I'm here in the eternity to write down these words. It can't be more paradoxical that Michael's spirit is unable to be "seen" by the people he encountered in the land where Zen has been settling for over 800 years, because his work is exceedingly approaching to the quintessence of Zen, except for the sombre emotion and the sensibility he possesses *intrinsically*.
The skeletons of his poems are meticulously adumbrated by the minimalist terms he selected. My eyes are "touching" the skeletons while my soul is in contact with those parts subtly coexist in the midst. As the subject of a painting is not always these objects arranged in the composition.
Sometimes the misunderstanding forms the beauty, and also the estrangement. The "foreigner" and the "Japanese" seem more close to the Nouns between the two. Hence, there's often an invisible fence obstructing in their hearts, not merely in the reality. Maybe he is destined to suffer from the impasses with certain human beings, but it's obvious that the nature will never trap him into the unrequited love, and he certainly has perceived that.
photographer, Republic of China