> Art, Democracy, and Economics
Extending the timeline of what I have written so far about the contemporary art environment and breathing, I would like to consider what art might be in a hundred years.
This leads me to think of a heliocentric shift in art.
I will use strong metaphors, because I am writing in order to reclaim the breath that has been taken away by theory.
This is not a formal art theory, but a personal record of lived reality in this era.
I believe that “when the past and present connect, the future is sometimes automatically included.” This follows the logic of a straight line: by marking two points on a timeline, a third point is naturally determined along their extension.
For instance, traditional performing arts preserve local bodily knowledge from a century ago. These are “forms of breathing” (kata) created by anonymous people—forms that have endured through repetition without ever being reduced to theory. Because tradition is always “outdated,” it possesses the potential to break through the stagnation of modern trends. Simultaneous bodily movements cannot be translated into words. The preservation of an information density so vast it defies description is, I believe, one of the few ways to withstand the crushing pressure of time.
Language is merely a set of scaffolding. “Forms” (kata) are the shortest paths left by our ancestors to guide our inner breathing. The freedom found within these forms is a sensation that remains inaccessible until one actually inhabits them.(*)
At the very least, consider the yearly cycle of agriculture, the growth of a child, the succession of generations, or even the slow respiration of a stone. We can point to these things with words, but we cannot convey the 1:1 scale sensation of their existence. An artist’s work begins with observing these organic boundaries without dulling them, then passing that “breath” to the next person in some tangible form.
When words are allowed to precede breath, theory becomes bloated and accelerates. As theory’s lifespan shortens, we—as living beings—begin to feel suffocated, unable to keep up. At that moment, the voice of the body resonates most profoundly, even if it is rejected. Breathing that transcends the “generalized human” scale is akin to the religious act of kuyo (memorial rites); it is a blessing from the past toward the future.
Some may say, “Such a thing does not exist.” To them, I ask: would you agree to dispose of your own body or your ancestors’ graves as mere garbage upon death? Most would feel an indescribable visceral discomfort. This is not a matter of religious dogma, but a boundary that theory cannot cross. As long as theory does not overstep its bounds, painting—once pronounced “dead” by theory—continues to spread vast and wide. Theoretically, theory cannot kill human painting.
My practice is but one small example of this—a minimal ecosystem. I am not interested in material networking or expansion. A practice that follows the body’s own voice does not even need to be called “art.” It is enough if it is recognized as such long after I am gone (a posteriori).
Furthermore, if I disrupt my breathing for the sake of expansion, I lose my grasp of the space, and the resulting chaos is difficult to recover from. I simply want to paint. Hosting spaces or generating discourse are not my priorities. I would rather leave such tasks to those with a talent for them. In fact, writing this feels less like creation and more like the drudgery of filing a tax return.
Essentially, the organic nature of breath connects us to the future. This text is merely a record of an era where such a simple truth went unrecognized in the art world. It is easy to claim “it doesn’t exist,” but these same issues will resurface over time. This “suffocation” is like dust accumulating in the mind; to deceive oneself is to invite illness.
I face my personal traumas and tackle the problem of reflexivity, recording my endurance within a suspended “emptiness.” I do this not through direct statement, but through the physical freedom of “form.” I suspect seeds of this same impulse are germinating worldwide. I write this as a “barrier” (kekkai)—to ensure the invasion of language does not trample these fragile sprouts. I believe this is how I connect the breath of life I have received.
In time, I believe paintings will lose their need for assertions and “meanings.” Their role will shift toward becoming “substances that regulate or disrupt breathing.” They will alter the space-time of a room, physically holding the viewer in place.
AI-generated images will continue to evolve, but they will never possess the “aura of the singular moment.” AI deals in statistical bias; it can imitate, but it lacks physical friction. It strips away essential human elements—like the simple intimacy of laughing together when a fart stinks. A “comfort” divorced from embodied knowledge endangers the breath of life. Even if brain signals are mechanically stimulated with pleasure, one gains no sense of actually challenging reality. This is where the potential of the future body lies: not in “fashionable healing,” but in proud blue-collar labor that integrates mind and body through pain and unpleasant friction.
Art, precisely because it lacks practical utility and refuses to be encased in social institutions, celebrates humanity and supports society’s foundations. I am writing to adjust this discrepancy. I hope that one day, people will laugh and wonder why it was ever necessary to write such obvious things. In mathematical terms, the current situation is like trying to represent π as a rational number. In other words, modern art theory may have mistaken the study of the imaginary axis for real numbers. It has perhaps reached a state similar to a modern-day slave liberation movement.
It has not been a complete waste, but it would not be too early to immediately begin correcting a century’s worth of positioning. The breath of humanity is being eroded even now by impertinent, unconscious emotions disguised as theory. No matter how mistaken or arrogant I may be, isn’t the recalculation of π a more pressing issue? If theory is not a religion, then the burden of proof lies with the theorists.
Perhaps this will identify the very point where theory diverges. When theory is compelled to stop at the threshold, the silence it leaves behind allows the breath of painting to be revived by the hands of its practitioners.
Contemporary art often confronts the filth of society head-on. However, when this is done with theory at the forefront, there is a danger akin to adults perpetually violating the souls and bodies of children. If theory does not equally embrace this abhorrence, artists are forced to endure a century of violence. This is a warning against unconscious authority that resonates at the very boundaries of education and ethics. It is as if all of humanity is still living in the age of Geocentrism.
Architects are not carpenters; they do not truly know the scent or the grain of wood. This is not a judgment of “good or bad,” but a difference in roles. Yet, it is deeply embarrassing when an architect tries to lecture a carpenter on the smell of timber. To a craftsman on-site, a theorist trying to cut a joint is merely indulging in dilettantism. I am simply pointing this out within the art world. While art is seen as “impractical” today, it may one day be recognized as a utilitarian necessity for breathing.
By staying true to the body’s breath and looking back at the past, the future opens up. An awareness of embodied knowledge, which precedes language, is a potential for art that only humans will achieve. The time of life does not extend only in a straight line; it is a great possibility that simultaneously touches both a millennium ago and this very afternoon.
These are the words of one artist standing in front of a canvas in this era.
In accordance with the Heliocentric Theory, I pray that the artist’s breath will continue to resonate even after his death.
*Reference: Eugen Herrigel “Zen in the Art of Archery”