leesaido

uzu jun 2002

sand stone ,granite

s

The Monster Called “Making a Living”

Today, once again, I spent the entire day glued to my drafting table.

Patent drawings.

Line after line, dimension after dimension.

Draw a line. Add a measurement. Draw another line. Before I know it,

evening has arrived. The clock, at least, never fails to do its job.

It has been nearly ten years since I started this freelance work.

Ten years ago, I never imagined I would still be doing it today. After all,

I am not the sort of person naturally suited to work that requires the

concentration of a memory card game played with microscopic pieces.

Back then, my plan seemed simple enough:

*"Just a temporary job until I can make a living from my art."*

That was all.

I only needed to earn enough to keep one modest mouth fed—my own.

Unfortunately, life rarely bothers to read the plans we make for it.

Before long, there was my wife.

A wonderful woman, but blessed with a healthy appetite.

Then came my son.

Small at first, but armed with the terrifying power known as “the growing years.”

And finally, there was Kotaro, our dog.

His mouth is smaller than any human's, yet when it comes to food consumption,

he operates on principles that seem closer to those of a black hole.

The single mouth I once intended to support somehow multiplied into three humans and one dog.

The Japanese word *kokō* means "making a living," and it sounds rather humble and manageable.

In reality, however, it behaves more like a monster.

A monster that keeps growing.

It devours time.

It devours money.

It occasionally snacks on one's ability to think.

And whenever it catches sight of an artist, it whispers:

*"Come now. Enough of these dreams. Why not become a sensible adult?"*

Then it tries to drag him back onto the well-paved road of ordinary life.

A dangerous creature indeed.

Surrounded by these formidable beings, I find myself defending what remains

of my artistic life every day.

Household chores arrive armed with brooms.

Daily obligations carry planes and chisels.

Bills march in like heavy machinery.

Against them all, I struggle to protect a few precious hours for making art,

along with a man's sense of romance, friendship, and stubborn dreams.

And all this in order to continue creating something called "pure art"

—the sort of thing that often prompts people to ask:

*"That's nice, but can you actually make a living from it?"*

When viewed objectively, it is not a particularly sensible undertaking.

In fact, it is probably quite foolish.

But looking back, I realize I have always been this way.

I fall in love with a dream.

Reality disappoints me.

I refuse to let go.

So I change direction, change methods, change circumstances—and charge forward again.

Whether this is perseverance or a complete lack of learning ability remains open to debate.

Still, if stubbornness were an art form, I might finally be able to make a living from it.

This evening, while stretching my shoulders beside the drafting table, a thought occurred to me.

At this point in my life, I can no longer laugh at Don Quixote.

A man who charged at windmills with a lance because he believed in something impossible.

In fact, I suspect that if he happened to pass by my studio today, he might nod in recognition and say:

*"Ah, my friend. Still at it, I see."*

And I would have no choice but to nod back.

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