Though “getting lost in dissipation” may seem like a cliché, while looking at Fumiko Takai’s paintings we can’t but freeze there, staring. His paintings resemble underwater photographs, or perhaps pictures of twilight forests, though there is always something odd in them, something almost inexplicable. This is what happens with Takai’s images, and what renders them sublime and captivating: we can stare at them and in the meanwhile loose all notion of time.

Overall, Takai’s paintings portray blue-inked trees captured at the precise instant of angelus. And it is that impossible blue, the blue of fiction, what he seems to use to perfection. There is a very intimate –and yet distant– quality to his landscapes, as if they were essays on “the hour of the sorcerers” and on solitude.

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Though “getting lost in dissipation” may seem like a cliché, while looking at Fumiko Takai’s paintings we can’t but freeze there, staring. His paintings resemble underwater photographs, or perhaps pictures of twilight forests, though there is always something odd in them, something almost inexplicable. This is what happens with Takai’s images, and what renders them sublime and captivating: we can stare at them and in the meanwhile loose all notion of time.

Overall, Takai’s paintings portray blue-inked trees captured at the precise instant of angelus. And it is that impossible blue, the blue of fiction, what he seems to use to perfection. There is a very intimate –and yet distant– quality to his landscapes, as if they were essays on “the hour of the sorcerers” and on solitude.

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