The Circle

The void, strength, elegance, the universe, the absolute, infinite space-time, aesthetics. These are just some of the meanings of Enso, which is not a character but a symbol of the Zen tradition. It is also the central subject of Zen painting, symbolising the moment when the mind is given free impulse to create, “the expression of the instant”. Only then can the circle be painted with a single, fluid brushstroke.
I am drawn to the Enso. I think of it as a catalyst of Stories, a portal leading to a world in which chaos seems to take on an elegant order.
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A while ago, I admired one at a gallery in Singapore. It had been painted by Fabienne Verdier, the only Westerner to merit the title of calligrapher. A few months later, I met her in her home-studio in the countryside north of Paris. She was preparing a series of works for Bruges Cathedral: twelve paintings depicting the Enso, which came to her while she was observing a detail of a Van Eyck painting. On a stroll through her garden where she burns her canvases that “have no life”, accompanied by a one-eyed cat, she spoke to me of the ascetic meaning of the Enso. She explained that the repetition of the Enso is akin to representing a resonance in a different way to create harmony.
I left with some of her books and a reproduction of an Enso, which I brought back to Bangkok. It is not a perfect circle. “It’s a metaphor for humanity,” said Fabienne. Like many circles painted by Zen artists, it is incomplete, meaning that it is not a separate entity but part of something greater. I placed it on a shelf in the bookcase where I keep amulets, a model Indonesian boat and four little Buddhas in pastel colours. They stand near the books I frequently dip into, so that, each time I do, I am persuaded to reconnect to all that they represent.
Some time later, while doing research for an article on Bangkok, I came across a newspaper clipping about Jukkoo Wong, a famous tattoo artist in Thai show business, in between the pages of a book. Jukkoo is the son of Jimmy Wong, who made a name for himself tattooing American soldiers posted to Bangkok during the Vietnam War. I had already met Jukkoo on another occasion. He is a bizarre character, with a streak of madness in him. I thought he was perfect for the gallery of scenarios we had to feature in our article on Bangkok.
So it was that I and the photographer I was working with went to visit Jukkoo. We were quickly drawn into an absurd comedy directed by Jukkoo in which we were the victims, spectators and protagonists all at once. Just like the first time we had met, I asked him if he could do me a tattoo of the kanji he had on his wrist. I didn’t know what it meant but loved the look of it and its shaded design. Jukkoo gave me the same answer as before: he couldn’t, that tattoo was his alone and had been done by someone else. This time, however, he offered an alternative. He showed me the drawing of an Enso. It was incredibly similar to Fabienne’s. That it was drawn by a tattoo needle seemed impossible.
I don’t often make decisions quickly, almost never in fact. I have to think it over, sleep on it. I am a victim of Doubt. But this time I did not hesitate. It was as if that Enso was pulling me in and I simply couldn’t resist.
While Jukkoo worked the needle over my left forearm as though it were a brush, as though bending it into the strokes left by each bristle, I thought of all the coincidences that had led me to that little tattoo parlour in Pratunam, one of Bangkok’s liveliest districts. It also occurred to me that the year was coming to an end and this tattoo may be another rite of passage in my life. The entry to a new world, a new way of being.
A short time later, I returned to Italy. In my hometown, Ancona, I found winter by the sea, with scenes reminiscent of the film Indian Summer. It was the perfect melancholy in which to collect my thoughts.
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Looking at my Enso, which, as Jukkoo had said, was getting clearer every day, the circle was becoming a way of seeing the world in its “double exposure”, its surface and its depth. This is an idea that came to me while rereading a book on the early 20th century Japanese philosopher, Keiji Nishitani.
I had looked for the book at my Ancona home – recently tidied after yet another move – because I wanted to find some ideas to nourish the Enso on my forearm so that it, in turn, could digest everything and suggest a story. I ended up finding other books, especially on haiku, and a collection by Matsuo Basho, who captivated me once again with his poems. “Traveller I wish to be called, now that the first rain of the season falls,” he wrote a short time before his death. It is a mantra for exorcising my fear.
In the meantime, I downloaded the latest e-book by Nicolai Linin, Storie sulla pelle (Stories on the skin), about the tattoo tradition of Siberia’s “honest criminals”. His stories and his tattoos seem far removed from the absolute simplicity of the Enso. They more closely resemble the idea of Sak Yant, the magical Thai tattoo. And here comes another coincidence: Linin relates that the protagonist of his stories wants to modernise the traditional Siberian tattoo. Which is what Jukkoo is doing with Sak Yant. It would be very interesting to do a comparative analysis. And it would be great if the two were to meet.
For now, though, I can’t wait to show my tattoo to Fabienne. She will be in Singapore soon to present her new work at the gallery where this story began. But the circle will not close just yet.
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