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UNTITLED (CENTRAL PARK MIST, 2003) #0903/ 2003
(  Satoshi Kinoshita )
| Series: | Paintings: Landscape | | Medium: | Acrylic on stretched canvas/ two panels, framed | | Size (inches): | 36 x 24 (overall) | | Size (mm): | 914 x 610 (overall) | | Catalog #: | PA_084 | | Description: | Signed, date, copyright in magic ink on the reverse - framed.
This artwork was painted at Kinoshita's Fifth Avenue studio in New York City in September 2003 for two year anniversary of "September 11" and was photographed & uploaded for this website on September 11 in 2005. This is his only painting which has "Untitled"as a title so far..... Why "Central Park Mist, 2003" as a sub title? Please see - Catalog #: PA_037 & PA_038.
http://www.japanesefineartnyc.com/
?action=show_work&work_id=PA_037
http://www.japanesefineartnyc.com/
?action=show_work&work_id=PA_038
Normally this painting is shown rectangularly - the right hand side of this website image goes to the top side of the painting(s).
"Trauma, art and 9/11" (Most memorable works often come years later) By Julia Keller, Tribune cultural critic.
Published September 11, 2005, Copyright © 2005, Chicago Tribune.
Maybe years hence we'll agree to remove it from the rotation, make it sacred by omission, just as superstitious building owners banish the number 13 from the elevator buttons.
But for now, 9/11 still comes 'round once a year, and if we've managed to forget for a while, we always remember right about now. We'll remember Hurricane Katrina, too, and in the late summer of countless seasons to come, we'll feel the wind on our faces and wonder again at the accumulation of so much sorrow, so much woe, because history is more than just what happened. It's what we make of what happened. And artists, of course, are the people who do a lot of that making for us.
Choosing fiction:
"No non-fiction can substitute for literature, for the chronicle of the inner life," said Lynne Sharon Schwartz, author of "The Writing on the Wall" (Counterpoint, 2005), a novel about 9/11.
She was explaining why anyone would even attempt to write fiction about an event such as the terrorist attacks of four years ago, especially since the journalistic accounts have been so myriad and, in many cases, so thorough and gripping.
"Novels and art of all kinds ask, `What are we going through? What is our personal history of being alive at this point on earth?'" added Schwartz in a phone interview from her New York studio.
Artists are apt to weigh in early and often on great national traumas, of course, but at times the most memorable works -- the ones that last past the generation that actually experienced the catastrophe -- come along some years after the event. It's as if painters and poets and filmmakers need time to let it all sink in, to let the meaning of a great national tragedy slowly push its way past the sentimental cliches and the creaking platitudes, like a patient commuter at a rusty turnstile.
This isn't always true, of course. Sometimes the instant pain of a particular historical moment can result in an astonishing epiphany, such as Neil Young's "Ohio" (1970), a transcendent pop song written in the immediate aftermath of the shootings of four Kent State University students at an anti-war rally that same year.
Yet with other national tragedies, some artists need to ruminate. The felling of the World Trade Center, the gouging of the Pentagon -- there was an overnight flurry of artistic responses, naturally, but for some creators, there first has been a period of reflection.
Likewise, the James Jones novel "From Here to Eternity," which includes a vigorous and convincing recapitulation of the chaos of the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, was not published until 1951 -- a full decade after the event.
The great, illuminating fictions about the Vietnam War -- Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (1990), Larry Heinemann's "Paco's Story" (1986), Susan Fromberg Schaeffer's "Buffalo Afternoon" (1989) -- did not appear until long after the American withdrawal.
Gore Vidal's novel "Lincoln" (1984) ends with the heartbreaking narrative flourish of Lincoln's assassination -- written more than a century after the murder. Only a writer who, by the simple fact of personal chronology, was long removed from the event could place it in true context, could trace its resonating path across the wilderness of the ensuing years.
Another traumatic death, the assassination of President Kennedy, drew one of its best artistic probings in Don DeLillo's "Libra" (1988), a quarter-century removed from the terrible events of that day in Dallas.
Another DeLillo novel, "Underworld," (1997), with the reality of the atom bomb in the middle of the 20th Century at its throbbing center, vividly demonstrates how a shared national event can both bind and terrify. DeLillo recounts a monologue by comedian Lenny Bruce, whose tag line -- We're all gonna die! -- haunts his 1950s audience long into the night:
It was this isolated line that stayed in people's minds when they went to their cars and drove home . . . roamed the freeways for half the night because they knew they wouldn't be able to sleep and what better place to imagine the flash and burst, where else would they go to rehearse the end of history . . . And so they drove half the night, at first morose and then angry and then fatalistic and then plain shaking scared, chests tight with the knowledge of how little it would take to make the thing happen -- the first night on earth when the Unthinkable crept up over the horizon and waited in an animal squat . . .
Schwartz admitted that initially she was "uneasy" about dealing with 9/11. Other people were doing it already, she knew -- authors such as Ian McEwan and Reynolds Price and songwriters such as Bruce Springsteen and Alan Jackson couldn't keep their fingers off it -- but she did so, anyway.
`What we feel':
"Our job [as artists] is to trace what we're going through," she said. "To ask what we feel when we wake up in the morning. If I hadn't written a novel about 9/11, I would certainly want to read one."
A psychiatrist character in DeLillo's "Underworld" would understand Schwartz's point. To another character in the novel, she says, "You have a history that you're responsible to."
His reply: "What do you mean, responsible to?"
"You're answerable," she says. "You're required to make sense of it. You owe it your complete attention."
Copyright © 2005, Chicago Tribune.
-www.chicagotribune.com/features/arts/
chi-0509110322sep11,1,4560916.story?
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