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Art institute by inumaru_rapture

Room 102

My friend, I shall lead you on a voyage through time locked with in the cement walls and glass containers of the Chicago Art Museum. I will take you to a room where sculptures of deities, monks, and gods are now frozen in a solid form, their faces captured in the moment, as if in a photograph. In certain instances, you may still feel the wind blowing through their hair. The room I shall take you to is the first room of the Japan, China, and Korea exhibit, on the first floor of the museum to the right of the first room behind the grand stair case. It is there that we shall find peace and majesty locked into the wood and clay of the sculptures.

My friend looks at me as I give my little speech, her eyebrow raised into her hair. Her look says "yea, right, whatever." But I continue, a smile on my face. I know better. I know what awaits us, and, even if it's within a windowless, cool room with security and barred doors, it is a place that you can easily lose yourself within the strands of time.

I lead her past the great stairway, passing by hoards of students waiting around for their time to leave. Their conversation peeks at my peripheral, but I do not venture to listen. The simple-minded gossip of high school students has never interested me. I push open the glass doors, smiling at the black security woman on the other side. She stares right through me. With a gentle shrug of my shoulders, I steer my friend into the first room, the Asian room. Room 102. There are five statues encased in glass and placed around the boarder of the room. My friend sighs, looking at me as if this is a waste of time. I grin to her, she has no idea how cool this all is!

I lead her to the first image on the right hand side, a seated male figure in a yogi position. He is the Seated Bosatsu, created of a wooden core, dry lacquer, with traces of gold leaf upon his torso and face. He was created in c. 775 CE, in the Nara period of Japan. Upon his forehead, he has a hole that may have once carried a jewel, but has been stolen or misplaced throughout the centuries. His majestic face holds an image of those who find peace, and all those who look up on him, strive to find the peace he holds. I look to my friend, pointing out little bits about him. She looks unamused and

continues on. I smile. I will get her to be amazed before the day is out!

We move to the next statue on the right side of the room, the one almost parallel from the door we came in. There, a ferocious three eyed oni or demon stands ready to fight. It is the Shukongo-jin, a wooden statue with traces of polychromy. It was created in the Kamakura period in Japan, from 1185-1333 CE. It looks as if it was sculpted from clay the wood is carved so delicately. My eyes scan over the muscularly angry form, his arms poised with a tiny weapon in his hand, but his other hand poised with the first two fingers held together. He looks ready to end a fight with some unfortunate losing warrior. It brings me back to the past--my thoughts drifting to a certain demon I once knew. The ferocious passion was never something I saw on his face. His face, his perfect, perfect face...it never showed emotion except for when he was really pissed. Sadness crept into my heart. I would never see him or the others again. He would never stand above me like the demon before me, gazing down at me with the idea of killing me. I almost laughed that I would miss him as much as the others.

"That's kinda neat," my friend speaks up, drawing my attention back to her. I shook my head and looked over at her with wide eyes, but she's not next to me anymore. She's onto the next sculpture, and I walk over to join her. She's looking a an extremely peaceful monk that is about 1/4th life-size.

He is the Jizo Bosatsu, created in the Kamakura period, which was from late 12th/early 13th century in Japan. He is created from wood painted with colors and gold, and he is created in the soft style, as if one could touch out and touch his smooth cheek and feel the softness usually described in a likeness to a baby's bottom. My friend, who I had assumed would be fawning over the brash muscles and ferocious facial features of the demon sculptures in the room, has found herself within the peaceful monk. Upon reading the script typed next to his peaceful demeanor, we find he is a Buddhist Monk, standing upon a lotus to signify his holiness. My friend smiles serenely before moving on. I want to ask what she's thinking, but maybe, I don't want to know. I look to this monk and smile. He reminds me again of a certain someone who had been freed of his curse and allowed to marry the woman he loved by the death of an evil hanyou.

We move onto the next demon in the room, and I notice a pattern between each sculpture. Beginning from where we started on the right hand side, the sculptures leap-frogged from holy man to demon to holy man to demon...and I find myself wondering if these sculptures have some power aside from their artistic features that forces the powers of the holy men to contain the powers of the demons simply by being on either side of them. I shake my head. That's silly. Now I'm thinking of this room as if it would come alive when the doors lock and all the people go home for the night. What if they came alive and battled all night long, before returning to their place in the day, where they would sleep once more before their endless night battles of good versus evil. And I realize how badly I must need sleep if these thoughts came into my head as if I was a child once more. I wonder if children ever think these things in this room--if they notice the leap-frogging of the good-evil-good-evil...

My friend moves on, walking past the deity before us, and I look upon his ferociously determined face. Created in the Kamakura period (1185-1333 CE) of Japan, the Fudo Myo-o is the Buddhist divinity of fire, a statue whose name means an immovable or unshakable one; the ferocious protector. He is the protector of Buddhism and the destroyer of the delusional that keeps monks from reaching nirvana. Created from wood with polychromy and guilt bronze accessories, he sits proudly waiting and watching, his hands erected as if to hold a spear or a weapon of some sort by which he would be able to protect what he was created to protect. His face is set in a grim line of devotion and determination, his eyes staring, begging you to take him on. I smile to myself at his determination, but then I follow my friend's line and move on towards the last statue of the room. She is again standing in front of the kindly monk, staring at him with a blank expression. I smile to myself that I was successful in making her mind work while we were here, especially when she didn't want to be. I looked up

towards the last statue in the room, a tall statue of a man in armor.

He is the Bishamon, the chief of 4 deities (directional deities), created in the Heian period (794-1185 CE) of Japan. He is the second oldest figure in the room, created of wood with traces of polychromy. He does not strike me as powerfully as the Shukongo-jin, the demon with the passionate face. He appears strong, but in comparison, there is weakness in his muscles that the terrible oni seems to overpower from across the room. I return to his sculpture, watching him as he watches my lower body--as his eyes are drawn towards the floor. His teeth, I notice, aren't sharp as many demons from Japan are depicted, or as sharp as I remember. I point this out to my friend--who pops out of a stupor.

"What?" she asks. I laugh and tell her I think she's infatuated with the monk. How honored he would have been, had a certain demon slayer and her weapon ever been out of reach.

"No, it's not that," she says, walking over to me. She looks at the demon who has captured my attention. "That monk seems too peaceful, too serene, too stable to have been created so long ago. I was wondering what the artist had happen in his life that allowed for such peace to come through the work. I mean, it's hard for me to imagine not having stress, worries, or anger at things in life--and yet, there is that monk who is standing peacefully and without worry, facing the world with kindness and gentleness..." I wonder if she knows. There is no way for her to know. This look...the look on the monk's face...I know it well too...

"And I was trying to imagine this guy here," she continued motioning to the Shukongo-jin, "attacking the monk, but the monk just giving him an apple or something--telling him he must be hungry from all his ferocious fighting. And then the demon would just stop...and they would stare at each other until night fell."

"Would they talk about anything, or would they just stare at each other?" I asked, thinking of this situation, remembering things I never told anyone in this time. Things they would lock me up for.

"They would talk. The demon would ask why the monk was unafraid of him--of death. And the monk would answer: Why would I fear you when I have seen the cruelties of myself and the light of nirvana? Why would I fear those who have not seen this light?" I smiled and gave her a one-armed hug.

"I think that would confuse the poor demon and make him feel inferior to the monk, and he would ask to follow him and learn from him. But then again, that's fairy tale-ish. The demon would probably feel inferior, but then he'd kill the monk for making him feel bad." We both laugh; and I try to keep the knowing smirk off my face as our laughter dies--knowing that would be exactly what would happen. We make our way out of room 102, and move on to look at and discuss the artworks from other time periods.

But my mind...my mind strays back to that demon who's passion reminds me of one I had known. And I wonder if it will be possible to find such a demon again. I know how long demons live...and I know I've felt them since I was forced back through the well. But I never could know if his face...his beautifully serene but empty face, would be one I would see again. I wonder if I could tell him he was beautiful, the next time I saw him. If I could tell him that I missed him--whether or not he killed me for it. I wonder if I could tell him things...let him know of the silly lust I held for his beauty, for the lust I had for him. I smiled. No. I could not do those things. Even if I were to ever see him again, all I would feel is guilt--guilt for his arm, for hurting him, for keeping him from the sword he believed was his, for loving his brother, for getting in the way--and for leaving, when all I wanted was to stay.

'Well,' I thought to myself as my friend pointed out a masculine looking geisha in a picture, 'maybe I'd feel the lust again too, maybe not only the guilt...'

A/N: If you want to see a picture of the demon click this link: http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/7500

If you want to see a picture of the monk, click here: http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/86930

INUYASHA © Rumiko Takahashi/Shogakukan • Yomiuri TV • Sunrise 2000
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