The japonica that meets my eyes now, as soon as I lie back, is an old and intimate friend. As I gaze at it, my mind drifts pleasantly, and the impulse to poetry wel s up in me again.
Lying here, I ponder, and as each line of a Chinese poem comes to me, I jot it down in my sketchbook. After a little time, the poem seems complete. I reread it from the beginning.
Beset by thoughts I leave my gate.
The spring breeze stirs my robes.
Fragrant herbs have sprung in the wheel ruts.
The derelict track leads on into mists.
I halt and gaze about me.
Al is aglow with light.
I hear bush warblers at their song
And in my eyes are drifting cherry blossoms.
“At the road’s end a vast plain unfoldsâ€â€”
I write this line on an old temple’s door.
The lone walker’s solitude fil s the sky.
A single wild goose wings homeward through
the heavens.
What subtleties lie within one smal heart!
Right and wrong—forgotten in this eternal
moment.
Poised at thirty on the edge of old age
Yet now a soft spring light wraps me about.
Wandering thus, at one with nature’s changes,
I calmly breathe the fragrance al about.3
That’s it! I’ve done it! I’ve truly captured the feeling of lying here gazing at the japonica, al worldly thoughts forgotten. It doesn’t matter if the poem doesn’t actual y include the japonica, or the sea, as long as the feeling comes through. I give a groan of pleasure—and am astonished to hear the sound of a human clearing his throat not far from me.
Rol ing over, I peer in the direction of the voice. A man comes around the edge of the flat knol and emerges from among the trees.
His eyes are visible beneath the tilted rim of a dilapidated brown felt hat. I can’t make them out in detail, but they are evidently shifting uneasily. He is dressed rather indeterminately in an indigo-striped garment tucked up at the thighs, and bare feet in high clogs. The wild beard suggests he is one of those roaming mountain monks.
I assume he’l proceed on down the steep mountain path, but to my surprise he turns back at the edge and retraces his steps. Instead of disappearing back the way he came, however, he changes direction yet again. No one could be wandering to and fro on this grassy flat unless he were here to take a strol , surely. Yet this is hardly the figure of a mere strol er; nor would such a person be living hereabouts. The man pauses in his tracks from time to time, tilting his head questioningly, gazing al about him. He appears to be deep in thought. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone. I can’t make it out at al .
My eyes are held by this alarming fel ow. I’m not particularly afraid; nor do I feel tempted to draw him; it’s simply that my eyes are glued to him. My gaze continues to travel left and right, fol owing his movements, until suddenly he comes to a standstil —and then another human figure appears in the scene.
They seem to recognize each other, and both approach. Watching them, my vision gradual y focuses in on a single point in the middle of the grassy flat. Now these two figures come together face-to-face, with the spring mountains behind them and the spring sea before.
One, the man, is of course my wild mountain monk. And the other? The other is a woman—Nami.
As soon as I recognize her, this morning’s image of her holding the dagger returns to me. Could it be hidden in her robes now? I wonder, and for al my vaunted “nonemotional†stance, I shudder.
Facing each other, the two maintain their pose for a long moment. There is no hint of movement in either figure. Perhaps their mouths are moving, but no voices reach me. At length the man hangs his head, and the woman turns toward the mountains. I cannot see her face.
There in the mountains a bush warbler sings; the woman appears to listen to it. After a while the man raises his deeply bowed head and half-turns on his heels. Something odd is happening. The woman rapidly breaks her pose and turns to face the sea. Something peeps from her waistband—it must be that dagger. Head triumphantly high, the man begins to leave.
The woman takes two steps in pursuit of him. She is wearing straw sandals. He pauses—has she cal ed him? As he turns, her right hand goes to her waist. Watch out!
What she produces is not the dagger I anticipate, however, but a cloth object like a purse of money. Her white hand holds it out toward him, a long string swaying below it in the spring breeze.
One foot placed before her, the body bent slightly from the waist, the extended white hand and wrist, and that purple cloth bag—this image is al I need for a picture.
The composition, with its dash of purple, is beautiful y connected by the perfect balance of the man’s turned body a few inches away. Distant yet close—that expression could have been made to fit this moment. The woman’s figure seems to draw him toward her, the man’s seems drawn backward by her, yet these forces are merely notional. The relationship between them is cleanly broken by the edge of the proffered purple bag.
The interest of the picture is intensified by the fact that the delicate balance these two figures maintain is set against the clear contrast in their faces and clothes.
This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm, clear features. This wild figure twisted harshly toward her; that elegant shape, sleekly graceful even in her everyday kimono, leaning gently forward from the waist. His misshapen brown hat and indigo-striped garment tucked to the thigh; her elegant curve of hair, combed to a gossamer glint, and the captivating glimpse of padding deep within the glowing black satin of her obi folds—al this is marvelous material for a picture.
The man puts out his hand and takes the purse, and at once the beautiful y balanced tension in their mutual poses disintegrates; the woman’s figure ceases to draw him, while he in turn has broken free of that force. Painter though I am, I have never before realized just how powerful y psychological states can influence a picture’s composition.
They move apart now, to left and right. No tension holds the two figures in relation, and the composition has lost al vestige of coherence. At the entrance to the wood the man pauses and turns to look back, but the woman never glances behind her. She is walking smoothly toward me. At length she arrives directly in front of me.
“Sir!†she exclaims, and again, “Sir!â€
Damn! When did she notice me?
“What is it?†I inquire, poking my head up above the japonica. My hat tumbles back onto the grass behind me.
“What are you doing there?â€
“I was lying here composing a poem.â€
“Liar! You saw what happened just now, didn’t you?â€
“Just now? You mean, you two. . . . Yes, I did see a bit.â€
She laughs. “You didn’t need to just see a bit. You could have watched al of it, you know.â€
“To tel the truth, I did see quite a lot.â€
“There you are, then! Come on over here a moment. Come out from under that japonica.â€
I meekly do as instructed.
“Was there something else you wanted to do there?â€
“No, I was just thinking of heading back.â€
“Wel then, let’s go together.â€
“Very wel .â€