"Alpha and Omega." This title had been in my mind for quite some time. It comes from the Book of Revelation in the New Testament, and I couldn't find a better phrase to describe painting in the context of art. Painting is the beginning and end of art (any true art lover would agree, but I'm a staunch believer in the supremacy of painting). While it's a bit grandiose and self-indulgent, I often fantasized about holding an exhibition with such a title.

Two years ago, in the summer, I started seriously considering the exhibition after seeing Fukunaga-kun's work at Satoshi Ohno's studio in Fujiyoshida City. Something clicked when I saw the paintings, which are also featured in this exhibition. By then, I had already collected several works by Ishii-kun. Although their styles were quite different, both artists' works exuded a unique sacredness that made me want to see their paintings displayed in the same space. The time had come. "Alpha and Omega."

Initially, I planned to follow the traditional style often seen in Tokyo's white cubes, "the conventional art style." With the cooperation of Kyoto's "Hikari Studio," we created neon designs by the two artists and aimed for a May exhibition. But as preparations were about to begin, the pandemic struck. Following the Lehman Shock, another black swan had taken flight, and the world changed drastically.

Closed borders, the death of Ken Shimura, the daily increase in infections, shocking images from the West, the Olympic postponement, the state of emergency, stay-at-home orders... It was overwhelming. Stunned, I stayed home, endlessly playing PlayStation.

In early May, under the state of emergency, my wife and I went to a cottage in Nagano that we had received from an acquaintance in March. Despite a slight sense of guilt about leaving Tokyo for the countryside, we went. The usually crowded Dangozaka Service Area was nearly empty, with most stores closed. The highway was deserted, not even transport trucks in sight. It felt like the tutorial mode of a racing game, making me realize the seriousness of the situation. The economic downturn was also evident.

Minamiaiki Village in Nagano, where the cottage was located, had high elevation, open landscapes, abundant nature, few people, and incredibly fresh air. Unlike in Tokyo, where even going to the nearby supermarket felt uneasy due to the invisible virus threat, there was no such fear here. Enjoying BBQ and a tent sauna in the forest, I started to say, "Cities are over because of corona." This was when I began vaguely considering "outdoor" exhibitions.

As the new infection numbers stabilized, the state of emergency was lifted. I was impressed and somewhat frightened by the Japanese people's self-restraint, thinking it was remarkable without any legal enforcement. I expected Japan to aim for zero new cases like Taiwan or Hong Kong, but instead, they chose to "coexist" with the virus under the "new normal." I doubted whether it was possible to coexist with COVID-19, expecting numbers to rise again.

In such a situation, it was difficult to tell the two artists, but my honest feeling was, "It's not the time for art." The white cube exhibition I had envisioned was the epitome of a crowded space, and people wouldn't come, nor would I want them to. If a cluster occurred, it would be a disaster, fundamentally against public health ethics. Soon, I began contemplating what a completely ethical exhibition during this period would look like. Could we create a "new art style" that completely avoided the three Cs and minimized infection risk?

The answer I came up with was "outdoor" and "online." While outdoor was feasible, I believed online exhibitions would be less engaging than actual viewing experiences, even with VR. Still, the excessive adherence to ethics and infection control seemed novel and interesting, giving meaning to holding an art exhibition in this context. We decided not to advertise, sent out DM invitations just before the event, and used a password-protected website for viewing. Additionally, it was limited to two nights. This excessive consideration began to seem timely and intriguing.

Takahata Town in Yamagata Prefecture, where the Uriwari Sekitei Park is located, was where I spent my childhood until I moved to Tokyo at eighteen. Despite never visiting the park properly, I knew it was popular among city folks and had hosted an outdoor music event last year. Researching online, I found the park, originally a quarry, had a space perfectly suited for an outdoor art exhibition, with high cliffs, a wide plaza, and artificial caves. The caves, reminiscent of a grotto, were significant. Caves, sacredness, and paintings are contextually inseparable. Amidst the pandemic, paintings returned to their place of origin. Truly "Alpha and Omega."

With the artists' consent, I consulted my father, who said it would probably be feasible. With the cooperation of the town office, we got permission, though the project was pitched as a filming rather than an exhibition. Had we submitted it as a public exhibition, it might have been different. The outdoor music event was canceled this year. Meanwhile, Tokyo museums were already open under "conventional art styles" with minimal restrictions. I'm not saying one is better than the other, but that was the reality.

In July, as expected, infection numbers rose again, heightening tension. Nonetheless, we quietly proceeded with reconnaissance and preparations. Fukunaga-kun decided to display his paintings on the cave walls, while Ishii-kun projected images on the rock walls and cliffs. During preparations, I lived in semi-isolation at my parents' request due to my mother's poor health, using only a large room, bathroom, and outdoor bath. I felt guilty towards the artists but also understood the rural mindset, realizing the complexity of COVID-19 and deepening my commitment to the "new art style."

On August 27, we headed to Yamagata with Ishii-kun, Fukunaga-kun, Usami-san, and myself in a 2-ton truck and station wagon. Later, Katayama-san, Tezuka-san, and Miyake-san arrived. To avoid spreading the virus from Tokyo to the countryside, artists and staff lived in tents, part of the "new art style" practice. Despite the unusual heatwave for late August in Yamagata, which caused some health issues, we worked with my father's employees and managed to reach the day of the event.

The outdoor art exhibition "Alpha and Omega," held under the guise of filming, naturally attracted no audience as no one was invited. Only the artists, staff, and a few guests were present. Amidst the darkness filled with the noise of generators, I filmed with a BMPCC4K while Usami-san took still shots with a Canon DSLR. The images should give a good idea of the exhibition space. The artists' work was spectacular. Ishii-kun's physically intense performance was soul-stirring, and Fukunaga-kun's paintings, illuminated by lanterns on the cave walls, exuded a different kind of allure and sublimity. The artists' presence in the venue had an almost priestly aura.

On the other hand, it felt somewhat empty and strange to put so much effort into an exhibition without an audience. It's not entirely true that I didn't wish for more people to see it in person. Yet, this was the fruit of resisting reality, and it had meaning precisely because of its unique format during these times. I am proud as the organizer to have presented a "new art style."

In late August 2020, without the COVID-19 pandemic, the Japanese would have continued their usual lifestyles, basking in the afterglow of the Olympics, and "Alpha and Omega" would have been held in a white cube somewhere without incident. The exhibition we realized, mourning the past and future that never arrived, and the lost world lines, was a testament to that. Seeing it in person, recording it on video, and presenting it as an online archive was an immensely gratifying experience, despite the considerable time, money, and effort involved.

Organizer Daisuke Akiba

Since March this year, I have spent most of my time at home. The reason is well-known, but I never expected to have so little contact with people. I don't remember much about what I did during that time, but I mostly recall taking care of my child. I conducted university classes online from home, continued my artistic activities, but the most vivid memory is the time spent with my family. Daycare centers were closed, playground equipment in parks was off-limits, malls were shut down, and there were hardly any places to go with children. It felt like the entire modern society was facing an unprecedented crisis. This wasn't just in my area of Kitasenju but all over the world, and the prospects seemed to be getting bleaker by the day. I heard theories that the virus was a biological weapon leaked due to mismanagement, or that the extreme proximity between urban areas and nature (resulting from environmental destruction) was to blame, or that it was due to unsanitary livestock facilities. I had no way of knowing the true cause. Despite staying home most of the time, I often took my child to the nearby shrine. However, we ended up going to the Arakawa riverbed, about a ten-minute bike ride away, more frequently. We looked for things to do at the place where the TV show "Kinpachi Sensei" was filmed. There was a spot where crabs were abundant, and we played by catching crabs there. Bringing crabs home from the riverbed every day became routine, and soon the entrance of our house was filled with crabs. Initially, the crabs would quickly hide when approached, but after a few days, they became sluggish and didn't try to escape much when touched.

I think we arrived in Uriwari, Yamagata Prefecture, around mid-July. My friend Akiba-san brought Fukunaga-san and me to his family home. Fukunaga-san and I have been competing as artist colleagues since prep school. However, we had never participated in an exhibition together until now. All the exhibitions scheduled for this year had been postponed to the next year. I had lost my immediate goals, and my home studio no longer felt like a place for regular production. It felt like it wasn't the time to produce anything. Akiba-san was planning a two-person exhibition in Ginza for Fukunaga-san and me, but that also lost its feasibility due to the pandemic. Without thinking too deeply, we decided on an outdoor exhibition. However, by the time we went to Yamagata, the second wave of COVID-19 had started in Tokyo, and it wasn't possible for us to meet people there. We decided to hold an outdoor exhibition in Yamagata with no audience and an online exhibition. Uriwari Sekitei Park, the venue, was recently a quarry, with small mountains vertically cut and large rock faces exposed. The top of the vertical rock walls was covered with trees, giving a sense of facing the strata of the land directly. The quarry had cave-like spaces carved out inside the rock walls and spaces surrounded by rock walls with only the top open. Fukunaga-san and I decided to use these spaces for our exhibitions.

The title of the exhibition, "Alpha and Omega," was conceived by Akiba-san. It's a monotheistic exhibition title that honestly felt unfamiliar to me. I asked him several times for the reason behind it, but I never fully understood. However, I knew he was particular about it and wouldn't budge. Please read the statement written by him for the concept. He decided the title, location, and participating artists, but the interesting part of this exhibition was the ambiguity of the project's main entity during its progress. This was partly because it was half playful. When I skimmed Georges Bataille's "The Lascaux Caves," I found the term "Homo Ludens," meaning "the playing man." Bataille suggested that Lascaux people painted cave art because they were playful, unlike Neanderthals who didn't know play and thus didn't paint. Art, according to Bataille, was born from the playfulness of Lascaux people. However, recent geological studies suggest that cave paintings were made not 30,000 years ago as previously thought, but around 70,000 years ago, which means Bataille's idea that Neanderthals didn't paint might be incorrect. Neanderthals probably played too, and we, while playing, reached this exhibition.

Though I heard summers in Tohoku were cool, camping in the open during a heatwave was far from enjoyable. It was hotter than Kitasenju and it rained too. It will certainly be a memorable experience. And the global situation with the pandemic remains unchanged.

Tomohito Ishii

For detailed information on the lead-up to this exhibition, please refer to Ishii-kun's text. The project began to take shape around the end of 2018, giving it nearly two years of momentum. During that time, organizer Akiba-san and artist Ishii-kun and I had several meetings. Though I couldn't grasp the exhibition image until the very end, it seemed Akiba-san could see it clearly.

As we entered this year and the exhibition schedule was being finalized, the world was struck by COVID-19. My part-time work decreased, and I spent my days cooking, exercising a bit, and focusing on my art. The bothersome social interactions vanished, and I felt a natural way of living in the simplicity and rationality of my new lifestyle. It made me realize that fulfilling the necessities of human life could be surprisingly straightforward. However, that feeling was short-lived, and living alone without seeing anyone made me feel a kind of existential crisis, as if I was regressing as a human. This, along with the pandemic, led to the decision to hold the exhibition outdoors instead of in a traditional gallery.

When I first visited the Uriwari Sekitei Park quarry in Yamagata, I was struck by its unique spatial features. The site was divided into several areas: an open space surrounded by towering rock walls, and large cube-like spaces carved out like caves. Each area had its structural characteristics, making the overall space very unique. I was assigned to display my paintings in the cube-like space. Although I called it a cave, it was more accurately a perfect cube, used as a gathering place during events. It was both a natural space, carved out of rock, and an artificial one, marked by the traces of stone cutting. The walls were etched with countless lines from the cutting machines, emphasizing the space's horizontality and verticality, reminiscent of Western church architecture. Yet, it was also undeniably a quarry ruin, evoking the image of a cave. Hanging paintings here inevitably made one think of cave paintings.

In this space, I hung five paintings depicting organic forms of mops and cleaning tools, illuminated by two lanterns. Initially, I intended to draw a parallel between the organic images of used cleaning tools and the traces of labor left by the stone cutting lines. However, once the paintings were hung, the images of mops and cleaning tools lost their meaning, leaving only the forms and colors of the paintings. The surrounding stone wall etchings became more pronounced, making the space feel organically alive. The act of hanging paintings on the wall created an interaction between the wall and the paintings, unifying the space. It felt like a subtle touch on the continuum of cave and church paintings.

Daisuke Fukunaga

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