Robert Wallace






notes and impressions

part 1 (April 3 & 4, 2018)


The sakura along Route 163 were several days behind their cousins down in the city. Sections of truly spectacular color, that pale pink splashed across the shinryoku green mountainside.

The sun is warm. It seems a long time since I’ve felt this.

There are some moss-covered steps leading from a horse stable into the forest. Uchiyama-san and I follow these. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly. A home for the painting under my arm. There is an ugly fence, the type that delineates trespassing from not trespassing. It has been completely flattened in places by fallen trees. I smile. There are no boundaries in nature.

There is an ancient sugi (cedar), its trunk twisted and half decomposed. Still, life shoots up straight and tall 50 meters into the sky. This is the type of beautifully strange tree that is often revered in Shinto. I hang the painting from a point where a branch may have broken off a century earlier. It seems to float. 


(four)est Kuta

 久多 | Kuta



There is a small graveyard that has been reduced to rubble by an unsympathetic typhoon. Just past this is a grassy trail, a path into the forest. This ends after ten meters. From here it is off-piste, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot. In centuries past this hill was terraced for growing rice. The vague undulating outline remains. There is a cool stream meandering down the hill, cutting through the overgrowth and around green boulders. This is a loose guide.

An overturned stone from an ancient stonemason’s quarry serves as a stand for the painting. 


(four)est Kameoka

 亀岡 | Kameoka



From the gravel road where we park the car the mountain rises straight up. It is billy goat steep. The angle seems even too much for the sugi, many of which have given up and lie in various stages of decomposition on the mossy earth. There is a strong breeze blowing down the river below. I can imagine this as a tree-snapping gale in a typhoon. Every vertical cleft in the mountain shows signs of rampaging water. A forbidding environment for a painting. I find a strong shoot coming up from the trunk of a healthy tree and thread my painting over it. Like the painting in Kuta it appears to hover above the ground.

Tamba is alive and bursting with spring color, wildflowers and trees in full bloom, the air vibrating. This is what inspired Basho and a hundred other Japanese poets over the centuries.


(four)est Miyama

美山 | Miyama 



The mitsumata, dobs of pale yellow, hang in the air.

Up the steep mountain. Rain is falling. I follow the stream; there’s no other route. There is a large rock protruding from the earth creating a small cave. I discover a small, obviously man-made, stone orb half-buried in the hollow. A little digging reveals another. An altar? A grave? I feel I have been brought to this place. This is where the painting will go. We stack the two round stones as they might have been three or four hundred years ago. The painting fits into this mountain crease. 


(four)est Keihoku

京北 | Keihoku



The paintings stand in sharp contrast to the landscape, an unusual, foreign even, pop of color. It is a little shocking and amusing to see. In time, I hope, they will come to blend in with their surroundings. I wonder if four years is enough.

It is a strange feeling to leave these creations of mine in the middle of nowhere. Abandoned is a word not far from my mind. They have up until now lived in controlled environments – my studio and the gallery. Children is an obvious analogy. I think of them spending their first night alone in the absolute darkness of a forest. I think of the first rain that wets their surface. As if they are living things.

I am done. My part of this project is finished. Now it is Nature. It’s her turn. 

いいかんじ (iikanji) – a good feeling






Bulletin borad 2


Kome ice



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