Mizen (Pre-Emergence)

In Seiji Sonoke’s works, there are no clear objects that immediately captivate the eye. Presenting no traces of tangible form, the works often leave viewers perplexed. Yet, this absence of form is also the most defining characteristic of Sonoke’s practice, and the primary reason it is often seen as esoteric. What, then, is the purpose of such works? Sonoke’s answer comes without hesitation: to create an ideal space. Does this refer simply to a space that would be comfortable for the artist? This space undoubtedly does express the artist’s inner world. However, it is also much more. To Sonoke, such a realm is a primordial space, much like the astrophysical state of the universe prior to the Big Bang, charged with the tension of all things yet to be formed. Simultaneously, it encompasses the principles of the human world, beauty and ugliness, good and evil — all elements that may stir human emotions. Sonoke finds affinity between his art and the Zen Buddhist concept of “ku” (emptiness). The space he aims to create is a primordial plane at the very foundation of being, from which all phenomena and objects originate. 

Sonoke’s unique creative process imbues his works with even greater power. In the case of most human creations, a creator sets out with an intent, purpose, and production method to reach their endpoint. Without even a vague goal, creative work is extremely difficult. Therefore, it is typical for creatives to have at least a rough image of their final work in mind, before they develop a plan and composition aimed towards it. For example, when writing a book, one would have a purpose for writing, before they embark on a search for suitable materials and subjects, and finally reach a conclusion that achieves their purpose. Notably, the conventionally easiest method is to first have an idea of a conclusion, and subsequently build logic towards it. The same is true for many painters; they begin with a final image planned, then work towards what they envisioned. Therefore, for many, the concept of creating without a preliminary sketch is likely unthinkable. Yet Sonoke has no sketches. He has no subject (motif) he intends to show the viewer, nor any idea of any destination he wants to reach. There is no blueprint. 

Sonoke faces the canvas and places ink. The initial mark of ink is surrounded by the vast blank space occupying most of the canvas. From within this state, he senses the colour and position of the next mark to place. Through a continuous repetition of this process, Sonoke’s space is constructed. Initially, I was surprised to learn of this production method. It struck me as less like creating a work of art, and more like an archaeological excavation. Sonoke listens to the voice of the ink and converses with empty space. He paints without clarity on where his starting point will be, where it will end, or what his process may ultimately lead to. Puzzled by this process, I found myself wondering: where within this does the artist’s ego lie? That question remains unanswered.

At present, I approach Sonoke’s work through the metaphor of the rock garden at Ryōan-ji Temple; a world that allows the viewer’s imagination to expand, drawing from sparse subjects and subtle colours. Only through collaboration between the artist’s inner world and viewers’ emotions does the artwork become complete. This stands in contrast to the current convention in Japanese painting, in which artists’ intentions tend to be unilaterally conveyed. Instead, Sonoke’s work embodies the traditional, albeit now less commonly encountered, spirit of Japanese art, wherein completion is achieved through the connection formed between an artist’s aesthetic sensibility and the heart of the viewer. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the element of “sonzai” (existence) — a crucial component of painting — is lacking. I look forward to the future possibility that, if a more solid sense of presence were to arise within Sonoke’s spaces, his art would become even more moving.

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Toshiya Kaneko

Mizen (Pre-Emergence)

It is not excessive. Yet the impression it leaves is exceedingly profound. Scale, be it largeness or smallness, does not matter. It has yet to be. No, for all eternity, it likely never will be. It is not the future, but the very presence of the present. This drifting now cannot be grasped. Humans try to give form to the present by reflecting on the past and future, but all that creates is an illusion. Not passing, nor arriving. Just standing, simply and quietly there. Something that cannot quite be described as existent is confronting me. Or, perhaps, it is with me. That is how it feels. Before I knew it, a span of time has passed, and I return to the now between past and future.

Kumagai Morikazu Museum of Art, Toshima City

Junichi Koizumi, Director

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