Photographs from a small group of islands
The much photographed and staple of the foreign media, Shibuya Crossing, is a seething mass of fashionably attired humanity. A place where the rush and push and the land leaves little time for culture, let alone contemplation.
But this lady at least offered a bit of tradition, and perhaps even more importantly, some poise.
Wabi-sabi is a fabulously vague concept that means a myriad of things to many different people. So much so, in fact, that it’s very hard to find any kind of agreement on what objects are (or invariably aren’t) wabi-sabi. And as any real definition is equally unforthcoming, it’s all down to feelings rather than facts.
The kind of feeling it turns out that my mother-in-law immediately got from the scene below.
Yet while I can see where she’s coming from, to me it’s simply beautiful. An ambiguity, along with its very personal preferences, that in many ways makes the notion of wabi-sabi even more wonderful.
It’s possible I don’t have the patience, and definite I don’t have the skills, but it’s still hard to imagine a job that appears more relaxing, and bequeaths its bearers with more beauty, than that of a bonsai master.
Well, assuming it actually is a Zen garden of course, but regardless of whether it is or isn’t, there’s no doubting its wonderfully minimalist serenity.
This year’s Mount Takao fire-walking festival was undoubtedly the most unusual matsuri I’ve ever been to. Not, however, due to its focus, but instead the date it was held — March 13th. Only 48 hours after the earthquake. A day when the full horror of the resultant tsunami was really beginning to hit home, along with increasing worries about the horrible potential of the crippled Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant.
All of which made for a slightly surreal, yet at the same time very cathartic experience. Simply being there, surrounded by other people, was undoubtedly helpful; the festival somehow acting as a reminder as well as an escape from events — both ongoing and past. Yet it was a day that I simply forgot. Or at least I did after posting a picture of the priest below praying at a ceremony that signalled the start of the proceedings.
Coming across the images again, however, not only brought back memories, but also surprised me, as, despite having no particular intent when I took the photographs, all the thoughts of those participating seem to be somewhere else. Somewhere further north.
Of course it could be purely coincidental, or simply me exaggerating what, in different circumstances, would just be regular expressions. But either way, it at least puts the festival into some kind of context.
One that in many ways was a welcome diversion, but at the same time a very reverential one.
When chants.
And what I presume are pilgrims.
Had extra meaning.
Culminating in the lighting of an enormous fire.
The heat and sound of which was quite incredible.
Then, when everything had been burnt, and what was left had become a fiercely glowing carpet, the priests and pilgrims took off their shoes and marched over it with no apparent hesitation whatsoever. A scene that frustratingly I couldn’t photograph, as there was no clear view.
In fact, only when the burning embers had sufficiently cooled down, and a path of sorts had been created, did I get the chance, as those watching were then allowed to walk across as well.
Which was still a fairly interesting and unusual sight.
Even a much-needed light-hearted one too, as this old lady almost appears to have taken a wrong turn when heading home from the shops, bizarrely finding herself hurrying barefoot over what was recently a bonfire.
For a lot of people, landscape painting offers the perfect opportunity to get away from things for a little while. Plus, weather permitting, there’s also the added pleasure of some solitary time in the sun.
But, in a group-centric society, others, it would appear, still prefer to paint in packs.
