Stillness and the sound of cicadas

Can a landscape be still and noisy at the same time? There is a wonderful haiku by Matsuo Bashō that plays on this paradox: 'shizukasa ya / iwa ni shimiiru / semi no koe'. The first word means 'stillness' and the cutting word 'ya' suggests that this applies to everything that follows: 'penetrating into the rocks, voices of the cicadas.' We might imagine the poet becoming gradually aware that the constant sound of these insects is permeating everything, even the rocks, even himself. Haiku scholars have tried to explain the poem - debating the type and number of cicadas (perhaps there was only one), or wondering if he had in mind some kind of porous rock. This latter idea is not as misguided as it might sound, because the region where it was written (halfway through Bashō's Narrow Road to the Deep North journey) does have some soft volcanic rock. And yet it is more intriguing to contemplate the paradox of an ostensibly noisy place that is able to convey a feeling of stillness. 

In his detailed analysis of this poem, Kawamoto Kōji, provides an interesting earlier example of this from Chinese poetry. During the Liang dynasty, Wang Ji wrote a poem called 'Entering the Ruoye Valley' which contained this couplet: 'With the screech of cicadas, the forest grows more quiet. / With the cry of the birds, the mountain stillness deepens.' The famous Song Dynasty poet-politician Wang An-shi (who I once likened on this blog to Tony Blair!) didn't approve of this. So he rewrote it, getting rid of the cicadas and keeping the birds quiet: 

Noiselessly, the mountain stream
   circles the bamboo grove;
West of the bamboo, flowers and grasses
   sport with the tenderness of spring.
I sit under thatched eaves
   facing this all day;
Not a single bird sings,
   the silence of the hills deepens.

Despite his better intentions, Wang An-shi's revision amounted to an impoverishment rather than an improvement of the original. (Kawamoto Kōji, - The Poetics of Japanese Verse: Imagery, Structure, Meter, 2008) 

Kōji goes on to mention other poets who wrote about this soundscape paradox. Du Fu for example - 'with the thwack-thwack of the woodsman's axe, the mountain stillness deepens. In Japan there is a 7th century example (written in Chinese) by Nakatomi no Oshima: 'Leaves fall, the mountain becomes more quiet. /  A cool breeze blows, the lute grows more faint.'  And a later one by Shigeno no Sadanushi (785-852): 'Borne upon the wind, the multitude of natural sounds deepens the stillness of the mountains.' I'm sure some sounds, regardless of their volume or frequency, are more likely to help or detract from a restful mood. Distant traffic noise may be quieter than the wind but it always feels intrusive, representing the constant motion of human activity. 

Bashō wrote his haiku at a temple 'known for the absolute tranquility of its holy compound.' Climbing to the summit he observed massive rocks covered in aged pine and oak trees, giving a powerful sense of deep time. The mood of the temple must have produced a sense of silence, even though the natural world continued audibly around him. Hearing the cicadas' voices in this frame of mind, he could sense them penetrating and being absorbed by the ancient rocks. 

Risshaku-ji Temple where Bashō wrote his haiku
(Source: Wikimedia, Tak1701d)

Camouflaged in the landscape

Ana Mendieta, Untitled, Siluetas Series, 1976

I have written about Ana Mendieta on this blog twice before. In 2013 I gave an overview of how her work connects with landscape art, based on a major London retrospective of her work at the Hayward Gallery. Many of those pieces are back in London and on show in Tate Modern's new Mendieta exhibition. I highly recommend going, even if you're familiar with them already - I've been twice! She is a fascinating figure, a radical land artist but also someone you can discuss in terms of feminism, body art and performance, ancient cultures and symbols, ethnicity and identity, experimental film and site specific sculpture. Here though, I will add a few more words on my central theme, landscape, which was an active participant in the making of her art as you can see from the action of the waves in the Siluetas photographs above. 

One of the exhibition wall texts reads as follows: 

In the late 1970s Mendieta’s Silueta Series became further integrated into nature. Some of the Siluetas became hard to find, or as Mendieta described them, ‘camouflaged’ in the landscape. This shift occurred around the time she left Iowa to live in New York City. Her friend and fellow artist Eduardo Costa told her that such work encouraged him to see ‘readymade siluetas’ everywhere. The subtlety of these works created the sense that a Silueta could be encountered suddenly and at any moment. 

I like this notion that eventually an art work can become a dematerialised idea that we might spot when we are out in the landscape. It would similarly be possible to suddenly come upon accidental Richard Longs or Andy Goldsworthys, although the shapes they use have less significance than the Silueta form. Of course this is not a new idea - 18th century tourists were always spotting Salvator Rosa motifs in broken trees and looming rocks, or admiring Claude-like vistas in the soft light of Italy.

 

Ana Mendieta, Tate restaging of the Old Westbury installation, Untitled: Silueta Series, 1978

It is easy to imagine glimpsing a patch of moss in the woods and seeing in it echoes of Ana Mendieta. The photograph above was taken in Tate Modern, where they have recreated a life-sized forest she made with students for the State University of New York College at Old Westbury. Ana Mendieta's original piece 'was designed to be viewed from afar – it was a forest that could not be entered.' This distancing of the spectator was a feature of contemporary land art, made at some distance from gallery spaces and experienced at a remove, through photographs and documentation. It seems to me that the Tate installation stands in an interesting point somewhere between landscape art, which always assumed a viewer and a view, and sculpture, which can be moved around and examined. It is made of real natural objects but remains static in a gallery, where there is no wind to move the branches or rustle the leaves, or any real rain and sunlight to nourish and illuminate the moss.