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At down with birds, 1999
Daybreak. The birds have just awakened. Where will they fly? And where will my consciousness and imagination fly? In the misty blue light, still
tinged by the rainbow colors of dreams.
Morning. The sun comes up again, flowers open, and birds begin to fly.
My imagination and courage are also aroused and begin to fly.
Morning. There are beautiful things belonging to the morning, things I want to see. There should also be morning art. Just as there is breakfast in
addition to lunch and dinner.
(Why do most art openings and events take place after six o'clock in the evening?)
Morning. A small Cessna flies into view in the fresh blue sky, makes a white circle as I watch and then flies out of sight once again. That is
all. It fits softly and exactly into a morning state of mind. Ancient people probably felt infused with something like courage as they watched birds flying in the morning. I watch the birds with the same emotion as ancient people felt.
The morning sun, flying birds, stars, explosions, fire, flowers, waves, the ocean. Why do we look at these things with fascination, with no reason?
Things that fly, that rise, that start the day.
Morning. I am an artist just as birds are birds from the moment they wake up. Is there anyone who is an art viewer from the moment he wakes up? What sort of person would he be? I would like to meet such a person. I would like to meet such people.
People who are totally committed. In the morning, I am totally committed. Since I am totally committed, I would like to meet people who are totally committed. I sincerely believe in dreams and imagination, so I would like to meet people who sincerely believe in dreams and imagination. I am searching for people with abundant imaginations, people who are like music.