In the summer of 2006, I went to a department store in Kansai for a business meeting, and I was hanging around the gallery until the person in charge arrived. It was a general exhibition, so the exhibition focused on works by deceased Japanese artists. There was a painting of an ugly nude woman hanging there, and I wondered who would buy such a poorly made painting, and thought that nude photos in third-rate weekly magazines were more attractive. I was surprised when I saw the name of the artist, an artist born in the early 20th century, who studied in France and was awarded the Order of Culture, and even I knew his name. I once went to the Prefectural Art Museum in Fukuoka City, and when I stood in front of a painting by Vlaminck, the artist's name was written there as well. I wondered why a Japanese artist's name was written on a painting by Vlaminck, and then I saw on the explanation that it said that the artist studied under Vlaminck.
The nude of the ugly, fat woman was about 20 cm in size and was priced at 20 million yen. Our genius painter Michel Henry's oil painting of 20 cm in size was priced at 2.5 million yen, and I wondered if this could be worth 20 million yen. Then, I took another hour on the Shinkansen and had dinner with a person in charge of another department store. When I mentioned the painting, he said that 20 million yen for a 20 cm painting was too cheap, and that it was probably a pastel or watercolor. He said that an oil painting would be worth about 100 million yen. That banana. Then I could buy 50 oil paintings by Michel Henry.
I had no ill will towards the Order of Culture recipient, but I felt absurd and envious, but I couldn't help it. I poured myself a generous amount of sake into my cup, and let my sense of wonder wash over me. I just didn't know something that was obvious to the department store staff. I just didn't know the common sense of Japanese art dealers. Hear my name. Don Quixote.
Now, let's peel the onion. First, there is a market. In other words, there are people who have money. Rich people buy expensive cars, own helicopters and even planes, and may also own golf courses and mistresses. Such people want to enjoy luxuries that ordinary people do not, and want to have things that ordinary people do not have. In terms of balance, a 2 million yen painting for a 2 billion yen house is too cheap. Visitors to the house will sigh at the luxury of the house and express surprise and respect at the high quality of the furnishings. A 2 million yen painting alone will not balance things out, and will not inspire respect and amazement in visitors.
That's where well-known deceased artists come in. We need paintings by these people who are featured in high school art textbooks, who studied in Europe, who received the Order of Culture, who built the Japanese art world, and who have no shortage of historical qualifiers. The quality of the paintings is secondary. Japanese people are a gentle people, and as a fellow citizen, I feel the utmost respect and affection for them. When I think about how much our gentleness helps to make society's gears turn smoothly, I can't help but admire them. However, there is a negative side to everything. A gentle Japanese person has already taken off his hat before looking at a painting. It's like falling in love with a woman just by hearing her reputation without even seeing her face. If it's a living woman, no matter how unsure of her values and aesthetic sense a man is, or how gentle he is, he can at least tell whether she is ugly or beautiful. There are cases where an ugly woman will be married because she has money, but that's a different issue. Of course, there are also cases where an ugly woman will be married because she has a good personality, or because she is smart and capable. (I don't think you should judge a woman based on her physical beauty alone. Don't get me wrong.) However, when it comes to paintings, even rich people lack confidence in their aesthetic sense, so they turn a blind eye and buy them. They then memorize the trivia the art dealer lays out and explain it to others. The business negotiations proceed on the unfounded assumption that the painting is beautiful. Anyone who doesn't understand the beauty of this painting is an idiot. Looking at the nude of an ugly, fat woman, everyone sighs and expresses surprise and respect. I don't mind being an idiot. I'll throw an ugly nude like this in the trash. Or maybe if someone buys it, I'll sell it and make a profit. Fortunately, I'm neither buying nor selling this painting. In other words, I'm out of the loop in every sense of the word.
I shout from outside the mosquito net. That Michel Henry is a genius. I shout how beautiful the couture flowers and landscapes are, how enchanting they make me. I want to live in the fairy tale world painted by Piermatteo. How much Gebert's wilderness landscapes soothe my heart. I think the day will come when a Japanese painter will imitate the intense colors of Lubaro's bouquets of mountain and field landscapes. I continue to shout from outside the mosquito net. Perhaps one day the mosquito net will shift and surround me. Or perhaps it will not. Either way, it doesn't matter. I will keep trying. I am certain. Because it is moving. Is there art without moving people?