Sumi-Nagashi and Sound Sculpture —Dedicated to Toru Takemitsu—

“I realized that composing means finding meaning (signified) in the ‘river of sound’ that flows through the world around us.”⑴　

Hearing these words from Toru Takemitsu, Ki no Tsurayuki would surely agree.

　While the sumi-nagashi technique is believed to have been introduced from China’s liusha sasen, there is no clear evidence to support this. However, since there are poems in the *Kokin Wakashū* that mention sumi-nagashi, it is certain that something bearing this name had already reached Japan by the 9th century. Sumi-nagashi is a method of visualizing the natural movement of water by dripping ink onto the surface of water collected in a basin. Surviving examples include sumi-nagashi paper from the Heian-period *Nishi Hongan-ji Sanjurokunin-ka-shū* and the fan-shaped *Lotus Sutra* booklets, characterized by flowing lines. By the Kamakura period, designs with a dense, rugged appearance—resembling the grain of straight-grained wood—began to increase, often appearing intentional. During the Edo period, a style of continuous all-over design—such as the Yamaji pattern—emerged, and a regional industrial brand known as “Echizen Sumi-nagashi” also developed. While it is difficult to draw clear boundaries between the changes in each era, it is fascinating to observe how design trends emerged alongside the passage of time. Furthermore, by tracing these design transitions, sumi-nagashi surely holds the potential to give rise to new forms of expression.

　Many researchers have noted that the designs used to decorate writing paper—which reached their peak during the Heian period—often express reverence for and longing toward nature. Among the numerous techniques for decorating writing paper, sumi-nagashi is generally considered one such technique, and it is widely accepted that it was passed down as a decorative art form. However, I have long wondered whether this truly captures the essence of sumi-nagashi. Given that the number of surviving examples is overwhelmingly smaller than that of other paper decoration techniques, I believe that, rather than being produced primarily as decorative paper, the act of sumi-nagashi itself was likely a pastime for court nobles or a practice used daily in their lives, much like divination. This concept is closely aligned with the aesthetic sensibilities of the Heian nobility, who, as depicted in many waka poems, perceived the flow of nature through their five senses and incorporated it into their daily lives through poetry. I find myself pondering whether, when the graceful lines drawn with a brush or the quietly dripping ink of sumi-nagashi spread gently with the flow of water, they were touching upon the lingering resonance of the space they shared with nature. And this is not some lost culture of antiquity; it lives on in modern Japan through terms like “ma” and “yohaku.”

Toru Takemitsu, who captured the invisible “ma” and “yohaku” through sound, wrote a book titled *From the “yohaku” of Music*. Takemitsu states: “I sometimes feel that Japanese people place greater importance on listening for sound rather than trying to express it through sound. “Words like ‘ma’ or ‘sawari’ indicate practical, technical aspects of expression, yet at the same time, they also represent metaphysical aesthetic concepts.”⑵ He states that attempting to discern what naturally exists is the act of capturing “ma”; furthermore, “To put it simply, when a temple bell rings with a single ‘gooon,’ there is a leisurely pause before the next ‘gooon’ is sounded. In the Western sense, this is ‘ma’ without a beat. It exists as a ‘ma’ that cannot be defined or quantified. (Omitted) In other words, rather than conveying something through the actual sounds played, the space created by the performance itself plays a major role in Japanese music.”⑶ In this way, he perceives ‘ma’ and white space as the space generated by sound. This concept is akin to the relationship between water and ink in the continuous lines connecting characters written in kana or in the expression of ink-wash painting—a relationship that also resonates with the concept of white space. It is surely no coincidence that Toru Takemitsu referred to the lines of artists such as Murakami Kagaku and Shinoda Tohko.

About 1,000 years after the Heian period, and about 80 years after the era of avant-garde (contemporary) music and calligraphy, we are living in a highly developed civilization. In today’s world, where the internet and the metaverse are accelerating, lingering emotions have become virtual reality, and imagination is materialized with such precision and clarity—one might even say crudely—that we are drawn into that world. White space is no longer something to be felt, heard, or discovered; it has become something that is provided and shared. Messages that are updated rapidly and accurately seem to have had the white space and pauses in language stripped away. Takemitsu remarked, “The expansion of vocabulary likely stems from a desire to be precise, and the practice of imbuing a single word with multiple meanings—as was done in the past—is becoming ill-suited to our modern lives. “However, for me, while words may become more precise as a result, in a certain sense they become very impoverished. But I believe that words—and music—must not become impoverished in the first place.”⑷ he said. As information increases and becomes more accurate and faster, convenience certainly improves, but might there not be things that are lost in the process? The worldview and lingering emotions that the Heian aristocrats borrowed from nature—just like the sounds of the “yohaku” that Toru Takemitsu heard—should still exist in this world today…

　I believe that expressing sumi-nagashi—which was once depicted through the natural flow of water and the action of the wind—through sound vibrations is a challenge that allows sumi-nagashi to venture into new realms. This is *Acoustic Sumi-nagashi*, a fusion of sumi-nagashi and the sound sculptures associated with Toru Takemitsu. Furthermore, it serves as empirical proof that it is possible to connect the expression of the lingering emotions of Heian culture with the “white space” in Toru Takemitsu’s music. Both sound and ink lines can create negative space in the same way, and within that space, we can sense, hear, and discover the lingering resonance flowing like a ring.

“To me, sound and water feel similar. The human mind perceives water—an inorganic substance—as if it were an organic, living thing; and even with sound, which is nothing more than a physical wavelength (a mysterious coincidence of words), our thoughts strive to hear beauty, mystery, and various emotions within it.”⑸

　When I read that passage by Takemitsu, I even wondered if he might have been referring to “Acoustic Ink Flow.” And the graphic scores that Toru Takemitsu created with Kohei Sugiura—in which he expressed this idea—resembled the patterns of “Acoustic Ink Flow.”

⑴ (Toru Takemitsu, *Collected Works of Toru Takemitsu Vol. 1: Sound, to the Extent That It Can Be Measured Against Silence*, Shinchosha, 2000, p. 28)

⑵ (Toru Takemitsu, *Collected Works of Toru Takemitsu Vol. 2: From the Margins of Music*, Shinchosha, 2000, p. 74)

⑶ (Toru Takemitsu, *Collected Works of Toru Takemitsu Vol. 1: Sound and Silence—To the Point of Being Measurable Against Each Other*, Shinchosha, 2000, pp. 367–368)

⑷ (Toru Takemitsu, *Collected Works of Toru Takemitsu, Vol. 2: From the Margins of Music*, Shinchosha, 2000, p. 207)

⑸ (Toru Takemitsu, *Collected Works of Toru Takemitsu, Vol. 2: From the Margins of Music*, Shinchosha, 2000, p. 128)