“This Eel…” — Gobangai Gallery, Sendai
Date:
Saturday, 2 August 2025
Intro:
In the spirit of quiet reflection this Saturday morning, I return to a vivid memory from my time in Sendai—my very first solo art exhibition at the Gobangai Gallery. What unfolded around one spontaneous ink painting became a lesson in surrender, intuition, and the strange grace of letting art make itself.
“This Eel…” — Gobangai Gallery, Sendai
My first solo art exhibition was held at the newly minted Gobangai Art Gallery, right in the heart of downtown Sendai. The gallery faced the main railway station, and mine was the inaugural show—an honor I hadn't asked for, but somehow, life had handed me. It was nearly a sell-out, and to this day, I remember the painting that fetched the highest price.
It wasn’t planned, not really.
One morning, I noticed some discarded pine wood strips in a bin—not much, just remnants. I fished them out and took them to my studio in Miyagi. Cut them to size, enough to build simple frames for mounting handmade washi paper. I had three 12" x 10" sheets, delicate and breath-light.
I brought them home and placed them side by side atop a cabinet.
There was a small bowl of sumi ink and an old brush I’d picked up behind the ramen shop next to Reichiro-san’s laundromat—my favorite spot for spicy broth and solitude. The brush had once been a bamboo stir-fry tool, now worn down nearly to the handle. It was perfect.
At the time, my domestic life was unraveling in a flurry of sharp words and emotional undercurrents—what I now call a verbal samurai takedown with my wife. Amid this surreal tension, I found myself in a kind of trance. I picked up that battered brush and, with a single breath, dragged it across the rice paper—zigzagging black ink in a loose, untamed stroke.
And then I saw it.
In the movement, in the rhythm, in the sway of the ink:
An eel.
I added a head. A gill.
And I had my illness.
Early the next morning, I took the three boards to the museum and, using the leftover pine strips, nailed them together to form a single piece. On my way home, I stopped by Reichiro-san’s place and asked him to write a haiku to accompany it.
He paused, considered it briefly, then said:
"This eel—
no one knows where it came from,
nor where it is headed."
Perfect.
Later, as I was hanging the painting in the gallery, a Japanese artist hovered nearby, making polite suggestions. “You don’t know the art market here,” he said. “Let me help you price your works.”
When he came to the eel piece, he stopped.
Gasped.
“This one is 1000 U.S. dollars!”
I remember thinking, Yeah right. Whatever.
And then—
An elegant Japanese woman walked in. Quiet. Observant. She moved from one piece to another until she stood before the eel.
My new friend leapt forward and declared, “This one is 1000 U.S. dollars!”
Without a blink, she reached into her purse and pulled out crisp yen—exactly the amount.
Just like that.
Such is.
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