Koyama-san brings out a small wooden chest and folders of papers. The papers are brush exercises. He sets them on the floor. He opens the doors and drawers of the chest. He pulls out bundles of tissue. He unwraps them to reveal little white paint cups with dried paint still in them — yellow, orange, and of course red. He pulls out a cylinder of brushes. We sit quietly. The colours, no doubt made to Oi’s instructions, are intense. The brush ends, each hair clean, dry, separate, stand like tiny antennae in the air. Something happened here. You can feel it in the room. It was long ago, but these things are untouched. They are clues to be followed.
