"The Voyager" is a small painting.
Alone in a pitching boat in the middle of a turbulent sea, a lone, ghostly figure stands beneath the full moon. The figure is sexless, its head made up of four circles, one for the outline three for the empty, black eyes and yawning mouth. One stick-like arm clutches a steering pole. The craft resembles a gondola, long and slender, the aft and stern reaching tentatively toward the sky before curling back in on themselves like coiled caterpillars. The painting is black and white, save for a thin coat of light blue on the water and bright, striking rainbow bands of color along the length of the boat.
Rendered on a notebook-size sheet of white paper, it almost seems uncomfortable in its frame upon the gallery wall, like a small child squirming in church clothes. It speaks to the quiet understanding born of the path of solitude, to the all-encompassing feeling of connection that comes when the past, the present, and the future become one in the tacit acceptance of the journey itself.
The painting serves as a bridge in more ways than one. It was done in black and white by a small child in 1923 and colorized by an old man in 2005. Two painters, two perspectives, and one artist: Richard Kirsten Daiensai. "The Voyager" is a testament to the longevity of his creative spirit, as well as emblematic of the path he has chosen in life.
"The world is overrun by religious people," he says, "but very few of them are truly spiritual. Spirituality is the path that I'm on and I try to show it in my art in many ways."
Daiensai wears his 85 years like a well-tailored coat. While his hearing has deteriorated, the keenness of his perception remains as strong as his handshake. The deep, resonant tone of his voice brings a kind of innate power to his speech, and his bright, kindly eyes emanate a knowing honesty from behind thick glasses.
Sitting behind a table in the main showroom of the Kirsten Gallery in the University District (owned and operated by his sons, Richard and Nicholas), he cheerfully greets viewers of his current show, "The Return of the Voyager," as he prepares a box of small prints of his work to be mounted on Christmas cards. While the show consists primarily of paintings begun and completed in 2005, it is peppered with pieces of Daiensai's earlier work. "The Voyager" hangs above his chair.
"It's interesting how many people zero in on it and like it so much," he says. "Maybe it's because it has a bit of Paul Klee in it."
Daiensai's playful humility is characterized by a deep respect for his contemporaries, teachers and influences. Some of his earlier work invites comparisons to "Northwest School" painters, such as Morris Graves and Guy Anderson, with whom he became acquainted after moving to Seattle from Chicago in 1940. However, the Eastern influence on his work began much earlier and was later intensified and refined during his extensive travels in Asia and his immersion in Zen Buddhism.
As a youth in Chicago, Daiensai attended free night classes at the Art Institute of Chicago. While riding the L to and from class, he began "drawing what I saw around me - hands, faces, feet, folds of cloth, whatever came to my attention." After he'd filled a sketchbook, he decided to show it to his teacher, who was so impressed by the work that it brought it to the attention of the school administration. Daiensai ended up receiving a scholarship to complete his training at the Art Institute, solely on the basis of that single sketchbook.
Paid a pittance
"When I was going to the Art Institute," says Daiensai, "the place was divided in the Western and Eastern schools of art. I never really set foot in the Western side of things. I became interested in Japanese woodblock printing and decided to go to the source."
Daiensai first went to Japan in 1958. He made contact with the owner of the prestigious Yoseido Gallery in Nishi Ginza, Tokyo, who took Daiensai under his wing in exchange for English lessons. Daiensai was then given a show at the gallery where his work sold very successfully and he made a decent amount of money. A year later, he asked for and was given a second show. It was also successful, but when it came time to get paid off, he received a pittance.
"When I asked about the drastic change in my pay, the owner told me, 'The first show you were a guest; this time you're Japanese.' From there on out, I had to pay for everything, and I learned a lot."
In an effort to keep Daiensai fed and sheltered in spite of his lack of funds, the gallery owner took him to Zuizenji, a Zen Buddhist temple in Kamakura, and introduced him to Oshita Toyomichi Roshi, who would become Daiensai's spiritual teacher. Daiensai returned to Zuizenji every year for 10 years, spending his time painting and studying Zen. Over time, the Roshi saw a profound shift in the tone of Daiensai's paintings. When he first came to the temple, he was creating pieces with titles like "The Upright Coffin," or "Suicide."
"Really pretty negative stuff," he says. "Then a miraculous change took place because of my environment, the chanting of the sutras, the meditation, the food and of course O-sake (rice wine). My work began to reflect the beauty and harmony of the world as well as the darkness. My master took a look at my paintings and was transfixed. He said, "Maybe you don't know it, but you have entered satori (enlightenment)." It was an astonishing thing to hear."
It also led to an astonishing turn of events. In 1967, to commemorate his spiritual awakening, Daiensai was ordained as a Zen priest at Zuizenji. Upon his ordination he was given a new name, Daiensai Kuden Bon Seki Dojin, by the Roshi. "Daiensai" became his gago, or "artist's name," which loosely translates to "purified circle of the universe." Ever since, he has signed all of his pieces as both "Kirsten" and "Daiensai," but his gago is a reflection of the man he has become, a deeply personal expression of the unification of his spiritual and creative practices.
His studies in Eastern art, philosophy and spirituality have taken him to India and Korea, but his ties to the way of life in Japanese Zen temples are strong. To this day, he creates almost all of his art during his yearly trips to Japan and spends his time in Seattle concentrating on writing and pouring over the texts in his vast research library.
"I'm a strange bird," says Daiensai, "because I like being a recluse. That's why I love working in the temples in Japan, because there's so much silence and solitude. Any sounds that come forth are on the path of spirituality. Most of my work is done in the state of mushin, or "no mind," which is a result of meditation. "
Some of Daiensai's pieces that are most emblematic of mushin are his "Rorschach" paintings, symmetrical paint blots in which he has found images of Buddha and Kannon (or Kwan Yin), the bodhisattva of mercy, but every piece currently on display at the Kirsten gallery in some way reflects his spiritual practice.
Many of his recent small acrylic and mixed media paintings contain images of his patron saint, Jizo, the protector of women, children and travelers. In Daiensai's work, images of Jizo are often accompanied by figures who resemble the artist himself - the kind of smallish, balding, bearded figure with a bemused expression that is iconic in Buddhist imagery.
There are paintings as well as a bronze statue of Emma-Dai-O, the King of Destiny, who serves as the figure of judgment in the Buddhist afterlife. A few other bronze statues are on display as well (including a truly disturbing and thought-provoking piece from earlier in Daiensai's career entitled "Crucified Rat"), as well as a smattering of ceramic sculptures (or, as Daiensai prefers to call them, "fired images").
Crows are featured prominently, partially because of the personal kinship Daiensai feels toward them and partially because the reverence they are paid in Shinto, the traditional Japanese animistic religion that is often blended with Buddhism. He is also partial to Dosojin, the Shinto symbol of enduring love made up of two figures locked in an eternal embrace. Each painting has the feeling of a koan, a sort of story, dialog, or question integral to Zen practice (such as the oft misquoted "What is the sound of one hand?"), and reflects the mysticism, simplicity, and humor of the Zen ethos.
Two pieces are on display from his latest collection entitled "Think." These paintings feature laughing skulls, similar to those found in the Mexican Day of the Dead celebrations. The painting entitled "The Victor," which features a skeleton adorned in an admiral's uniform, is Daiensai's Zen-like indictment of the Bush Administration and the current state of world politics.
In Zen, the destination, the conclusion of one's spiritual path, is of no greater or lesser import than the path itself. "The Return of the Voyager" speaks not of a single event, but a recurring theme, a moment of simultaneous acceptance and release. Like the spiritual traditions reflected in his art, Daiensai does not put much stock in religious dogma of any kind.
"I believe that all paths that involve spirituality eventually flow to the ocean," he says. "I call myself a Unitarian Buddhist. I believe in all ways spiritual."
Richard Kirsten Daiensai
"The Return of the Voyager" Nov. 13 - Dec. 30, Kirsten Gallery 5320 Roosevelt Way NE, Seattle, WA 98105; (206) 522-2011
Visit www.kirstengallery.com
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