Archive for aquarelle

Is Sonia a Great Sinner?

Posted in Essay 2012-2021 with tags , , , , , , , , on 8 February 2021 by kenwada


‘I was lying on the bed just then ー well, why keep it dark? ー I was dead drunk at the time, and suddenly I heard my Sonia (like a little lamb she is, the poor child, and her voice, too, so meek ー she has fair hair and her face has always been so thin and pale), “Well,” she said, “you don’t want me to do that, do you?” And Darya Franzovna, a wicked woman who’s been in trouble with the police, had several times already been making inquiries about her through our land lady. “Why,” my wife replied jeeringly, “what’s so terrible about that? Who are you keeping it for? What a treasure!” But don’t blame her, don’t blame her, sir, don’t blame her! She was not in her right mind when she said it. She was beside herself, and ill, too, and the children were hungry and crying, and she didn’t mean it, really. Just wanted to say something humiliating. She can’t help herself, I’m afraid. It’s her character, you see. And when the children begin to cry, even if it is only because they’re hungry, she at once starts beating them. And so at about six o’clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her coat and a shawl, and leave the room, and at about nine o’clock she came back. She came back, went straight up to my wife, and put thirty roubles on the table before her without uttering a word. Not a word did she utter, nor did she even look at my wife, but just took our large green drap-de-dames shawl (we have such a shawl which we all use, a drap-de-dames shawl), put it over her head and face, and lay down on her bed with her face to the wall, her thin shoulders shaking all the times, And I, sir, was just lying there as I did before ー dead drunk. And it was then, young man, that I saw my wife, also without uttering a word, walk up to Sonia’s bed, go down on her knees, and kiss Sonia’s feet. And the whole evening she was on her knees, kissing Sonia’s feet and refusing to get up. And eventually they both fell asleep in each other’s arms ー the two of them. Yes, sir, the two of them, and me lying there drunk as a lord!’
(ibid. p.35)

Ken WADA, 2014, Watercolour and pencil on paper, 27.3×22.0cm

‘So you are fond of her?’
‘Fond of her? Of course I am,’ Sonia said in a plaintive, drawn-out voice, folding her hands in distress. ‘Oh, if you ー if you only knew her! She’s just like a child really. She ー she’s almost out of her mind with grief. And what a clever woman she used to be ー how generous ー how kind! Oh, you don’t know anything ー anything!’
(ibid. p.333)

‘I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all suffering humanity,’ he said wildly, and walked off to the window. ‘Listen,’ he added, coming back to her in a minute. ‘I told some bully an hour or so ago that he was not worth your little finger and ー and that I did my sister an honor to-day when I made her sit beside you.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have said that to them! And was she there, too?’ Sonia cried, frightened. ‘Sit beside me? An honour? Why, I’m a dishonourable creature! I’m a great, great sinner! Oh, what did you say that for?’
(ibid. p.337)

A book was lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every time he walked up and down the room. It was the New Testament in a Russian translation. The book was an old one, well thumbed, bound in leather.
‘Where did you get that?’ he shouted to her across the room.
She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.
‘Someone brought it to me,’ she replied, as though reluctantly and without looking at him.
‘Who brought it?’
‘Lisaveta did. I asked her to.’
‘Lisaveta! That’s strange!’ he thought.
Everything about Sonia seemed stranger and more wonderful to him every minute.
‘Where’s that place about Lazarus?’ he asked suddenly.
Sonia’s eyes were fixed stubbornly on the ground, and she did not reply. She stood a little sideways to the table.
‘Where is the place about the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.’
She gave him a sidelong glance.
‘It isn’t there,’ she whispered sternly, without coming closer to him. ‘It’s in the fourth gospel.’
‘Find it and read it to me,’ he said, sitting down, with his elbow on the table and his head on his hand, and, fixing his eyes on the opposite wall, he looked away sullenly, prepared to listen.
(ibid. p.339)

Again it was a bright and warm day. Early in the morning, about six o’clock, he went off to work on the bank of the river in a shed where there was a kiln for baking alabaster and where they used to crush it. Only three prisoners went there. One of the prisoners, accompanied by a guard, went back to the fortress for some tools; the other one was chopping wood and putting it into the furnace. Raskolnikov came out of the shed to the bank of the river. He sat down on a pile of timber by the shed and began looking at the wide, deserted expanse of the river. From the steep bank a wide stretch of the countryside opened up before him. Snatches of a song floated faintly across from the distant bank of the river. There in the vast steppe, flooded with sunlight, he could see the black tents of the nomads which appeared just like dots in the distance. There there was freedom, there other people were living, people who were not a bit like the people he knew; there time itself seemed to stand still as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat there, looking without moving and without taking his eyes off the vast landscape before him; his thoughts passed into daydreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a feeling of great desolation came over him and troubled him.
Suddenly Sonia was beside him. She had come up noiselessly and sat down close to him. It was still very early; the morning chill had not yet abated. She wore her old shabby coat and the green shawl. Her face still showed traces of illness: it was very thin and pale. She smiled at him joyfully and tenderly, but as usual, held out her hand to him timidly.
(ibid. p.556)

Un petit jardin pour Maman

Posted in Works 2012 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on 6 September 2019 by kenwada

23.0×25.0 cm

A small garden for Mother
August 2012
Watercolor and pencil on paper
9.5×10.0 in.

Un petit jardin pour Maman
août 2012
Aquarelle et crayon sur papier
23.0×25.0 cm

この絵の余白に、Un petit jardin pour Maman, 23×25 cm, 28 août 2012 の書き込みがありました。

Dear friends,

Recently I have come to think that a painting is a profound thing. This picture is nice, isn’t it? 
Probably, seven years ago, the picture seemed loose for me. However, for me now, the one can be moderately broken, and that’s good for me now. People change over time, even a person like me will grow a little. In July and August, I have watched many of my past works for a reason. In the middle of such arrangement, this picture really fell from my works’ collection on the studio’s floor.
After all, when you draw a picture, you may not know the truth about whether the picture is good or bad at that time.
It may be a little joy and happiness of my work that I can draw and accumulate in the form of painting every day as a serious and central matter in my life. Unfortunately, I can’t express it well even in Japanese.
A painting is directly linked to maturity as a human being, and if I can continue to have the spirit of enjoying ugliness*¹ a little more on a daily basis, it will be a quiet feeling to enjoy my life in my late years. I may be able to reach a quiet place where I can talk to myself and a place that I had never dreamed of when I was young and very hard. Probably, I think that “Do not judge” in the Bible will also be connected here.
In the margin of this picture, there was a writing of “Un petit jardin pour Maman, 23×25 cm, 28 août 2012”. I wonder that the subtitle of this one may be “A little joy” or “A little happiness”.
Anyway, a painting is a really good thing, because a painting can accept them while living with the growth and change of people, I finally think that way at this time.

Warm regards,

But thinking so I came at once
Where solitary man sat weeping on a bench,
Hanging his head down, with his mouth distorted
Helpless and ugly as an embryo chicken.
-1929- W. H. Auden


Posted in ZOUMITU WONDERLAND 2018 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 4 March 2018 by kenwada

ゾーミツ・ワンダーランド No.7
北軽井沢 作品 No.345

February 2018
Kitakaruizawa Works No.345
Acrylic, watercolor and gouache on paper

février 2018
Kitakaruizawa Œuvres N°345
Acrylique, aquarelle et gouache sur papier


Posted in ZOUMITU WONDERLAND 2018 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 2 March 2018 by kenwada

ゾーミツ・ワンダーランド No.6
北軽井沢 作品 No.344

February 2018
Kitakaruizawa Works No.344
Acrylic and watercolor on paper

février 2018
Kitakaruizawa Œuvres N°344
Acrylique et aquarelle sur papier

A Paradise in The Forest

Posted in Works 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 4 January 2018 by kenwada

北軽井沢 作品 No.338

A Paradise in The Forest, December 2017
Kitakaruizawa Works No.338
Acrylic, watercolor and pencil on paper

Un Paradis dans La Forêt, décembre 2017
Kitakaruizawa Œuvres N°338
Acrylique, aquarelle et crayon sur papier

You curled the papers from your hair, Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands.

Posted in Works 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 15 October 2017 by kenwada

北軽井沢 作品 No.302

You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
October 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.302
Acrylic, watercolor, pencil and collage on paper

You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
octobre 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°302
Acrylique, aquarelle, crayon et collage sur papier

Untitled Number 7, 2017

Posted in Works 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 2 September 2017 by kenwada

Untitled Number 7, 2017
北軽井沢 作品 No.294

Untitled Number 7, 2017
August 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.294
Acrylic and watercolor on paper

Sans titre Numéro 7, 2017
août 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°294
Acrylique et aquarelle sur papier

ある芸術家が死んだ後、森の中に遺された十編の青い詩 10

Posted in After an artist died 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 21 May 2017 by kenwada

ある芸術家が死んだ後、森の中に遺された十編の青い詩 10-2
作品 10-2 −神の栄光と母のための庭−
北軽井沢 作品 No.289

After an artist died, the ten blue poems left in the forest 10-2
piece 10-2 -The Glory of God and A Garden for My Mother-
July 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.289
Acrylic, watercolor and pencil on paper

Après la mort d’un artiste, les dix poèmes bleus laissés dans la forêt 10-2
pièce 10-2 -La Gloire de Dieu et Un Jardin pour Ma Mère-
juillet 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°289
Acrylique, aquarelle et crayon sur papier

ある芸術家が死んだ後、森の中に遺された十編の青い詩 10-1
作品 10-1 −神の栄光と母のための庭−
北軽井沢 作品 No.288

After an artist died, the ten blue poems left in the forest 10-1
piece 10-1 -The Glory of God and A Garden for My Mother-
May 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.288
Acrylic, watercolor and pencil on paper

Après la mort d’un artiste, les dix poèmes bleus laissés dans la forêt 10-1
pièce 10-1 -La Gloire de Dieu et Un Jardin pour Ma Mère-
mai 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°288
Acrylique, aquarelle et crayon sur papier

母のための庭 No.3

Posted in Works 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 5 February 2017 by kenwada

母のための庭 No.3, 2017年2月
北軽井沢 作品 No.275

A Garden for My Mother No.3, February 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.275
Acrylic, gouache, watercolor, India ink and pencil on paper

Un Jardin pour Ma Mère N°3, février 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°275
Acrylique, gouache, aquarelle, encre de Chine et crayon sur papier

A garden for my mother No.3

Rhapsody on a Windy Night 5

Posted in Works 2017 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 27 January 2017 by kenwada

Rhapsody on a Windy Night 5, 2017年1月
北軽井沢 作品 No.273

Rhapsody on a Windy Night 5, January 2017
Kitakaruizawa No.273
Watercolor and ballpoint pen on paper

Rhapsody on a Windy Night 5, janvier 2017
Kitakaruizawa N°273
Aquarelle et stylo sur papier

Rhapsody on a Windy Night 5

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)
From PRUFROCK and Other Observations (1917).