A wish for peace gentle footsteps.

Cloths of heaven NO.1
2019
by M.Kaneyasu

 During the global pandemic, when the world grew quiet and movement became restricted, I found myself returning to a simple gesture: drawing circles in ink. What began as a repetitive act slowly became a way to breathe, to create space, and to hold fragile hope within uncertain days.

I create space by drawing circles in ink.
As I enclose various thoughts within each circle, the act of drawing feels deeply comforting.

These four paintings were created during the global pandemic, when our movements were restricted and a sense of confinement filled the days.

From my small room near the Tama River, which flows south of Tokyo, this was the sky I saw.

Around the time I completed these four works, I encountered the poem “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by W.B. Yeats.　「Tread softly because you tread on my dreams」

Cloths of Heaven  No2
2019
by M.Kaneyasu

Perhaps I wanted to entrust some quiet hope to the clouds hanging in the sky—and to the poets who have looked up at it before me.

The sky is always infinite. It gently envelops humanity scattered across the world as one.

I hope there will be no war.
As Yeats wrote in his poem, I wish that we might tread softly—gently—upon this world.

                                   

                                            

Is sumo just a sport, or something more?

　Sumo wrestlers and Gladiators both push the limits of human strength. But one seeks the divine, while the other fought for survival. In an age of frenzy and noise, have we lost the "sacred silence"?

　Sumo wrestlers’ physiques are often referred to as "chanko bodies." 　The history of sumo runs deep. In Japan, sumo was traditionally regarded not only as a display of physical prowess but as a sacred contest of strength and strategy. By grappling chest-to-chest until one was forced out of the ring, wrestlers sought to delight the gods and the rulers of the era. I believe that cultures treating physical strength as something sacred are not unique to Japan; they exist all over the world.

　Consider, for example, the gladiators. In their world, the use of strength stood in direct opposition to the sacred; it was a brutal, life-or-death struggle for survival. It served as entertainment for Roman citizens while remaining a desperate reality for the warriors themselves.                                                                                                  

　Both sumo and gladiatorial combat involve pushing human physical limits. Both wrestlers and gladiators possess muscles that look ready to burst. The only difference lies in the direction in which that power is aimed—a direction ultimately decided by the society of the time.

　While gladiators no longer exist in the modern world, their legacy of "flaunting strength" lives on.

　In recent years, the atmosphere surrounding sumo has shifted. The frenzy over wins and losses, the heckling, the throwing of seat cushions, and the shouts that disrupt the tachi-ai (initial charge) have become frequent topics of concern. Once sumo loses its sacredness, strength becomes nothing more than raw power.

tachi-ai

To me, the most compelling moment is the brief, unified tension that fills the arena just before the initial charge. It is in that fleeting silence that people of the past may have felt a divine presence. This concept of the divine is different from the Western notion of a distant, singular God; it is something felt in the moment.

Beyond the accumulation of "swords" or military might, we must not lose the ability to sense and respect the invisible powers of humanity and nature. To me, "protecting Japan" should mean exactly that: preserving this sense of reverence.