Review by Carolyn Mirante
Upon first glance, the works of Yoshihiro Suda seem as they are; a simple blade of grass or a tiny flower. Nothing significant. However, upon closer scrutiny, it becomes clear that these are not actual leaves or flowers, but rather realistic and painstakingly detailed renderings of them.
Constructed of magnolia wood and paint made from
Nikawa (Rabbit-skin glue), Suda's creations are a remarkable feat, both in display of craftsmanship as well as intrinsic meaning. However, just as Suda's works possess the talent to initially fool it's viewer in to believing something that is not, they also call upon a more significant schism; that of realism and idealism.
Background: view of Azalea (2007)
Contrary to popular belief, Suda's works lean less towards realism and more towards
idealism. This concept is especially relevant in his piece entitled
Autumn Leaf (2009). Although all of Suda's works are seemingly displaced, so to speak (speaking in terms of realism, it's not immediately natural to display plants in an indoor setting that is not a greenhouse or plant house, let alone originating from the cracks of a museum's grounds), Autumn Leaf is especially so in that it's a leaf that can only be derived from a specific season (namely, Autumn.)
Detail of Kaki Leaf (2009)
This concept of displacement was said to have been first cited in the work of Japanese artist Suzuki Kiitsu. In his piece entitled Morning Glories (c. 1840), one of the earliest forms of idealism was born. Like Suda, Kiitsu's Morning Glories seem commonplace at first view. Constructed on
a six-panel folding screen gilded with gold paper, the composition can only demand marvel of it's audience. However, a second glance conjures a very different realization in the manner in which the blossoms are portrayed. One does not need to be a horticulturalist to know that Morning Glories do not grow directly on brushes. Kiitsu has in fact created a very idealized version of the Morning Glory by removing it's seminal stem and creating an impossile reality.
Here, idealism is referring namely to the idea of removing something from it's familiar context and then reassembling or replacing it in an entirely new setting altogether. In the context of Japanese minimalism, this is considered to be beautiful.
Here is a concept that we, as products of a post-modern culture do not often come across. In an era of plastic surgery and the quest for eternal life and unanatainable perfection, it's almost strange to hear of a beauty so simplistic in nature.
The Japanese character,
Ma in English literally translates to
space. This idea of a puritanistic beauty, of strange and unexpected displacement is rooted in the concept of
Yohaku no bi, or the beauty of empty space. This is not so much to say that this Japanese aesthetic consisted of appreciating empty spaces or vacant rooms. On the contrary, it's possibly infeasible to assume that this sort of aesthetic is even still universal amongst all Japanese people, being that they too deal with constantly-changing, cultural transformations brought on by newer generations. Rather, it is the appreciation of the space
between concrete objects, that so often goes ignored. It is the consciousness of empty space when a single object occupies it. In art, this is recognized as the juxtaposition, and ultimately the reversal, of positive and negative space. It is indeed a novel concept to reverse the main area of concentration, the focal point, with it's adverse counterpart; negative space, emptiness, nothing.
The Yoshihiro Suda exhibit utilizes exactly this concept of
No bi. The use of exhibition space is cleverly integrated in to the "work" itself. In fact, it becomes increasingly difficult for the viewer to differentiate between the exhibition and it's focal point, arguably merging the two in to one. But not much in an Lynchian
Inland Empire sense, but rather with a sense of contentment.
It is indeed strange to see the many galleries of the Contemporary Museum so barren, an exhibition space which is used to all of the normal aesthetics of a museum or gallery and walls which have housed countless internationally reknowned artworks. Here though it something startingly different. It is almost uncanny, an unexpected let-down of sorts, to wander about the empty corridors without being immediately greeted by an artwork or a subject of some sort to feast upon. However, as soon as one begins to notice Suda's tiny creations in the cracks and crevices of the museum grounds, the emptiness somehow becomes an integral part of the sculptures. The juxtaposition of the intended subject (in this case, a flower, blade of grass, or leaf) against the material in which it is constructed (however pliable, a stern wood) creates a clever deception of the senses.
Having become so pre-occupied with ulterior meaning, the aesthetic of Suda's works have in turn transformed into a difficult concept to grasp. It seems that most of us have forgotten
l'art pour l'art. We as a generation have in recent decades become engulfed with the idea of conceptualism. This being said, it is no wonder that something as obvious as the broad appreciation of beauty (and in this case, space as well) although subjective, have become near obsolete. In this sense, Suda's works are like a breath of fresh air- a return to something organic. This is not to say that conceptualism is subversive. Or maybe so; it's sometimes far too easy to pass contrived ready-mades off as something more than they really are.
