Underneath the Blooming Cherry Trees - Chronicle of the Window

"Goten Hill at Shinagawa", 1856, in "One Hundred Famous Views of Edo", Hiroshige Utagawa, Print Oban Tateye, 39 x 26  cm, Uoya Eikichi Publisher

“Flower petals

set the mountain in motion -

cherry blossoms”

Hôitsu (1761-1828)

Edo, 1856, early Spring. Late afternoon at Palace Hill, Shinagawa (品川御殿やま), during Hanami Sakura, the Cherry  Blossom   Viewing festival. The air is still warm and lightly perfumed with the delicate scent of cherry blossom, sweet and rose-like. Bluish sky on red horizon. Light subdued, seen through the moving lattice of trees canopy. Shôji screens, gliding slowly in time with one's glaze. To watch these flowers of tranquility, unfolding before our eyes, like the fan of a beautiful woman, at the Yoshiwara District. To marvel at their extreme beauty, blooming so close to their quick death. Nothing lasts, mujô (無常). Yet, to embrace, both their presence and their passing, fully, without regret. Mono no aware (物の哀れ). * 

Palace Hill, Shinagawa, 1856. A view through a window into a day, in Edo Japan. A moment in time and space - a landscape - briefly disclosed to us, as sudare, those bamboo curtains would. Up in the hill, where neither light nor shadow is used to emphasize nature or people, in a world where time passing does not really exist, where human beings are caught into an eternal present instead. Gotenyama.** Here, everything is about now, the present of present things, that can only be grasped from within. Underneath the cherry trees, seated on a flower bed, time and space is what one experiences, the rhythm of the world. Ô Hanami Sakura. When Emperor Saga (785-842) used to hold flower-viewing parties, with a lot of sake and poems recitation. Poems to celebrate the blooming boughs of sakura trees, their luminous and fleeting beauty. The image of life itself. A vibration, a transition between two states, a mysterious and delicate rhythm, an emotion, in harmony to that of nature. Kando. 

Shôji. First screen. The present of past things. Suffering, Dukkha (苦). Walking up the hill together with the loose procession, my eyes are sore by the disfigured hillsides. The balance between man and nature has been deeply upset, yet this disruption is only temporary. The daiba, those earthen ramparts were not meant to prevent things from happening, only to make space for something else. The Black Ships of Commodore Perry in Edo Bay ***, are nothing but a wave in the ocean of time. There are no permanent waves, no more than there are permanent beings. Only an endless movement between emptiness and fullness and in-between, the frailty of our presence into this world. I am there too, standing on the window ledge, watching the procession converging on the cherry blossom clad hill. Enkei. A view from the distance, like in a scenic vignette rescued from a bygone Japan. A Japan of the mind. Perhaps only a dream? 

Shôji. Second screen. The present of present things. Impermanence, mujô (無常). Does one travel for the sake of it or for the memory of it? For centuries, the Japanese nobility and the Samurai warriors have enjoyed the ephemeral beauty of Hanami Sakura. One can still hear their voices along the path, up to the hill. The Emperor, his court, the Samurai warriors and finally, the long procession of servants, catering to their every need. Whispers, snatches of conversation here and there, rustles from the shimmering kimonos of the court ladies. Ima wa mukashi. Now is already gone. Everything is moving. Ukiyo-e...This image, this vision from the window of time and space, this season. Dame Murasaki, walking toward the flowered hill, her dreams carefully folded into the cocoon of her obi. ****. What is life? Multiple layers of reality, hidden narratives along the path of one's existence. Imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. Wabi Sabi. Flawed beauty. Yet, finding consolation in the relentless spirit of travel. Travel underneath the eyes, through the passing of seasons, from one existence to another, between the visible and the invisible, like the bamboo curtain lifted by Prince Genji inside his deserted palace. 

Shôji. Third screen. The present of future things. Emptiness, Sunyata (空). To stand upon this shore of life and watch the sun sink behind the moving screen of cherry trees, conjuring up another vision of our presence into this world. Up on the hill, the blooming of sakura trees, their fiery foliage vibrating in the air, like the diaphanous wings of a dragonfly, mysterious, poignant and ephemeral beauty. Yūgen (幽玄). Beauty and melancholy before the weather's moods, the variations of the light, the atmosphere of the place, the passing of seasons, the transience of all living things. Will we ever be more than a silhouette in the Shadow Play? Palace Hill, Shinagawa. Dame Murasaki, her jūnihitoe ***** adorned with wisteria, now crossing the Bridge of Dreams, leaving behind the inescapable sorrow of human existence, the imperfection of earthly bounds and our unfulfilled need for consolation. Edo, 1856. Same window, different viewer, across the maze of time and the shelter of one's imagination. Hiroshige Utagawa's. A place to linger, a poetic vision of nature and life, a floating world – Ukiyo-e - sometimes visible through the curtain of blooming cherry trees. Ô Hanami Sakura.

“Spring is here -

morning mist

on a nameless mountain”

Bashô (1644-1694)

* The Transience of Things

** Palace Hill

*** Commodore Perry (1794-1858), whose expeditions in Edo Bay, Japan (1852-54) heralded Japan's opening to Western countries and the end of the Edo period

**** Japanese sash for dress and kimono outfits

***** Highly complex kimono wore only by court-ladies in ancient Japan

"Sous les cerisiers en fleur- Chronique de la fenêtre":


"Colline du Palais à Shinagawa", 1856, in "Les Cent Vues d'Edo", Hiroshige Utagawa, Estampe Oban Tateye, 39 x 26 cm, Editions Uoya Eikichi

“Les pétales de fleurs

font bouger la montagne -

cerisiers en fleur”

Hôitsu (1761-1828)

Edo, 1856, début du printemps. Fin d'après-midi sur la Colline du Palais, à Shinagawa (品川御殿やま), durant le Hanami Sakura, le festival de la Contemplation des Cerisiers en Fleur. L'air est encore chaud et légèrement parfumé par la fragrance délicate des cerisiers en fleur, sucrée et comme la rose. Ciel bleuté sur horizon rouge. Lumière tamisée, vue à travers le treillis mouvant des frondaisons des arbres. Écrans Shôji, glissant doucement, au rythme de celui qui les regarde. Contempler ces fleurs de la tranquillité, se déployer devant nos yeux, comme l'éventail d'une jolie femme, dans le quartier de Yoshiwara. S'émerveiller devant leur prodigieuse beauté, s'épanouissant si près de la mort. Rien ne dure, mujô (無常). Et pourtant, embrasser tant leur présence que leur fin, complètement, sans regret. Mono no aware (物の哀れ). * 

La Colline du Palais, Shinagawa, 1856. Une vue par la fenêtre d'une journée à Edo, au Japon. Un instant dans le temps et l'espace – un paysage – qui nous est brièvement révélé, comme le ferait les sudare, ces rideaux de bambous. Là-haut sur la colline, là où ni la lumière ni l'ombre n'est utilisée pour accentuer la nature ou les hommes, dans un monde où le passage du temps n'existe pas vraiment et où les humains sont saisis dans un éternel présent à la place. Gotenyama.** Ici, tout est à propos de maintenant. Le présent des choses présentes, que l'on ne peut appréhender que de l'intérieur. Sous les cerisiers, assis sur un lit de fleurs, le temps et l'espace sont ce que l'on ressent, le rythme du monde. Ô Hanami Sakura. Du temps où l'Empereur Saga (785-842) organisait des excursions pour contempler les cerisiers en fleur, avec beaucoup de saké et des poèmes déclamés. Des poèmes pour célébrer les rameaux florissants des cerisiers, leur beauté lumineuse et éphémère. À l'image de la vie elle-même. Une vibration, une transition entre deux états, un rythme mystérieux et délicat, une émotion en harmonie avec la nature. Kando. 

Shôji. Premier écran. Le présent des choses passées. La souffrance. Dukkha (苦). Marchant vers la colline dans la procession étirée, mes yeux souffrent à la vue de ses flancs défigurés. L'équilibre entre l'homme et la nature a été bouleversé, pourtant cette perturbation n'est que temporaire. Le daiba, ces remparts de terre n'étaient pas là pour empêcher quoi que ce soit, seulement pour faire de la place à quelque chose d'autre. Les Vaisseaux Noirs du Contre-Amiral Perry dans la baie d'Edo *** , ne sont rien d'autre qu'une vague dans l'océan du temps. Il n'y a pas de vague permanente, pas plus qu'il n'y a de créature permanente. Seulement un mouvement sans fin, entre le vide et le plein et entre les deux, la fragilité de notre présence dans ce monde. Je suis là moi aussi, debout près du rebord de la fenêtre, regardant la procession qui converge vers la colline couverte de cerisiers en fleur. Enkei. Une vue lointaine, comme dans ces instantanés pittoresques, rescapés d'un Japon révolu. Un Japon de l'esprit. Peut-être seulement un rêve?

Shôji. Second écran. Le présent des choses présentes. Impermanence, mujô (無常). Voyage t-on pour le voyage lui-même ou pour le souvenir du voyage? Pendant des siècles, la noblesse japonaise et les guerriers samouraï ont apprécié la beauté éphémère du Hanami Sakura. On peut encore entendre leurs voix le long du chemin, en haut de la colline. L'Empereur, sa cour, les guerriers samouraï et finalement, la longue cohorte des serviteurs pourvoyant au moindre de leurs besoins. Chuchotements, bribes de conversations ici et là, frous-frous des kimonos chatoyants des dames de la cour. Ima wa mukashi. Maintenant est déjà passé. Tout bouge. Ukiyo-e... Cette image, cette vision depuis la fenêtre du temps et de l'espace, cette saison. Dame Murasaki marchant vers la colline en fleur, ses rêves soigneusement pliés dans le cocon de son obi ****. Qu'est-ce que la vie? Multiples couches de réalité, histoires cachées le long du chemin de l'existence. Imparfaite, impermanente et incomplète. Wabi Sabi. Beauté imparfaite. Et pourtant, trouver quelque consolation dans l'esprit incessant du voyage. Voyage sous les paupières, à travers les saisons, d'une existence à l'autre, entre le visible et l'invisible, comme le rideau de bambou soulevé par le Prince Genji, dans son palais déserté.

Shôji. Troisième écran. Le présent des choses futures. Le vide, Sunyata (空). Se tenir sur ce rivage-ci de la vie et regarder le soleil s'abîmer derrière le rideau mouvant des cerisiers, évoquant une autre vision de notre existence ici-bas. Là-haut sur la colline, la floraison des cerisiers, leur feuillage incandescent vibrant dans l'air, telles les ailes diaphanes d'une libellule, mystérieuse, poignante et éphémère beauté. Yūgen (幽玄). Beauté et mélancolie face aux humeurs du temps, aux variations de la lumière, à l'atmosphère du lieu, au passage des saisons, au transitoire de toute vie. Sera t-on jamais plus qu'une silhouette dans un théâtre d'ombres? Colline du Palais, Shinagawa. Dame Murasaki, son jūnihitoe ***** orné de glycines, franchit maintenant le Pont des Songes, laissant derrière elle l'inéluctable chagrin de l'existence humaine, l'imperfection des attachements terrestres et notre besoin inassouvi de consolation. Edo, 1856. Même fenêtre, spectateur différent, dans le labyrinthe du temps et le refuge de l'imagination. Celle d'Hiroshige Utagawa. Un lieu où s'attarder, une vision poétique de la nature et de la vie, un monde flottant – Ukiyo-e – parfois visible à travers le rideau des cerisiers en fleur. Ô Hanami Sakura.

“Le printemps est là -

brume du matin

sur une montagne sans nom”

Bashô (1644-1694) 

* L'éphémère de toute chose

** Colline du Palais

*** Contre-Amiral Perry (1794-1858), dont les expéditions successives dans la baie d'Edo (1852-54), au Japon, ont annoncé l'ouverture à l'Occident et la fin de la période Edo

**** Écharpe japonaise pour robes et kimonos

***** Kimono extrêmement complexe, porté exclusivement par les dames de la cour, dans l'ancien Japon

© Ariane Kveld Jaks, 2012.04.10.

"Eyes Wide Shut"

“We are an ocean

behind our eyes

But never will we know

the tide schedule”*

In the Ocean Gallery the people were gathered in clusters and individuals reading the empty labels beneath the empty frames. Ocean backwash. Soft late afternoon light and the silvery foam. Beyond the horizon, in the distance a serene music flowed up like a scent of nostalgia in the breeze. What paintings are those? Whose eyes once looking at things now long gone? It was the kind of afternoon Ray always liked. One with endless walks along the beach. A sense of fluidity he could not find anywhere else in the colony. What was it with him and the Gray Shadows? He was not a settler, nor was he a surveyor. Everything here bespoke of a time he knew he will never get to see.

“Eyes from beyond to walk in beauty

of endless wake along the sea”

Ray suddendly remembered. He remembered the first time he arrived at the Gray Shadows. It was the day after the storm that took away the Portrait Gallery. All those faces washed away by the sea and with them the pain of separation. The Elders called for a special gathering. They showed the settlers the new altered world and alluded to the sorrow shared by each generation. Bodies of water had created new realities and opened the doors to a new sense of space and time.

“ And all that quest for light and dust

will come at last with eyes wide shut”

In the long and faceless gallery, a windowpane slammed shut in the wind. The shore was now almost empty. A group of friends wandered idly, whispering names that passed slowly among them. It was like a recollection they did not know they had. Someone from afar uttered a strange word. The others became speechless and stood, bewildered. An evening chill moved through the group as they were trying to move forward. Fönster. Fönster. Fönster*. The voice said the word one last time and listened to the few ones who started echoing it. And suddenly, there were no more walls or frames or windows. No apartness from either side of the ocean. Everything for a brief moment just fell into place. The wind blew again, down the shore. Ocean up-rush. Eyes wide shut.

* Poem by Jean-Claude Tardiff, in "Nous, la multitude", Ed. Le Temps des Cerises, 2011

* Window, in Swedish

"Untitled, 1990", courtesy of Jerry Uelsmann to whom I here warmly express my gratitude for letting me use his artwork

"All the Alcoved Windows of the World"

Detroit, 3.30. p.m. Yet another empty afternoon spent at the office, rummaging in these papers. Every corner of my desk buried under these useless forms, time, precious time stolen from me. My precious time! Raindrops still echoing inside my head: tap, tap, tap! Light, shadow and every moment in-between. Shadow. Click. Tomorrow, leaving early. Find an excuse, skip lunch. Long walk to 5200 Woodward Avenue. The Detroit Institute of Arts. Seeing them again: The Intuitive Eye. It does not matter that there are so many untitled artworks. Untitled? What does that mean anyway, a name? Mine is meaningless. I like this place so much. I like the shade. So welcoming.

As long as I feel the fresh breeze in my hair

And see the sun shining strong on the leaves*    

    

The calmness. The remoteness. I saw a photographer last week. She stayed a very long time, wandering through the alleys with her camera. What was she looking for in this park? The light? The shadow? Perhaps, she was hoping to catch that shard of unexpected light that appears after a rainstorm?  I heard that photographers are in-between people. They see the intervals between things. The slanting light of a late afternoon, raking across the wet grass, the sudden window in the darkened sky. A window in the sky: its invisible frame and the trees outside look wind-whipped. Everything is alive, moving. Gently moving in the sultry air.

Life. Click.  Mine is a riddle to me. Like a dream saw from afar. A blurred picture. Sometimes, I am inside the picture frame, feeling everything in every way. Other times, just fading away. And where no light falls, the shadows are melancholic in their opacity. This is the order of things. No foreseeable denouement for any of us, just the fleeting glimpse of our presence, the "sunlight of the sun on the side of a house". Here and now. This bench under the tree foliage, so lonely and haunting. I had to come back. See the light again, the muted colors of this place. Had to just be for a while. The photographer is back too, now. Perhaps, she is the one I should emulate? The Intuitive Eye. Hers are so hopeful, creating small epiphanies, windows from within.

Light, subdued. Click. Detroit, 9 p.m. Time to go. The sky, now ominous. It will rain soon: tap, tap, tap!

What better thing could destiny grant me?

Other than the sensual passing of life in moments

Of ignorance such as this one?*      

I can see now. I can see all the alcoved windows of the world.

* Heteronyms II: Nothing Inside of Nothing, from Odes, Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa) in Fernando Pessoa & Co., Grove Press, 1998

Image: courtesy of Patricia Lay-Dorsey, to whom I here warmly express my gratitude for letting me use her artwork.

TITLE: Through Edward Hopper's Eyes #7
SERIES: Image is part of a series called "Light and Shadow." It can be seen in its entirety on:

http://www.patricialaydorsey.com
DATE: September 16, 2007
CAMERA: Canon EOS DIGITAL REBEL XT
SETTINGS: ISO 400, Aperture f/11, Exposure 1/400 second, no flash

"The Bottom Line"

"Night Windows", 1928, Edward Hopper, Oil on Canvas, 73.7 x 86.4 cm, MoMa, New York

"You are nothing, but a voyeur..." First, there are the silences. Those moments where nothing and nobody will be able to reach you. You put the Do Not Disturb sign on your door handle. You want her all for yourself, don't you? It is almost as if she knew, someone would inevitably book the shabby room under the rooftop, just to have a peek at her. What else is there to do, anyway? Looking at her, this woman in her pink chemise, almost offering her body to male gaze. Perhaps the end of boredom? Anything to get away from the easel, the brushes, the sketchbook, the relentless question. "What are you working on, now?". Better not to answer, at all. Better to remain silent. What do these art critics really understand, about your painting? They talk about Hopper's silence, but they keep asking you to expand on it! You: "Everything is there, in my painting". Them: "Quite right, Mr Hopper, but what can you tell us about it?". What can one say about  it, about life? Alone, or surrounded with people, it does not make any difference. In the end, you are alone. Jo understands that, or at least, she gave up fighting with your silence(s). It is no use. Words are deceiving. In a minute, someone will say or do something and spoil everything. They look, but they do not see.

"Night Windows", 1928. Hopper (1882-1967) likes this painting. Jo, too. At first, she was reticent, as she always is when you indulge your voyeuristic penchant. "You are nothing, but a voyeur...", she said. Am I, really? And what, if I am? When Edward Hopper painted "Night Windows" in 1928, only five years after his breakthrough: "The Mansard Roof", at the Brookyn Museum since 1923, he wanted to try something new. Really? What Jo saw, what everybody saw, at first, was another scantily clad woman, alone in her hotel room - but, is she really? - bending over something, no one will ever see. The idea for this painting came after yet another pointless argument with Jo. You caught her writing in her diary, and stupidly asked what about. Why does one ever ask such a question? She said, she is tired of posing for you, only to end up on the canvas, as an anonymous bottom. You said, what's wrong with that? Bottom line? You are a posterior-centric person. How can you make her see what you see, beyond your obvious fascination with female derriere? What is there to see, anyway?

 

In "Night Windows", what you see is not what you get. Hopper's penchant for female bottom is transformed into some kind of visual pun. First, there are the silences. Then, the loneliness, and almost immediately after it, the emptiness. Peering at a shapely woman in her nightie, unaware of your presence, is just an excuse. It is difficult to convey in painting, what your inner world looks like. How can "Night Windows" be labelled a voyeuristic painting? The light is too bright. The window frame on the right-hand side is curtained, and her body is too hidden to feed your fantasy, the way you like it. What then? The canvas? The lines? The colour linkages? Hopper's visual language is not really there to communicate with us - the onlookers - nor does it try to share something with us. Hopper is and remains an individualist, at heart. "I don't think I ever tried to paint the American scene, I'm trying to paint myself", you once said to an art critic. Is "Night Windows", another selfish visual statement? Besides the visual spun - the rounded corner of the painted building that reiterates the rounded body of the woman - "Night Windows", is not only about intimacy spied upon. It is about the human condition. The bare essentials: in painting and in life. 

Although, a recurrent pictorial device, the rückenfigur, has been used for many different purposes. Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840), for instance, used it to tell us something about our relation to nature, to the divine. His rückenfigur is here to communicate, to make us feel what lies beyond the simple act of looking. Hopper's rückenfigur, like his windows, are not about hope or revelation. They seem to exist only to witness the empty hauntedness of our condition. They are not narratives, they are memento mori. Remember death. And before it happens, there is the long awaited fulfilment that will never happen. Me, a voyeur? Jo got it all wrong. But, I do like windows. I like what they remind me of: the inescapable silence, within and around us. They have a poetic dimension, too. They are the speechless midpoint of our existence. Of course, they are also, passageways, thresholds. But to what, exactly? I am not sure. Perhaps, to the end of boredom, resignation, melancholy? But, I do not believe in the after. I am here and now. Hopper, the painter. Stuck with the everlasting now. Am I a voyeur? I confess, I like a bit of emotional espionage. New York is so beautiful, in summer. I went back to this hotel, with its shabby room, underneath the rooftop. Waited a long time,  in the dark, sweating in the sultry air, just to get a glimpse at her. Beautiful, and beyond my reach. She simply does not care about me, about being seen in her nightie. Does she know, I am a painter?