"It's hard to explain my work."
The man at the counter said.
The person in question works as a calligrapher.
He stopped by Bokumo on his way back from displaying his work at a nearby gallery.
"I put up a piece of paper next to the calligraphy with the name of the piece and a brief explanation, but I had a hard time figuring out what to write."
I understand! I empathize with that feeling.
Sometimes art becomes less interesting the moment you explain it.
For example, musicians' self-written liner notes. The story behind the birth of a song they wrote, or how they felt when they wrote it, etc. Some people may like them, but I don't really like to see them.
The reason is that there have been many times when I have been disappointed to find that my interpretation of a musician's work was different from their true intentions.
I had assumed that it would fit into my world and was moved by it. But then I realized that my interpretation was actually wrong. As a result, I felt like the depth of the music had disappeared.
I would have been happier if I had remained mistaken.
However, the opposite is also true: adding an explanation to a work can expand the ways you can enjoy it.
When it comes to paintings, I'm the type of person who wants to appreciate them after learning about the historical background and the artist's life.
For example, Gauguin's masterpiece "Where do we come from, what are we, where are we going?"
After losing his beloved daughter and being deeply in debt, he fled to Tahiti to paint a picture there, intending to die once it was complete. When I learned this background, the painting suddenly seemed to shine.
What does it mean to live? What does it mean to die? Such anguish. I felt that Gauguin's feelings, which I couldn't understand just by looking at the painting without any other information, were approaching me in a terrifying way like a dark force.
However, if you think about it, it's not like Gauguin himself told us, "I painted this picture in such a terrible situation."
After the work left the artist's hands, those around him added explanations, making it easier for the viewer to understand.
Even if the real Gauguin was pretending to be troubled, while in fact painting while having a good time with his new girlfriend and saying things like "This dark depiction is so much fun!" (I don't think that's the case), that's information I don't want to know.
After all, it's more beautiful when the artist is no longer involved in the work once it leaves their hands. That allows the imagination to flourish. I feel like that.
But what if you were the creator?
It must be frustrating when someone interprets something completely differently than how you thought it would be. I completely understand the desire to explain a little bit and help guide their imagination.
That's why I sympathize with calligraphers who want to write explanations next to their works. I also understand their worries about what to write to help interpret the work.
I went back to the gallery later to look at the works and the explanations next to them.
Oh, I see.
It wasn't an explanation. It was more like a poem. There was nothing in particular that he wanted to convey. It was written as a short sentence that seemed to be the sudden thought of one visitor who saw the work.
I see, it's a work + a poem that is evoked by the work. That's clever. It also seems to vaguely indicate the direction you want people to interpret it.
I thought it was wonderful that the calligrapher had agonized over this method. It looks unobtrusive.
That's right.
I also work writing scripts for radio, although it's nothing spectacular enough to be called a work of art.
Occasionally, for those curious enough to ask, we will show them the script over the counter.
Thinking about it now, I realize that at times like this, I tend to explain myself too much. That's bad.
"The article was written in a way that took the customer's story as the basis, added some of my own experiences, and brought the initial introduction together at the end."
...I don't need it. I don't care. I don't really benefit from knowing about the creator's circumstances, and explanations of sentence structure are lame.
Ah, I hated writing my own liner notes, so I did it. I'm embarrassed. I regret it.
In that case, maybe I should have spoken in a poetic style, like a calligrapher.
"People have both warmth and coldness, don't they? They're human, after all."
...No good. It's too Mitsuo-esque. It's a shame that his poetry repertoire is so empty...
I guess in my case it's better to keep quiet. Silence is golden.
Lesson learned.
I try not to touch what I send out. I leave it up to the recipient to interpret. If they are pleased with it, I take it as encouragement. That's beautiful.
By the way, the calligrapher in question is Manabu Bandai. He and his wife practice calligraphy under the name "Senka Banka."
His main job is as a brewer at Shimizu Seizaburo Shoten, which produces the Mie sake brand "Zaku."
A calligrapher and a sake brewer. People who pursue Japanese beauty. They have a common thread and it's really cool.
