Daily discover trees

Tokyo's parks are manically enticing because of the refuge they offer from the density of us all here, scrambling around each other like furious molecules. Here we find the Tokyo Botanical Gardens. 

Admittedly, its size is dwarfed by the grandeur of Melbourne's own gem but be careful to remind yourself that such types of qualifications would dismiss its own, very unique charm. Most of Tokyo's green accoutrements, ( and Japanese gardens generally), are fastidiously designed and consciously constructed to reflect the many principles of Zen philosophy. 'Niwa', the Japanese kanji sign for gardens, literally translates a 'pure place' and all elements of the earth should therefore be included: fire (rocks or iron lantern), earth (rocks) and water, air, plant and animal in their actual forms help to complete the balance that was tarnished by the sins of man, according to Western philosophy in Eden's garden. This particular pocket of peace encourages you to get lost beneath a weeping branch, obscuring yourself from those around you, but most fundamentally, from your own thoughts, until you too could be mistaken for a meditative tree. Once lured by the meandering rocks, you are leaving your routine and your modern pace behind you. The gentle scrunch of moving earth beneath your rubber soles, welcoming branches embracing the arrival of rain whilst dry leaves scuttle with the dancing shadows; expect all such curiously quiet sensations. 

In this land of a fiery, rising sun, the short-lived lifespan of the sakura's bloom is equated to signal the brevity of one's life. Though fundamentally heart-breaking, such an idea retains an incredible power of imagery and enchantment. To recognise that all our lives, as permanent as they may seem in living, are merely wrapped up in the fragile cloth of time which will inevitably fade. To know senescence in a garden should be humbling, and it most certainly is.

Generation iWant

the first slice

TART, one is conditioned to assume, should be served upon fine porcelain, elegantly displayed before a gleaming audience of civilised spoons. Fragile tea cups covetous of each others patterns, sit quite empty, awaiting the gurgling pour of Darjeeling tea. Once full, their walls begin to warm.

In the moments before consumption, observe behind the graceful nods and crafted charm of our fair crowd, a ceremony quite different in nature, in fact. Notice the salivary glands opening their floodgates, welcoming the body's gooey slush as pupils widen in anticipation for the coming treat. Noses flare up to the sweet smell of melting butter and tongues, all those fleshy pink tongues! are massaged by this aroma, exciting the pores of sweating palms. The room's temperature rises with the quickening heart beats and the brain's pleasure center performs exquisite dances for us, of intricate choreography and song. And so we shovel and we chew and we swallow and we stop.

In the aftermath of savage devouring, evidence of our precious tart lies only in the remnants of flattened crumbs, scattered across the dirty plate.

Art for me is very much about this act of absorption, like my eyes are licking the cream off the tart, sucking it all up with juicy delight. And for most of us, experiencing beauty is a pleasure most fundamental and universal, like the need to consume food (and why not have our cake and eat it too). In some rare occurrences however, we encounter what has been called the 'sublime', a feeling of soul elevation, if you will, that transcends the limits of the human condition through art. We cannot hold onto this enchanted state because despite our elevated experience, it can only be temporary and so, I can only go back to picking up the crumbs between my greedy fingers, trying to savor every last bit of the tart. So, here goes.

Welcome to TART.