Strange Yet Connected Bloodlines — Naoko Kudo × Taiyo Matsumoto’s “Iru” jan
The mother’s poem tells the truth, but tells it slant. The son’s drawings are almost formless, vast in their restraint; only through an almost imperceptible blankness do they reveal a trace of the universe. Without such an extreme contrast of styles, this picture book, "Iru" jan, created by mother and son, could hardly have produced such an unexpected and uncanny poetic force.
The poems in the picture book were written first by Naoko Kudo; only afterward did Taiyo Matsumoto begin drawing the illustrations. The images became a form of response, an interpretation of the poems. In a conversation between mother and son, Kudo said, “If painting merely copies words, or words merely copy painting, it is a waste for both image and text.” Matsumoto replied, “I’ve always had the impression that Ms. Naoko’s words are so passionate. I wonder if it has something to do with our blood relation. So I thought it might be interesting to add some understated drawings. It’s hard to describe in words, but the more understated the drawings are, the more persuasive the words become.”
This exchange between mother and son became the thread that guided my reading of "Iru" jan. First: to pair passionate words with understated drawings. This was Matsumoto’s aesthetic consideration. But what does “understated” mean? Beyond restrained expressive techniques—the simple compositions, the abundant white space of negative space, the mainly black-and-white pencil sketches with partial monochrome washes, and the realistic images that do not produce suspense—I think the deepest form of understatement lies in what Matsumoto chooses to bring into the image, rather than in how he draws.
Kudo’s poems write of the earth, the sun, the wind, the sky, and the thoughts of the human “I.” Matsumoto said, “If I kept repeatedly facing the vast scenery of the ocean, the words would drift into something too ethereal. So I wanted to add a perspective of ‘this is true for everyone.’ For example, by bringing in the scenery close at hand, things like the cat on the table or the fan, perhaps a balance could be found. I spent a lot of time searching in that direction.” His casual phrase, “finding a balance,” reveals Matsumoto’s intention to create again from the content of the original poems: he seeks collisions between unlike things, trying to reflect distant heaven and earth through the finest grains of sand.
The divine is not in some lofty and ethereal place, but in the earthly world and the everyday close at hand.
More precisely, Matsumoto uses images to embody the implication of the poems, rather than the surfaces described by the words. In that sense, perhaps this is not so much a re-creation that changes the work’s constitution, but a different path toward the same destination. What Matsumoto “spent a lot of time searching” for and ultimately chose to grasp was the worldview hidden within Kudo’s poems. This is just like what Kudo says in their conversation: the words and images of this picture book establish their relationship through a form of independent and open mutual subjectivity.
When we read “earth,” we see “a snail and a leaf.” When we read “In the night sky / there are stars dozing off,” we see a black dog lying on its side on the ground. At first glance, poem and image have no obvious correspondence; they do not form a closed, explanatory relationship. Yet their apparent “irrelevance” is in fact a strange yet connected bloodline, opening a new layer of poetic space. This also corresponds to what Matsumoto called “interesting.”
Turn to the first page: Kudo’s poem contains only one sentence: “Is anyone there—?” Matsumoto presents a vast sky occupying three-quarters of the full spread, seen from a slight upward angle close to the horizon, suggesting that “emptiness” is the true object of the question. Next, Kudo writes that the bored earth, from its drowsy eyelids, “gave birth to companions,” and thus oceans, mountains, forests, and living beings came into being. The key to the whole poem lies here: consciousness expands and creates all things. When the human “I” feels lonely, “I also do what the earth does.”
In moments of loneliness, one does not seek outward, but inward: “I, too, will dream many dreams, and go out to greet the world.” The poem reverses inside and outside, emptiness and reality. No wonder that when the lines mention dynamic scenes outdoors, Matsumoto draws indoor still objects and a moment held still by the wind. He has no intention of giving form to the bustling multitude in Kudo’s words. Instead, through the visually prominent “emptiness,” he holds tightly to the poem’s core. Emptiness is the beginning of gestation. Just like the horizontal ocean spread: the vein-like linear texture in the lower left corner echoes the backing leaf behind the first appearance of “earth,” as well as the dancing tomato stem on the previous page. It is as if the leaf-like earth gave birth to the ocean, and the ocean, on the next page, transformed into a blue curtain.
Gestation moves in linked rings; each thing resonates with the others. Through concrete details of imagery, Matsumoto re-presents the central motifs of Kudo’s poems: the persimmon is like the sunset, the caterpillar like a cloud, the black dog like the night sky, the “I” like the earth. These strange yet connected bloodlines shoot “hello rays” toward one another.
The deepest poetic force lies in the five sets of pages Matsumoto chooses to leave as “entirely blank.” As Kudo’s meanings shift, these pages layer and expand the meanings of blankness: the emptiness of being alone turns into a vast, boundless, indescribable movement of the mind; the “I,” originally stirred by the earth, can also stir the earth; blankness contains emotions that sway in subtle darkness. Taiyo Matsumoto’s blankness is an inclusive, expansive space. Even the smallest things contain infinity. Powerful and formless movements of the mind, naked, exceeding thought, have no image capable of sustaining such a state of being. To still possess today’s “I” is to be held by the earth; and to take everything firmly into one’s eyes is to embrace the earth.
Originally published in OKAPI Reading Life Journal.