Ryoanji revisited

"I learn only to be contented"

- Mitsukuni Mito (1628-1700)

54 second meditation on light

Accidental sashimi

I received a wonderful cookbook for my birthday in January called "Japanese Cooking A simple Art" by Shizuo Tsuji.  This book was first published in 1980, so it is a veritable classic and considered the "bible of Japanese cooking".  It is as much a primer on Japanese cuisine as a collection of recipes.

As most of you know I studied French patisserie and boulangerie in Paris a number of years ago.  So I am no stranger to the kitchen.  Despite the fact I specialized in the sweet part of French cuisine, I have tackled many a complicated savory dish.  But I honestly had no clue about Japanese cooking.  And when you are living in Japan this is a problem.  A trip to the market is a comedy.  I can identify tomatoes and onions, chicken and beef visually.  But anything packaged, anything with a label is a huge shoulder shrug. 

So armed with this new cookbook I have set out to learn something about Japanese cooking.  I've become a bit more adventurous in the market, buying things I never would have before.  I ask a lot of questions of the staff: "Bonito wa doko desu ka?", "Kore wa mirin desu ka?"

So yesterday I bought a lovely piece of fish.  I'm not very good at identifying fish, even in English, but I'm guessing it was Sea Bream.  I'd found a recipe in my book and was preparing to pan-fry it.  When you buy fish or meat in a Japanese market, besides the lovely decoration in the package, there is often a seasoning packet or condiment.  I'd tried the little packet that came with the pork cutlets I had bought once; it was all right, but nothing special.  When I peeled back the cellophane of the styrofoam tray, besides the fish there was a little mound of shredded daikon radish and a packet of something.  Curious, I opened it and tasted it.  Wasabi.  I put it all together.  The beautiful cut of fish, the daikon garnish, wasabi.  This was sashimi.  This was meant to be eaten raw, uncooked.  I was about to murder this fish.  Oh-la-la, quelle massacre!

But what did I know of preparing sashimi.  I quickly looked up sashimi in my "Japanese Cooking" book.  I read the section, studied the diagrams and took my knife, which was most definitely not a sashimi-bocho, and sliced up the fish.  Now anyone that is a sushi connoisseur knows cutting indeed affects the flavor of the fish.  Paper-thin slices taste differently than thicker slices.  I thought of the Simpsons episode when Lisa convinces the family to go out for sushi.  When the master sushi chef is indisposed Homer eats a piece of sashimi that is poisonous because it was incorrectly cut by the apprentice chef.

Well, I'm sure a master chef would be horrified at my slicing of this fish.  He may even be horrified at the quality and freshness of it.  But for my first attempt at sashimi I have to say, おいし かった (it was delicious).

Anticipating spring

I never thought of Japan as a cold place.  All those old Ozu films, you never see people in overcoats and scarves.  His films all have titles like "Late Spring", "Early Summer" and "Equinox Flower".  (Well, his final work was called "An Autumn Afternoon").

Fifteen winters in New York could not have prepared me for the cold of Kyoto.  I don't think I have ever been so cold in my life.  It is a dank, bone-rattling cold.  The temperatures are similar to New York: 40 - 45°F (4 - 7°C) during the day, 30 - 35°F (-1 - 2°C) at night.  But it is damp like California.  That is a painful, biting combo.

The other difference is one of architecture.  New York buildings are solid - brick, stone, steel, concrete.  And insulated against the cold.  When you come indoors you leave the frosty temperatures outside.  It's warm, cozy.

Japanese houses (at least the old ones) are designed to stay cool in the sweltering summers.  The walls are thin with no insulation to speak of, and there are a lot of windows to throw open and get the breezes moving through the house on a hot humid day.  There is no consideration at all in this architecture for the three months when it is bitter cold.

When I wake in the morning it is about 34°F (1°C) - inside!  No joke.  34°F.  Yes, there are heaters, but they are no match for these kind of temperatures.  And the little heat they throw literally goes right out the windows, or through the lightweight walls.  I imagine it is something like trying to heat a tent in the winter.  It's just never going to be warm.

I have developed routines to combat the cold.  I read somewhere that in the old days the Japanese would take a warm bath before bed; the heat of the bath would transfer to the bed.  I have adopted this practice.  In fact, I can't imagine entering my bed now without first taking a hot bath.  There is an electric blanket which I sandwich between the other blankets.  This keeps me warm through the night.  Really the only time I can say I'm actually warm is when I'm either in the bath or in bed.

In the morning once the heater is going I dress as quickly as possible, like it is a contest.  Layer upon layer.  I wear sweaters, scarves, beanies and fingerless mittens indoors all day.  I take off the gloves to cook and eat.  I bought some "HEATTECH" thermal underwear from Uniqlo which I can say may have saved my life this winter.  Note to others living in frigid climates.

If I am at home, working on the computer, etc. I usually have the electric blanket wrapped about me and another heavy, wool blanket across my lap.  I feel like an old man waiting to die.

Warm sake also helps.

I am not complaining.  It is actually kind of funny.  It is interesting how one's survival instincts kick in.  This is a winter I will not soon forget.   

Daigoji (醍醐寺)

A temple is a quiet place by design.  Add to that quietness the dimension of snow and you have entered a world so incredibly peaceful you have to check your pulse to make sure you are still alive, that you haven't somehow crossed into the next life.

I knew it was going to snow.  I saw it in the clouds the evening before.  When I opened the drapes in the morning there was already a thin blanket over my garden.  I'd seen photos of the temples and gardens of Kyoto covered in snow, but so far this winter the snowfall had only been light dustings, disappearing a few hours later.  This was a proper snow.  It was not aggressive accompanied by blustery winds.  No.  As one would expect in Japan it was delicate, elegant.  It was however rather wet, unlike the snow in the Alps or even the Sierras.

While most people prepared for a day indoors, warm and cozy, I set out for Daigoji Temple which is not too far from my home in Uji.  I was hoping for something gorgeous and otherworldly and that is exactly what I got.  The faded orange of this 10th Century temple against the white of the fresh snow and the wet, almost black branches of the trees was a study in contrasts.  I was almost completely alone in this tranquil environment.

The crunch of the snow beneath my feet.
My warm breath hanging in the air.
The damp cold biting my toes through two layers of socks.
Tree branches sagging with the weight of a million snow flakes, then dropping them all at once when it is too much to bear.

There is something meditative about falling snow.  Your perception of depth is challenged as your eyes focus and refocus on the flakes falling near your face and at a distance.  There is a weightlessness too.  As you stare at the snow falling you get the sense you are rising, that the snow is not coming down, but you are going up.  Strange, hypnotic.

Wabi-sabi

"Wabi-sabi suggests sentiments of desolation and solitude, positive characteristics in Mahayana Buddhism representing liberation from a material world and transcendence to a simpler life."

Wabi-sabi is a concept I've been obsessed with since Ito-san casually introduced me to it a few months ago.  Like many words, phrases and concepts in Japanese it is nearly impossible to explain or define, even in Japanese.  Part of the mystique, I suppose.  Ask any Japanese person about wabi-sabi and they will invariably say, "Ah, muzukashii desu."  (Ah, that is difficult).  For me, with my limited understanding of it, wabi-sabi is Japan.  It is the very essence of all things Japanese.  It is that je ne sais quoi that I love about this country and its ways.  What's odd is I feel I've known wabi-sabi my whole life; I just didn't know there was a term for it, and that the term was Japanese.

Author Leonard Koren wrote a thin volume on the subject in 1994 which I purchased.  He describes it thusly:

"Wabi-sabi is the quintessential Japanese aesthetic.  It is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.  It is a beauty of things modest and humble.  It is a beauty of things unconventional."

Nihon no eigakan

About this time every year I go on a movie binge, trying to catch all the films nominated for an Academy Award.  Well, all the ones that sound interesting anyway.  This task, which I never complete, and sometimes never even start, is especially difficult when living in Japan.  Many films are never released here, others have a delayed release of up to 6 months.

Tonight I went to see my first American film in Japan.  I have already seen several Japanese films here.  While the Japanese cineplex may appear on the surface to be very similar to their American counterpart, there are some subtle differences.

I went to Toho Cinemas which is a big chain with theaters across the country.  The first thing that struck me was the total absence of a box office.  Tickets are purchased at a kiosk not unlike something you'd find at an airport self-check-in.  I hate these machines in any venue in any country.  It removes the humanity from whatever transaction you are making.  In a country that still has uniformed elevator drivers and crossing guards this was disappointing.

Tickets seem to be a little more expensive than the US: ¥1,800 ($17.50).

The concessions are a bit more elaborate. No, there is not sushi.  There are however hotdogs and beer.  I haven't had a beer in a movie theatre since I was 16 (?) in Germany.  I think there are some cool movie theaters in Brooklyn that now serve beer and wine.  I love the idea, and of course I drank a beer tonight, but it's like watching a live soccer match after drinking a few beers: you have to use the toilet, but don't dare leave for fear of missing something.  Popcorn here comes in a variety of flavors including barbecue (?!).  I went with the traditional salt (no butter), of course.

I was hoping for something less than the advertising assault that one now gets in any American big chain movie theatre.  No.  There were a good 20 minutes of advertisements and trailers.  The ads are more focused and self-promoting.  So, if there were 10 minutes of ads and 10 minutes of trailers, 90% of the ads were for or about Toho Cinemas.  Maybe because the ads were in Japanese and I couldn't understand what was being flogged it didn't bother me so much.  A few of the trailers for American films were preceded by 30 second spots by the director introducing their latest film and hoping everyone in Japan would go see it.  Interesting.  Ben Stiller even spoke a bit of Japanese.  A good 75% of the film trailers, American or Japanese, were Action/Thriller films with insane visual effects, including a new "Godzilla" and a new "Robocop".  Really?  Yes, Hollywood has completely run out of ideas.

The house lights do not come up even half way until the very last credit has run by.

Oh, and the film - "American Hustle" - was sugoi!  Go see it.

Robert no uchi (reprise)

Winter at Nanzenji (南禅寺)

You may have wondered if Kyoto was as beautiful in winter as it is in autumn.  While the tourists, Japanese included, flock to Kyoto in the autumn for the changing leaves and again in the spring for the sakura (cherry blossoms), I think most would agree that each season has its own unique beauty and charm.  I think to say one is more beautiful than the other is really to miss something.

There is a lovely quietness to winter.  There is something solemn about it.  There is weight.  There is clarity in winter, everything exposed, the bare trees cutting up the silver sky.  With snow everything becomes high-contrast, like a black-and-white film, sharp, clean.  But it is also soft and slightly out of focus, your breath and low clouds clinging to the day.

Winter is something to celebrate as much as autumn or any season.  Listen to it speak.

Summer, Saisho-in

The evening bell, solemn and bronze

in the grandfather temple down the hill,

sounds dimly here.

Slow beat of the mountain's heart, perhaps,

or determined pulse of pine tree (gift of the birds)

growing out of the crotch of the slippery monkey tree.

All one, perhaps--

bell, mountain, tree

and steady cicada vibrato

and little white dog

and quiet artist-priest, carver of Noh masks,

fashioning a bamboo crutch for the ancient peach tree--

symbol of strength, symbol of concern.

All cool under nodding crowns of the vertical forest.

all seeking in this place,

all finding in this place--

hidden yet open to all--

the spirit in the cedar's heart.

- Unknown

ありがとう ございます / Thank you very much

この度はbe京都にて行われた私の個展”First Impressions”に沢山の方にお越し頂き、心よりお礼申し上げます。皆様の温かいご支援、ご関心やご高配を賜り誠に有難うございました。私にとってアメリカ以外の国で行う初めての個展がどのようなものになるのか想像もできず不安もありましたが、この度の個展は今まで行った私の個展の中でも最高のものになったと思っています。

このような経験ができた事に心より感謝しています。

有難うございました。

また今回の個展を開くにあたり、私の作品を披露する機会を与えてくださったギャラリー、be京都のディレクターである岡元さんとそれ実現する為に力を貸してくれた友人である西村 絵美子さん、また友人を紹介してくれたブルックリンにいる春日亜希さんにこの場を借りてお礼を申し上げます。

ありがとう ございます.  すぐに あいましょぅ.

I wanted to thank everyone that came by be-kyoto gallery this last week to see my exhibition "First Impressions".  I was really touched by the support, the interest and the respect.  I didn't quite know what to expect as it was my first exhibition outside of the US.  I can honestly say without any sentimentality that this was the best exhibition I have had.  I am so grateful for the experience.

A special thanks to gallery director Okamoto-san for giving me the opportunity to share my art, my friend Emiko Nishimura for her help organizing everything and Aki Kasuga all the way in Brooklyn for the introduction.

Thank you.  See you soon.