After-performance talk (Konuma, Mukaiyama and Goto Shigeo)

In her concert at Daikanyama’s Hillside Plaza on January 31, Mukaiyama Tomoko lived up to everyone’s expectations and delivered another intense performance. As usual, the program was made up of a number of pieces that were sometimes smoothly interlinked, and at other times strung together in a rather violent fashion. I didn't recognize much more than a few Schumann and Ligeti compositions, but what Mukaiyama presents is so genuinely "her own" that there’s no point talking about composers in the first place. In a talk session after the performance, critic Konuma Junichi likened Mukaiyama’s style to that of a "DJ or remixer". I don't know to what extent the techniques of sampling and remixing have penetrated the realm of classical music, but since it was Konuma’s comment, I guess they are yet to be established. The pianist herself remarks indifferently, "Composers tend to be picky about performing methods, and these concerts are where I take revenge."

Although with (somewhat) different contents, her newest album "Sonic Tapestry" is another showcase of that same style. Or actually, as the concert in Daikanyama was held in celebration of the release, I should perhaps say that the concert followed the style of the album. Anyway, the pianist delivered bold quotations and interpretations of musical fragments ranging from baroque to contemporary classical compositions, stitched and woven together with the occasional improvisation and burst of noise thrown in here and there. The last piece, Johann Strauss’s "An der schonen, blauen Donau", ended abruptly as if cut with huge scissors, which reminded me of Godard (see OoT 167). It was as if an absurd kind of violence suddenly cut into the tranquil daily routine — or perhaps it was just an outbreak of the violence that is subliminally programmed in our everyday, and surfaces when the time comes. These are some of the thoughts that this concert inspired.

Tomoko Mukaiyama & Philip Mechanicus "en blanc et noir"

The CD book "en blanc et noir", which contains the album, is a pretty daring affair. The thin, LP-sized album of 14 pictures by Mukaiyama’s late husband, photographer Philip Mechanicus (1936-2005), is informed with an extremely concentrated sense of "privacy". Among the photographs is one of a female backside, dressed in black stockings that run and expose parts of the thighs and white panties. Other pictures show a woman in sexy lingerie on a sofa, or lying face up while bending her half-naked body. The model in all cases is Mukaiyama herself. With the exception of pictures showing her in rather cramped poses, Mukaiyama looks almost vulnerably natural. Considering that it was only herself and her husband shooting those pics behind closed doors, that’s little surprise of course, but this fact is at once what unavoidably causes a guilty feeling of sorts in those who look at the results. It’s a bit like peeping into a couple’s bedroom.

All nude pictures were reportedly included on the pianist’s own request. She had used nude photos for her CD covers before, but there seems to be something that the death of her husband made her want to shrug off. All non-nude pictures are taken from Mechanicus’s photo book "De laatste keuze" (The Final Choice), and these are the ones that particularly reflect the photographer’s talent. Those of the mostly black and white pictures that show street scenes are charged with that Cartier-Bressonian "decisive moment", while the small objects and portraits reflect here and there what Roland Barthes used to call "Punctum". In the latter case, that’s perhaps due especially to the fact that many of the portraits show the faces of artists. Some of them look slightly too theatrical in their poses, and just stagy enough to spoil the fun. Altogether, however, the pictures convey very clearly Mechanicus’s straightforward approach as a photographer, which includes facing his subjects on an equal basis, and capturing that precious moment when they are all themselves, yet without excluding the possibility of the very photographic uncertain element of chance to get involved.

Philip Mechanicus "De laatste keuze"

In the "equal basis" point, the case of Mukaiyama’s nude photographs in the "en blanc et noir" book is different. According to the great intellectual Shibusawa Tatsuhiko, "In the realm of pornography, all actors turn into objects. […] How much the voluntarily act of stepping forward to be an object is an act of stripping off one’s own freedom should be self-evident to those familiar with erotic subtleties." (Foreword to "Ueshima Keiji’s 'Bunretsubyosha no dansu paati' [Dance party of schizophrenics]," in "Toshin no byoin nite genkaku o mitarukoto" [Having hallucinations in a city hospital]) Mukaiyama responds to her husband’s request (or desire?), and "voluntarily steps forward to be an object," which is exactly why we feel that kind of guilt for watching. Originally, the "object" that we are being presented here is not an object that was ordered for us. The owner of that object is someone else, and we are just allowed to take a peek at his "property". And as that owner has passed away, we can't even obtain his permission.

At the Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennial that opens later this summer, Mukaiyama is planning to show an installation of dresses stained with her own menstrual blood. Like the photographs in "en blanc et noir", this work is of course based on an extremely "private" idea. Since menstrual blood is not a person, it doesn't "voluntarily step forward", but as it is something that the artists once "owned", or that can be considered a remaining alter ego of sorts, in this sense one may put it as a "voluntarily act of stepping forward to be an object." I think it quite interesting to compare the installation to "en blanc et noir" in this respect.

Mukaiyama explains about the photos that surfaced after Mechanicus’s death that she "can't remember when and how they were taken." I don't know if this is the truth, or if she just doesn't want to talk about it, and I don't feel like delving into her affairs. In either case, for Mukaiyama the artist it became necessary to expose herself as an "object" after the passing of the "subject". It’s about a life that ended as abruptly as the music on "Sonic Tapestry". Rather than conserving her memories of "the happy days" as a personal memento, she forced them on an unspecified number of "co-owners" in order to fill the gap created by the absence of the "subject’s" eyes, and restore her mental balance. I wonder if that’s too barbarous a declaration…