum: the trees were constantly moving. Looking closer, I saw that each and every tree was moving. The surface of the water, too. Our idea of water already contains this state of constant flux. Impermanence. My thoughts are the same as all of this. They have no privileged existential status. They change shape, form, in the same way as everything else. We observe and divide things up into parts: snow, or droplets, and so on. Watching all this, I felt like I wanted to show my work in the courtyard of the gallery. In the snow. For it to gradually become buried in snow.

2013
April

'The Light of Contemplation'
There is the light that is seen, and the light that is created. Discovering light for myself. Choosing. Pinning something down. The quietude of the light sinking in the west. That moment of brightness, just before the faint light starts disappearing and one falls into sleep. Gathering up those flashes of light. Training one's focus on those single moments. Enlightenment. Waiting, quite naturally, as if it was nothing at all, then the dissolving, the disappearing. The light that flares in that moment.

May

Recently, I've been using washi paper. I put paint on the paper, and then draw into it. It just feels right, somehow. I like the see-through effect when you layer several sheets of washi on top of one another. Perhaps it's my way of paying my respects to those bits that are sacrificed – the fleeting space between the sheets, and the parts you can no longer see from the surface. Somehow it makes me think about to my theme from before I was 30: ambiguous virtue. The layering of scenes.

August

I talk to my dog. My words (the sounds I make, my voice) are not words, but I manage to express myself, and I feel as though I understand pretty well what he wants to get across as well. It's similar to how I pass along my message when I'm painting. I speak to my dog because I want him to understand me.

September

My paintings are alive. I go chasing after my paintings, just like I chase my dog, like I chase the light. All the while thinking about colors, shapes. As the undecided, vague painting as a whole and its component parts take turns to fall in and out of certainty, ambiguity, the painting gradually approaches completion.

I feel like my paintings go all over the place. As time builds up in each of them, I come to value each and every one. They remain as a vestige of the process, regardless of whether I'm stuck in a rut with them, regardless of the hopes I have for them, or whether or not I show them to people. I make my body a barometer, spit everything inside me out, and then repeat the whole process again. It's because I feel affection for my works that I can start to feel that they're done, that they're okay as they are. I can easily brush off thoughts about how they fit in with art history, their themes, how they will be received and categorized by people. Those kinds of thoughts are just fixations, that go against my own concept of what art is.

A single moment of paradise is relatively similar to human life. That sensation of a moment lasting forever. That eternity is just a moment.

2014
February

The process of creating a piece takes the form of a single timespan, a single space, that lasts until it is exhibited. A work of art which is a picture. A picture which is a work of art. For me, making the wooden frame for the canvas means thinking about that picture. It's a form of warm-up exercise, and it's also a kind of drawing. I create as a builder, not as a designer, or an architect.

August

Inhabiting a monsoon climate. The change in the way things look, the altered sensations to the voice, the skin, that accompany the increase in humidity. The air and the sky around the cabbages that give the cabbages in the cabbage field their dampness. The meandering of time, the changes to the weather, the climate. The water swaying from side to side, overflowing, becoming steam, dispersing. Self-portrait on the Water. Reflections in water, the mirror, bouncing off the water. The self-portrait that sets sail from there. I want to try painting a self-portrait that takes that direction, as a solid, or else as a liquid, a gas.

Ambiguous virtue – all kinds of things gradually entering one's consciousness, just like water trickling along the ground. Taking this process as virtue. Seeing these things come together, turning into a work of art.

(Translated by Polly Barton)

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