As I arrived in the Tokyo apartment almost a week ago now, the owner pointed out to me a painting just by the entrance. It was an original by him, a rendition of the Red Fuji painting which was apparently famous. I hadn’t really heard of it, but it felt familiar and I liked what I saw. The mountain is bright red, snow capped with white feathery brush strokes, clouds appearing like thick lines of paint stretching across the sky. In his version, the forest at the base of the mountain formed strips of vibrant yellow and green. The painting evoked a strong image… it somehow encapsulated both stress and simplicity. Stress through the high contrast colours, and simplicity through the simple blocks of paint. Perhaps it’s the calm feeling that we experience when we take a moment to simplify a complicated situation. When we experience high emotions, but somehow know that the emotions are not who we truly are.
Yesterday, we saw the mountain in real life, for me it was the second time. The previous occasion I had visited just after Christmas day. It was cold and quiet, no tourists were to be seen. I arrived at Lake Kawaguchiko and I was the only one there who seemed fascinated by the vast and wide beast looming over the town. Fuji was partly covered with snow, the sky was bright blue, there were no clouds and I could see her clearly as anything. It was 6 years ago, a time in my life when I often sought the gentle thrill of something new. A feeling of excitement that would draw me into it, so I wouldn’t have to decide where to go myself. I was lost and very open to the greater forces of this world. I don’t remember feeling great during that period of my life, but I do remember appreciating very much my first exploration of Japan.
On this occasion, it was different. It’s summer at the moment, and the heat was strong. As we approached Lake Kawaguchiko once more, she looked dark red and there was only a thin line of snow as well as a few little clouds floating around her peak. It looked a little underwhelming to be honest, without the snow, but I waited until we got to the final destination before deciding how I felt. As we walked across the same bridge I’d walked across 6 years ago, I saw her sitting on top of the lake. The water wasn’t sparkling like before, instead it was a deep blue…. as blue as the sky. From this angle, she looked green, with a big cluster of clouds hiding her mouth. Like a mirage, the clouds moved back and forth, giving little peeks of the snowless cap but never fully revealing it.
She had her head in the clouds that day and I knew what that felt like. The heat was making my brain foggy, especially as we climbed up for a better view. There were a few tourists, but not many at this early hour. We walked to Tenku no Torii, or Gate in the Sky, which was built to pray to Mt Fuji from a distance. Even though the clouds still safely guarded her from the top, the view was beautiful and the atmosphere was calm. I watched as people took photos, and soon enough we took photos ourselves.
The descent was a little more complicated, and sweaty, as we struggled to find a bus. But eventually we got back to Kawaguchiko Station. By this time it was filled with tourists, especially outside the famous Lawson store that is very popular on social media these days. In fact, when we walked past we saw a big black mesh was put up along the prime photo spot, in an effort to ward off tourists I assumed. I’d heard that the Lawson would be closing down soon, due to the hoards of people who take up space on the footpaths and roads in order to get that perfect shot. Apparently they weren’t only taking photographs but they were leaving a bit of a mess too. As I walked past, I thought to myself that the world has changed a lot in the short space of 6 years.
At that time, I shared photographs on Instagram… and I did it for the pleasure of sharing it with my friends. I did not have any business ideas or popularity contest in mind, although I took pleasure in the amount of likes I may have received. I started to wonder why people just wanted to replicate what they saw online, rather than making their own path or having their own experience… even if that experience doesn’t look so good in photos or on paper. At least it is authentic. Maybe I wouldn’t have understood this 6 years ago, but I understand it now: what is the point if showing something without feeling it? All you will receive is emptiness.
It makes me think back to the painting of the Red Fuji in the apartment. And as we were browsing through souvenir shops, I saw a post card with the same painting. Immediately I recognised it, and I remembered where I’d seen it before. About six months ago I took an interest in Japanese wood block prints, specifically a technique called ukiyo-e. The Red Fuji was created by a famous artist, the one responsible for The Great Wave which is also in fact a portrait of Fuji, named Katsushika Hokusai. That’s why it was so famous. In his painting the mountain is blood red, dripping white snow at it’s cap like icing sugar on a cake, surrounded by lines of fluffy white cloud and dark blue triangles stamped at its base to represent the forest. It is neutral, poised and yet striking.
It’s meant to depict Fuji at dawn in early autumn, when she apparently takes on a red hue. It’s one of his 36 views of Mount Fuji which demonstrates the popularity of this mountain. It is often a subject of meditation and a symbol of spiritual enlightenment in Japan. This painting is intended to show Mt Fuji without human presence, and I think that is a big reason why I find it so breathtaking. So peaceful. Miles away from what it is now, crawling around with visitors who want to observe her magic – me being one of the ones crawling around of course.
But when I see her like this, I don’t feel anything. It’s a mere acquaintance and not really a deep appreciation. It makes me realise that perhaps I’m done with flitting around here and there, from place to place. Maybe I’m ready to make acquaintances with the surroundings in which I will live one day, and get to know the magic that will be present around the place in which I’ll know more intimately. For now, I take the replica painting with me, to my new home… where it can inspire me to remember that it is my eyes who search for and see the magic and wonder in a place. Not the eyes of others who I might have allowed to look for me.
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