Physical Mastery

A bias toward illustrating big moments from life

Art stirs the feelings deep below and brings them to the surface. The worries, the fears, the hopes, the prayers, the universal and very personal intertwining of love in a growing belly are expressed in this pastel made during a difficult pregnancy.

The Dalai Lama was once asked by a well-meaning young man how he could cure his depression. Both a great Tibetan leader and world spiritual leader, he stated with a wry smile that he doesn’t wake up in the morning and say: “Oh, I’m the Dalai Lama. I’m the Tibetan leader.”

“The problem you have is that you think too much about me-me-me." Surprisingly for some of us, the Dalai Lama calls this the root of depression.

“Ask yourself what you can do for someone else today,” he continued.

And then just like that the Youtube video recording was over and I was left to my memories of the time when women become most intensely aware that they are not the center of the world—and that’s when we are pregnant with our children. You often see a woman rubbing her belly, even protecting her belly with her hands at the slightest hint of distress.

I’m talking from experience. I made this pastel, Physical Mastery, between the 22nd and 27th week of a difficult second pregnancy, when I was hospitalized to prevent premature delivery. I was terrified for my unborn son and needed to find a way to calm down and reassure both of us that the pregnancy would go to full term and that he would appear at the right time and in full health—and not a minute earlier!

You know there’s this beautiful face inside you and you want to look into your baby’s eyes but you can’t. Drawing was a way of saying I love you over and over again. Afterwards, keeping the sketchbook close to my hospital bedstand, my mood would elevate every time I looked at this image and thought to myself the power of visualizing how the two of us were protecting each other.

It was the hand in motion and the heart yearning to tell my unborn son that he was safe that prompted this picture of a tender moment I couldn’t have ever imagined in my head without pastels in hand. Here we were in the womb together. To this day, I feel very close to my son. That feeling hasn’t left us, though we are halfway around the world from each other.

But when you introduce art supplies, take out bright colors, soft colors, write a prompt of a few words—in this case, “I’ll protect you and you’ll protect me,” the worries are erased. In their place, the art produces feelings of well being, tranquility, and to put it in Dali Lama terms, getting rid of the “woe-be-me-me-me” voice inside.

The yellow luminary in the sky—sun or moon, I’m not sure—was a way of expressing God in the picture. That there were three of us in this story. My baby, me and God, and this three way relationship strengthened me. I knew that my prayers were being heard and God’s answer was reassuring me to believe in the best possible outcome.

Optimists aren’t born this way. I believe that we are trained one tough experience at a time to surrender our worries, let go of thinking that we can control the outcome.

In Genesis Art, there’s a bias toward illustrating major events from our lives through a prism of hope, trust and love. Just let the hand guide you where to go. Your heart will do the rest. Decades later, it is surprisingly easy to recall the essence of such an experience when your art is infused with love.

My son Seiji in Tokyo during cherry blossom season around 2009.

Thanks for reading these posts about Genesis Art’s history, philosophy and the techniques developed over twenty five years. You can view the Genesis Cards and more at: www.genesiscards.com