A Closer Listen
Nao Kuroda‘s debut EP is a reminder of the soft spaces to which one might retreat to find restoration and rest. Stillness is a series of vignettes, separated by silent intervals, which allows each vignette to act as a koan. Recorded at “the stone gardens (karesansui) of the temples Taizō-in, Tōfukuji, Ginkakuji, Ryōanji, Konchi-in, Ryōgen-in, and Myōshinji” in Kyoto, the recordings skip like a stone from garden to garden, bequeathing a different lesson or feeling at each.
Stillness does not mean silence, but the brief pauses between presentations are important. The intent is not simply to reflect stillness, but to create it; and this stillness is not simply one of physical spaces, but of the soul. While we would have enjoyed longer takes, the effect is similar to that of leaving a series of holy places and reflecting on each one. The fact that these recordings are made in summertime offers an alternative to the typical bustle of the season: fireworks and festivals and blockbuster films. The soul needs more than these.
It is a light surprise, given the material, that the first sounds are not still; instead, they include the banging of what may be a ceremonial instrument, light laughter and birdsong. One realizes that to record a Zen garden is also to record the people within a Zen garden, a seeming incongruity. The listener begins to concentrate on the birdsong instead. And then the first silence descends, and one is left to appreciate the transition. The laughter remains, but now it is that of children, melded to the soothing sound of flowing water. Any banging is in the distance. Footsteps enter the ensuing segment, careful not to disturb the local, vocal wildlife, the conversation kept low. One person is coughing. The listener, however, begins to wonder about places of retreat; is it harder to find Zen with others than it is to do so in solitude?
Whenever the water flow, one begins to feel an instinctive peace, nature protecting its own. And when the skies open and the rains begin to fall, the water above is joined to the water below. One sort of activity – a thunderstorm – creates a different sort of stillness, reflected in the quiet trickles of the next segment and the calls of birds, asking each other if they have made it through. Soon all of nature is breathing, bustling, expanding its lungs. In the closing minute, droplets fall on metal objects, producing random yet pleasing notes, an improvised duet between nature and bowl.
How long does it take to find Zen? Can one be moving, yet still? If one cannot get to a Zen garden, can one plant one in one’s own soul? The answers are hidden in the raindrops, the laughter and the silences in-between. (Richard Allen)
Thu Aug 07 00:01:25 GMT 2025