Kyoto Gold Series -The Gold I Found in Kyoto

Three years ago, on my third journey to Kyoto, a deeper relationship with the city began. I have returned many times since, enough for Kyoto to move beyond being a destination. Certain streets became familiar, certain places drew me back, and certain seasons became something I wanted to experience again. My children began to know the city too. They enjoyed the simplicity of our stays there, the walking, the familiar routines, returning to places they recognised. Over time, Kyoto became somewhere they were genuinely happy to return to. In a small way, it became our home in Japan.

Gradually, almost without realising it, Kyoto began to settle into my visual memory. I started noticing the colour of timber after decades of weather, the quietness of a stone courtyard, the irregular surface of an old wall, the way light enters a centuries old interior, and the relationship between an object and the empty space surrounding it. And increasingly, I noticed gold.

A quiet Zen moment, captured in one of Kyoto’s cafés.

For most of my practice, I have worked within the austerity of black ink and white paper. It is a language I understand instinctively, the tension between gesture and restraint, density and emptiness, movement and stillness, form and space. Kyoto introduced another element into that vocabulary: Gold.

I. Why Gold from Kyoto

Kyoto taught me to see gold differently. Before this, gold naturally carried familiar ideas for me, preciousness, value, permanence and luxury. But the more time I spent in Kyoto, the more I realised that gold could carry something far more complex. In this ancient city, gold has lived for centuries within sacred architecture, painted interiors and traditional craftsmanship. It can suggest illumination rather than display, create atmosphere rather than simply decorate, and carry a sense of cultural memory and continuity. I began to see gold not simply as a colour, but as a presence.

At Kinkakuji, that presence is extraordinary. Of course, the first thing one notices is gold, but what stayed with me was also the clarity of its structure, the square, refined edges, the balance of its architecture, and the relationship between its luminous surfaces and darker architectural elements, surrounded by water, trees and sky. The gold never really exists alone. Its presence depends on everything around it. Light needs shadow, brilliance needs restraint, and presence needs space.

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  The shariden at Rokuon-ji, commonly known as the Golden Pavilion (Kinkakuji)

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  Kinkakuji Winter

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  The original Golden Pavilion is believed to have been constructed in 1399.

This felt surprisingly close to calligraphy. Black ink only has meaning because of the untouched paper surrounding it. A powerful stroke needs silence around it; density needs emptiness, and movement needs stillness. I began to understand that what attracted me to Kyoto’s gold was not simply gold itself, but the relationship it created with everything around it.

The majestic Nijō Castle, where history, craftsmanship and quiet beauty coexist. (UNESCO world heritage site)

At Nijo Castle , I encountered another expression of gold. Within its historic interiors and painted screens, gold becomes part of the architecture rather than something separate from it. It changes according to where you stand and how light enters the room. A surface can appear quiet from one position and suddenly become luminous from another. I became fascinated by how something so precious could alter the atmosphere of an entire space without needing to dominate it. Kyoto gradually taught me that refinement does not necessarily come from adding more. Often, it comes from knowing exactly how much is enough.

I found another expression of this philosophy through Kyoto’s craftsmanship. Kintsugi introduced me to the idea that gold could acknowledge time rather than conceal it. The fracture of an object remains visible; gold does not pretend that the break never happened, but gives its history a presence. That resonated with my relationship with ink. A dry brush, an unexpected bleed, a broken edge or a splash is not necessarily an imperfection to be corrected. These marks are evidence of movement, time and the human hand.

Kyo zogan, Kyoto’s traditional metal inlay craft, fascinated me for another reason. Gold and silver are embedded into darker metal surfaces with extraordinary precision. I was immediately drawn to the relationship between gold and black, between luminosity and depth, and between the preciousness of gold and the strength of metal. Behind something visually quiet lies enormous discipline and accumulated knowledge. I understand this through calligraphy. A stroke may take only seconds, but those seconds can contain decades of practice. What appears spontaneous is not the absence of discipline; sometimes it is the result of it. This relationship between gold, black and metal would later become unexpectedly relevant to my own exploration of bronze.

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  Kintsugi: Finding Beauty in Brokenness.

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  Kenjō / Kyo-Kenjō tsuba and fittings

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  Kyoto Damascene is a refined form of traditional metal inlay art, unique to Kyoto and deeply rooted

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  I felt particularly connected to Kyoto’s gold craftsmanship, especially at Taisha Shrine near Fushim

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  Exploring River-stroke possibilities in bronze. Slowly taking shape through material and form.

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  Yūri-kinsai is a gold leaf-application technique used in Japanese pottery and porcelain.

Yet the moment that connected Kyoto’s gold most directly to my own artistic language came not from architecture or craftsmanship, but from nature.

There is a particular moment in autumn when the ginkgo reaches its fullest yellow. Against Kyoto’s restrained palette of timber, stone and temple roofs, an entire tree can appear illuminated from within. I remember standing beneath an old ginkgo tree when the wind moved through its branches. Suddenly, thousands of golden leaves came alive above me, turning, trembling, accelerating and falling. In that moment, I saw the brush.

There was the same brisk energy I feel when a brush moves freely across paper: force followed by softness, acceleration followed by suspension, one direction suddenly becoming another. No two leaves followed exactly the same path, yet together they belonged to one movement. For a moment, it felt as though the tree itself were making strokes through the air.

Beneath a thousand-year-old ginkgo, borrowing its energy.

What fascinated me even more was that the wind itself was invisible. I could only understand its energy through what it moved. Calligraphy is not so different. We cannot see the breath, instinct or emotion travelling through the body; we only see the trace it leaves behind through the brush.

As I watched the leaves begin to fall, another idea emerged. Kyoto had shown me gold that could endure for centuries through architecture, objects and craftsmanship. The ginkgo showed me gold that could be completely alive for one brief season, disappear, and return again. One gold spoke of continuity; the other of renewal. Both stayed with me.

That was when Kyoto’s gold began to enter my River-stroke language.

II. Why Gold Became the Background

After these journeys, I could no longer think about gold simply as a colour. It had become light, movement, memory and time. I began asking myself what would happen if gold was no longer an accent within my work. What if, instead, gold became the space itself?

For most of my practice, black ink has existed against white paper. Yet in Chinese calligraphy, white paper is never merely a background. The untouched surface actively participates in the composition. It gives the stroke breath, creates rhythm and silence, and forms the ma between one gesture and another.

What I choose not to paint can be as important as what I paint. Replacing that white ground with gold therefore fundamentally changes the relationship. The negative space is illuminated; it begins to hold light.

I spent a long time searching for the right gold surface. I did not want something brilliant or decorative. That would have contradicted much of what Kyoto had taught me. I wanted a gold with restraint and depth, a surface capable of luminosity without needing to announce itself.

When I finally began working with sumi on the gold paper, I discovered that the relationship between ink and space had changed. Black became deeper, dry brush textures became more physical, and splashes and broken strokes seemed almost suspended above the luminous surface. Even the areas where I placed no ink began to possess their own presence.

Kyoto Gold Series 【 初心】Original intention; remain true to our original aspiration and founding mission

Most importantly, the artwork now responded to its environment. Morning light reveals one surface and evening light another. Seen directly, the gold can feel restrained; as the viewer moves across the room, certain areas suddenly illuminate while others recede.

This interests me deeply because River stroke has always been about movement. Inspired originally by the nature of water, it is a language that flows, changes direction, gathers energy and releases it. With the Kyoto Gold works, movement no longer exists only within the brushstroke. It also happens between the artwork, the changing light and the person standing before it.

The ink absorbs light while the gold reflects it. One records a moment while the other continues changing with every moment around it. The ink holds the gesture; the gold holds the light.

Gold therefore became more than a background. It became an active part of the work, a changing field through which the River stroke could move. It gave me a new space to explore characters, verses, relationships and ideas that had long existed within my practice, but now through a completely different atmosphere.

This became the foundation of the Kyoto Gold Series.

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  【海上生明月 天涯共此時】 The moon rises over the sea; across the ends of the earth, we share this same moment.

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  Kyoto Gold Series>【雲起三生】Clouds rising across three lifetimes.

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  Kyoto Gold Series 【平安第一】Peace and safety above all

III. When Gold Became Sculpture and Why 家

At almost exactly the same time, another journey had been developing quietly in my studio. After more than a decade exploring River stroke on paper, I had begun asking whether a brushstroke could leave the paper. Could something created in seconds acquire weight? Could the energy of a stroke become something we can walk around and experience physically?

Exploring River-stroke possibilities in bronze. Slowly taking shape through material and form.

For almost three years, I immersed myself in bronze sculpture, studying form, casting, finishing and patination. I wanted to understand whether the brushstroke itself could acquire a body.

There is a connection with Kyoto that I only understood more clearly later. When I think about Kinkakuji, I remember not only its gold but the clarity of its architecture, the refined edges, the balance of its form and the relationship between luminous gold and darker structure. Those qualities began finding their way into the sculpture. I challenged my brushstrokes to become planes, lines acquired edges, and something weightless had to learn how to stand.

Through patination, the bronze developed into deep black and aged gold. Black returned me immediately to ink, while gold returned me to Kyoto. I thought again of Kyo zogan and the beauty of gold meeting a darker metal body, refinement held against weight and permanence. Suddenly, two investigations that I had been pursuing independently for almost three years began to converge. In Kyoto, I had been learning to see gold differently. In my studio, I had been learning to see the brushstroke differently. One transformed the space around the stroke; the other gave the stroke a physical body.

For this first sculptural expression, I chose 家, Family; Home.

The reason became clearer to me as the work developed. As I grow older, I find myself thinking less about achievement and more about what remains beneath all of it. My children grow, my parents grow older, and my understanding of family changes with them. When we are children, home is something created for us. As adults and parents, home becomes something we create for others. Then, somewhere along the way, we realise that the people who once created our sense of home are ageing too.

Perhaps this is also why watching my children fall in love with Kyoto affected me so much. They did not care about the history behind the gold, the architecture or the craftsmanship. They simply loved being there. They were happy walking its streets, returning to familiar places and spending time together. They wanted to return. In a small way, Kyoto had become their home away from home.

Somewhere in this city that had been teaching me so much about gold, the idea of 家 became increasingly personal. Perhaps home is not always an address or a building. Sometimes it is simply the place where the people you love are together.

I opened the character 家, stretched it and allowed the River stroke to move into space. From one angle, fragments of the character appear; from another, they disappear. Some viewers see shelter, some see figures embracing, while others see a family gathered together. There is no single correct view, because home itself changes according to where we stand in life. I was not trying to sculpt a literal representation of 家. I was trying to sculpt the feeling of home.

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The black and gold that had occupied my thoughts for years finally existed not only on paper, but in space.

Yet 家 is not the conclusion of Kyoto Gold. It is one expression within a language that is still unfolding.

What Gold Means to Me Now

After three years, I realise that the Kyoto Gold Series is not really about gold itself. It is about what gold has gradually come to mean to me. Kyoto taught me gold as light and refinement. Its craftsmen showed me gold as discipline, continuity and memory. The ginkgo showed me gold as movement and renewal. Through calligraphy, gold became a space for the brushstroke to move through; through bronze, the stroke began to acquire weight, dimension and permanence.

These ideas are now opening new possibilities within my practice. The gold ground is not tied to one character, one composition or one story. It can carry a single character, a relationship between characters, a classical verse, a personal phrase or an idea that begins with the story of the person who will eventually live with the work. Each work can carry its own meaning while remaining part of the same evolving language.

This openness is important to me. River stroke has never been about repeating a fixed form. Like a river, it continues forward, responding to what it encounters along the way. I want Kyoto Gold to carry that same spirit, to continue evolving through different works, materials, stories and lives. Gold has given me another space in which the language can continue moving.

Perhaps the most personal lesson within all of this is also the simplest. As I grow older, I become more conscious of time, but also more grateful for it. Our children grow, our parents grow older, our understanding of home deepens, and we continue creating new memories together. Change does not only mean that something is leaving us. It also means that something new is always becoming possible.

Maybe that is why gold means something different to me now. It is no longer simply about wealth, spectacle or permanence. Gold is the light that reminds me to recognise what is precious while it is here and to carry that light forward.

That is where I see the Kyoto Gold Series now: not as a finished statement, but as an evolving language with many stories still to be written. New characters, new verses, new relationships and new meanings can continue to find their place within it. Just as the ginkgo returns to gold with another season, and a river continues beyond what we can see, I believe the things that matter to us also continue, in our children, in what we inherit from our parents, in what we create, and in what we pass forward.

Gold as memory. Gold as light. Gold as time. And above all, gold as something that continues.