Close: Sweet Fruit of Patience
122. The Hinterlands
I’ve been sitting on this photo of Jordan’s since the early days of typophotography. I secretly hoard his photo contributions to the project for selfish purposes. They embody exactly what the project is about: one form of art acting as a catalyst for inspiration in another form. I have him to thank for some written pieces that are most near and dear to me.
{JT.}
おかげさまでね
Close: Winter to Spring
“ジョーダンの心はきびしい冬をのりこえ あたたかい春にたどりつきましたか？”
It must have been early in March during my last year living in Shirakawa Village. I was in the Hirase Cultural Centre rehearsing with Shiramizu (White Water) Taiko for some performance, perhaps for Vietnam’s Ambassador to Japan (from time to time the group let me do a little wind-up monkey toy drumming behind the precision of their rhythmic explosions).
I’m not sure how the conversation started, but I’m fairly certain it had something to do with how my shoulders are a repository for stress and how this was throwing off my cadence. This bad habit plagues me until today. At any rate, in the course of correcting me Sayuri-sensei asked me something that I will never forget: “What does snow become when it melts?”
“It becomes water,” I answered.
“No, it becomes spring.”
To this day I am reminded of that evening. In fact, in our most recent correspondence Sayuri-sensei randomly posed the question written in Japanese above, which is roughly translated as follows: “Jordan, have you survived the harsh winter of your heart to reach the warm spring?”
I immediately thought about how I would answer. The conclusion I came to is that more than knowing what words should frame the feeling of my response, it is better to be able to recognize the scent of sakura on the breeze and pull the warmth of the afternoon sun atop my skin as I stroll.
(photo: Shirakawa Village, Ogimachi, Japan, Spring 2008)
Open: Be Like Water My Friend
Jordan Baylon
(Shirakawa Village, Ogimachi, Japan, Spring 2008)
Open: Epitaph vs. Epigraph
My brother wrote this on what is perhaps my favourite photo from Japan. It was taken on Mt. Koya, a mass graveyard on the top of a mountain. Famous Japanese people throughout history abide here in spirit along with Kobo-daishi, including the poet Basho. This is a sacred place and one that continues to exert a tremendous spiritual pull upon me.
I gave this photo to Justin a long time ago and thought he forgot about it. I feel he has captured some of the essence of my feeling - it was definitely worth the wait.
Epitaph vs. Epigraph
Words: Justin Tan
Photograph: Jordan Baylon
Close: Heikegani
Though his theory on their evolution has since been cast into doubt, Carl Sagan’s thoughts on the crabs that live in the Shimonoseki Straits are nevertheless intriguing, and on so many levels…
Tomomori
Copic markers on Bristol paper
Open: Taira no Tomomori
Garbed in funeral white, the champion of the Taira and son of Kiyomori wanders the Shimonoseki Straits seeking vengeance against the Minamoto, still tethered to the anchor that delivered him to the deep. Even today, the crabs there bear on their carapaces the fearsome visages of the warriors who perished in the waves.
(via becomingrobot)
Open: Study in Anger (Seal)
Recently a strange opportunity for self-reflection presented itself: sitting close to two people who were arguing, I found myself infected by their anger though it had nothing to do with me. The feeling was instantly familiar and consuming, but because it was not my own anger I was able to maintain a sense of detachment. I immediately took advantage of the situation to record some of those sensations. Having just been visited by that fiery demon, I am finding it useful to revisit that moment, which I will reproduce here from my notebook:
The look is ostensibly one of worry, but amplified. The muscles of the brow twist up and in towards the center line that bisects the face. The eyes tend to focus, unseeing, upon a point approximately two feet away and invariably at a downward angle. The cheeks hold the jaw in such a way that pressure is put upon the hinges of the mandible. Breath becomes shallower and so the words begin to exhaust their source, subsequent utterances ever increasing in bitterness. Then pain begins to distinguish itself and fuel frustration, the sensation similar to that of confined and constricted muscles aching for movement. The furrows in the forehead deepen as a screw tightens between the eyes. The focal point of the eyes contracts to half its previous distance and flashes forward at eye-level to both invite and warn adversaries. They eyelids slide back to reveal orbs bright with violent readiness. Breath is dominated by exhalation and pulls the nostrils open as it puffs. The jaw is sealed so tightly that anything that can be forced past emerges seeming desperate and vindictive. A dull ache spreads to the neck and shoulders and then down to infect the gut.
At this point I realized I was no longer breathing and had to force myself out of the red reverie. Looking at myself and seeing the fearsome visage of Fudou Myou-ou (Achala), I realize how anger often removes me from a living flow. When our muscles don’t get enough oxygen we build up lactic acid, a poison. Why should the spirit be any different? And when I indulge the source of my anger, whether it be a person or an event, I allow myself be held in thrall by just one thing, when I should be united with all the things the wind carries. And the solution is so simple: Breathe!
Close: 三番叟 (Sanbasou)
The god has taken an old man’s form. He offers prayers for a bountiful harvest before he hardens the ground with his rhythmic footfalls. When he dons his black mask, his bell is meant to represent ears of rice.
9:10 am: I exit my bus, extend my gaze past the man passing out the free daily rag, pass down through the terminal and board the train. The doors close behind me and all the seats are occupied save for the two closest to me on either side of the aisle. I sit in the one where the other person is quickest to clear their things away: the man pulls all of his possessions towards himself and his being contracts to half its size. Still, I pile my tanto-umbrella onto my lap and slide my satchel over it neatly, then perch my otherwise unskinny posterior onto the bucketed seat in such a way that I add another 6 inches of space between us.
A Roots song comes on in my ipod and I fantasize about Lee and I rocking it in Hirase Village’s sleepy little karaoke bar. All 11 of the regular patrons are astounded by how fluently those Philly-soaked-Anglo jawns slip off of my tongue, while Lee offers timely fills of grunts and yeahs from the background. Oh and the beat! We’re riding that beat…
