To Live, One Must First Discard
The Aesthetics of Active Retreat
Even the shifting seasons flowing past the window now incite a vague sense of impatience. Have you not felt this lately?
Unable to bear the silence of the deep night, we seek solace in the torrent of information spilling from the screens in our hands. That clamor has become standardized as a background noise we no longer even notice. It seems we have been carried too far, too fast. Unless we now realign our axis and gaze once again at the “origin” upon which we stand, I fear we may lose the opportunity to truly live ever again in this world that is set to accelerate and intensify further. Strangely, since the arrival of winter, I have been seized by this premonition.
Day after day, a flood of information covers your field of vision; the voices of others never cease. There is a terror that the contours of the “I,” which surely once existed, are being diluted, diffused, and eventually dispersed into mist by the colossal centrifugal force of the world. This is no longer even recognized as fear or anxiety; it has become a daily sensation, the human spirit having grown accustomed to the pain. Yet, this sense of deficiency—like a thirst in the throat—held by so many, is not a tribulation reserved for you alone. Though the era and circumstances differ, this is the “creaking of the soul” repeated countless times throughout history.
Why are we so unfulfilled? I am not speaking of material lack. Rather, we are surrounded by objects, our choices are infinite, and we are promised a convenience unprecedented in history. Yet, drowning in this sea of abundance, we feel a strange “dissonance.” The true nature of this dissonance is “absence.” It is the sensation that you are not the one sitting in the pilot’s seat of your own life.
Modern people wake up with a column of tasks already lining their minds. When they look at the face in the mirror, it is not their own, but a mask constructed to perform a social role; the naked face that should exist beneath that mask has forgotten its expression and vanished before anyone noticed. We run desperately to become “someone,” but ironically, a reverse phenomenon occurs: the faster we run, the further we drift from ourselves. To endure this, we deceive ourselves with sophistry and distraction—that is the state of the present. But this only worsens the condition. We must look again at where “the real” actually resides.
This sensation appears to be a pathology unique to the modern age, but it is, in fact, a thirst of the soul repeated across time. Let me speak here of two intriguing figures. Referencing their way of life seems to offer a crucial key for this era. They are also the figures I revere most in Japanese history.
The time goes back to the mid-Edo period, the 18th century. In the heart of Kyoto, on Nishiki Koji street, there was a man. His name was Ito Jakuchu (1716–1800). Though later carved into history as a “painter of the extraordinary,” during his lifetime, while he had high esteem from a select few, his general recognition was nearly non-existent. An era of obscurity followed for nearly two hundred years after his death. Yet, Jakuchu’s genius was exceptional even then. However, Kyoto at the time was guarded by a peculiar art-monopolization system known as the Kyoto art circles, protected by established families. It was a formidable barrier against newcomers; the possibility of a painter outside the lineage of a legitimate, illustrious family being evaluated was virtually nil. But Jakuchu carved his own path, leaving behind the words, “My paintings will be understood in one hundred years.” In truth, they were not understood even after a hundred years; it took over two centuries for the true value of his work to be seen. But there is great meaning for us in observing Jakuchu’s life. Today, Ito Jakuchu is known as a famous painter, but it is only in the last thirty years that his work began to be properly evaluated.
And in his youth, he carried the same pain as we do today. He was born the eldest son of “Masuya,” a wholesale greengrocer in the center of Kyoto. In modern terms, he was the heir to a massive trading company situated in the prime district of the metropolis. In fact, Jakuchu’s family business was thriving, employing many, with countless business partners—it is said that at one point, nearly two thousand people were involved. As the eldest son, customs of the time dictated he was destined to inherit the headship and wield his skill in business. Had he simply remained in that chair, wealth, fame, and the envy of others were all promised to him.
However, his soul was screaming.
The numbers in the ledgers, the market prices of vegetables, the bargaining of negotiations, the association with people who had lost themselves to desire, the responsibility to protect the livelihoods of employees. The crushing weight of these “things to be done” was on the verge of crushing his delicate sensibilities to death. Above all, he had absolutely no interest in commerce. Yet, simply because he lacked interest did not mean he could cast it aside; the burden on his back was too great. In those days, it was inconceivable for an eldest son born into such a house to transfer the headship and walk away simply due to a lack of interest. For Jakuchu, this must have been a profoundly serious anguish that occupied the greater part of his life. “If I flee, many will be lost on the streets. Yet, I wish to live as a painter.” This curse-like sense of responsibility is something everyone in the modern age recognizes, regardless of scale.
If one flees from business—that is, the act of earning—one cannot feed one’s family, cannot protect loved ones, cannot even feed oneself. To survive in this harsh world where everything is self-responsibility, this conflict is a problem that all humanity must now embrace.
Yet, while the pressure of “things to be done” threatened to crush him, the position in the organization, social status and responsibility, duties to family, and public appearances wrapped around him in layers, nailing him to the spot. The system whispers: “It is not yet the time.” “Once the situation settles a little more.” “Once sufficient savings are made.” “Preparations are not yet complete.”
At a glance, this seems rational; it appears to be a cautious and precise attitude. But in truth, it is merely continuing to administer anesthesia to oneself, inducing paralysis. It means one can never make a resolution or a decision. If life were such that things improved or changed at a timing of one’s own preference, everyone would succeed. But there is a fatal fact in life: no matter how much individual agency is emphasized, we possess no power to resist the great cycles. I state this decisively. In the great flow, timing is predetermined. It is important for an individual to prepare until that moment, but can one decide when the time comes? Whether one has cultivated that resolve on a daily basis determines the course of a person’s life. To panic only after the tide has shifted greatly is too late; if one cannot decide then, that life is finished. It may sound too harsh, but that is the way of human existence.
For Jakuchu then, the clamor of the market was what notification sounds, endless meetings, projects, and rows of meaningless numbers are to you now. If this state continues for long, what becomes of a person? They do not “live”; they merely enter a state of “not dying.” They breathe, they eat, they converse. But the light vanishes from the depths of their eyes, and the soul detaches from the body. Life becomes dry.
At that time, it was routine for the heirs of central Kyoto to devote themselves to extravagance—drowning in the arts of geisha, in sake, and in women was normal; the number of mistresses symbolized their status. But it is said that Jakuchu could not drown himself in these arts, nor sake, nor women. That is to say, Jakuchu did not even possess a place of escape to vent his pent-up irritation through the entertainment of desire; he simply, earnestly, and sincerely continued to kill himself. I believe this sensation resonates with us today. The depth of that agony must have been unimaginable even then.
Knowing there is a magma-like thirst for expression within, yet sealing it daily with cold numbers. Conversely, the days in which one believes one must seal it away continue forever. Not just Jakuchu, but you as well—do you not spend your days cutting away the aesthetic consciousness, the words, or the silence that you truly wished to cherish, discarding them as “unproductive” or “useless” to answer the demands of society? What waits at the end of that road is total oblivion, where you cannot even recall who you were.