Kyuichi Sato stone sculpture works in KAWAGUCHI

I have made the work of art from 1997 to 2013 in the Kawaguchi studio.

Usually I used the andesite outputted in Sukagawa-shi, Fukushima.

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1st Dec. 1998 — Cloudy

-At a Public Cemetery-

It was a bright, crisp day in early winter.

I had been asked to meet a man who wanted to build his own grave

while he was still alive.

We were to discuss the project standing in front of the very plot

where he hoped to be buried someday.

Life is, after all, a rather sad thing.

-1st Jun. 2026 —

In the years that followed,

I drew countless sketches and built a number of models.

How could the flowing nose of the Series 0 *Hikari* Shinkansen

be expressed in stone?

What form could preserve the dignity of a gravestone

while still conveying the pride

of a man who had devoted his life to the railways?

I would draw, reconsider, erase, and begin again.

Yet reality imposed its own limits.

Public cemeteries have regulations.

There are boundaries that personal wishes alone cannot overcome.

Above all, a grave exists within a shared public space;

it cannot simply be treated as an individual's work of art.

In the end, I was unable to realize the gravestone he had envisioned.

Looking back now, perhaps that was for the best.

I could not build his grave, but I was fortunate enough to meet him.

At a cemetery overlooking Mount Fuji, I spent time with a man

who spoke quietly of the future while reflecting upon his own life.

I arrived a little late.

At the entrance to a pleasant public cemetery—said to be

the first of its kind in Hachioji,

with a fine view of Mount Fuji—

the man was waiting for me together with his daughter.

He had devoted his entire career to the railways.

Over the years he had served as station master at Shin-Yokohama,

Hannō, Shinjuku, and other major stations.

He was a highly respected figure in the railway world.

His request was extraordinary.

He wanted a gravestone inspired by the original Series

0 *Hikari* Shinkansen,

commemorating the years when he had been station master at Shin-Yokohama,

the period of his career of which he was most proud.

The truth is, the task was far beyond me.

Had I simply said, “I'm sorry, but I can't do that,”

the matter would have ended there.

Instead, I was persuaded by his gentle assurance

that there was no hurry,

by a certain sense of obligation, and, if I am honest,

by my own financial circumstances at the time.

“Well... perhaps I could at least come up with a design.”

Those words slipped out before I had fully considered them.

It was a remarkable experience.

People seek advice when building a house.

They seek advice about their work.

But a person who speaks about his own grave is, in truth,

speaking about his entire life.

In his words there was pride in the years

he had spent with the railways,

affection for his family, and a quiet acceptance of the parting

that would someday come.

As I listened, I found myself thinking about more than stone.

What does a lifetime amount to?

What does it mean to leave something behind?

Those were the questios that stayed with me.

Many years passed.

From time to time, I found myself reflecting on encounters and farewells,

on the people who briefly enter our lives and leave their traces behind.

Then one day, I turned toward a stone that had long rested

in a corner of my workshop and began carving.

I simply wanted to give form to the subtle stirring of emotions

I had felt all those years before.

The space created by the stones I later installed in a small sanctuary

near my studio became,for me, something more than sculpture.

It felt like a field infused with layers of memory—of people,

of place, of moments that could never be fully explained.

The client and myself.

The unrealized plan.

A winter day with Mount Fuji in the distance.

Thoughts that were never fully spoken.

By carving stone, I felt that these things had become,

if only slightly, visible.

Of course, the work solved nothing.

People pass on, and time moves forward.

Even so, the opportunity to meet him that day,

to stand in that place and speak together about life

while looking out upon the same landscape,

remains one of the gifts of my life.

Perhaps this is what is meant by

*ichigo ichie*—a once-in-a-lifetime encounter.

The stones still stand there in silence.

Only the landscape continues to age, little by little.

And whenever I return to that sanctuary,

I find myself quietly grateful for the small

but persistent stirring of spirit

that began there so many years ago

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