The A-Bomb Dome, Hiroshima. February 2011.

While pondering images I took from Hiroshima, I thought of a book about light. Here are excerpts of text by Ito Seiko in Jean-Michel Bert’s photographic book The Light of Tokyo.

The lights faded until the room was pitch black. After a few minutes, it seemed as if one's body had been infused with darkness, and at about the time that one lost the ability to distinguish the border between one's body and the space beyond, an image coalesced.

According to the world view of The Tale of Genji's author, Murasaki Shikibu, the finer a light, the more it stands out against a vast darkness, and Junichiro Tanizaki must surely have felt the same way. His stories reveal a boundless compassion for the weak, the ephemeral, the pale -- either that, or the highly skilful use thereof to finesse the story.

The effect was the perfect reenactment of that other dimension of dim light, from which statues of the Buddha were once conjured. At the instant of recognition of Kannon (観音, occasionally Kan'on, or more formally Kanzeon 観世音), something like a beam of light appeared, its location restricted to deep within the viewer's brain. And because external light has been kept at a minimum, that flash of recognition will come at different times for different people.

In this new world, of course, lighting was electric, and dishes were polished, gleaming things.  The result is a world that is bright, but at the same time, rigid and superficial. When light is pervasive, differences are erased. Put simply, the worship of such light is monotheistic, but Tanizaki was born into a Japan that was boisterous playground of numerous gods. Perhaps he could find richness only in darkness.

Wandering through Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park was an emotional experience. I can imagine the immense darkness on August 6, 1945 when an atomic bomb named 'Little Boy' was dropped on the vibrantly artistic community of Hiroshima. The day began as a beautiful day with glorious sunshine. Then, blindingly bright light flashed, followed by unimagniable heat. It's the heat that made human bodies evaporate underneath the epicentre of the bomb in the blink of an eye.

Amongst those who 'evaporated' on that day were artisans, poets, doctors, artists and Noh practitioners. Realising this, I was filled with incredible sadness. At the same time, I felt a sense of wonder that Noh has survived two atomic bombs, civil wars, World War II. I am filled with immense gratitude for the privilege to study and practice Noh.

My trips to Kyoto in 2009 and 2011 were supported by the Australia Council for the Arts Dance Board and Arts Network Asia (Singapore) respectively.