In 1996, when Ōnishi had already been studying in Nürnberg for four years and became Günter Dollhopf’s Meisterschüler, he created a pointed set of three-dimensional works grouped together as Landscapes, or “Waterscapes” (suikei水景) in the title’s literal translation. Playfully oscillating between multiple opposites, the set combines a multiplicity of contrasts into a coherent whole while simultaneously challenging conventional viewing habits.

Within this set, each work is made of sixty-four carefully hand-cut cardboard pyramids aligned in rows of eight. These are enframed by a square structure built from layers of the same material and enclosed in a hand-built picture frame. Upon the solid three-dimensional pyramids, Ōnishi applied flat ink paintings of fish and landscapes featuring water scenes which he had previously drawn on thin, almost transparent Japanese paper (washi). This paper, which was exclusively produced for Ōnishi upon commission, is particularly noteworthy for reasons of its long fibres that bind homogenously and create an exceptionally smooth texture. Despite its translucent quality, this thin paper is very robust and does not dissolve upon being exposed to wet ink. It also uniformly adheres to the cardboard pyramids without creasing. Throughout his career, Ōnishi frequently worked with different types of hand-made Japanese papers, incorporating their different material characteristics into the expression of his paintings.

What makes the Landscape set so remarkable is its combination of opposites that at the same time profoundly complement each other: protruding forms vs. flat surfaces, thick cardboard vs. thin paper, modernist reliefs vs. traditional painting, warm cardboard and paper colours vs. monochrome ink, the pyramids’ straight-cut and uniform lines vs. the lively ink strokes of varying width and saturation, the immovable pyramid structures vs. the animate nature of the motifs, naturally illuminated sections vs. those simultaneously cast in shadow, and perhaps even a young Japanese artist working in an old German town.

Ōnishi’s fusion of these forms and textures moreover leads to a break of common viewing habits: Although each work of the Landscape set is in itself a stable and coherent form with clearly defined surface and frame, the slightest alteration in the viewer’s position triggers the motif’s visual disintegration. Be it an unintentional shift in posture, a delicate turn of the head, a minimal change of the light’s incidence angle—subtle as any movement may be, it considerably alters the viewer’s perception of the work. That is, while the motifs upon the pyramids are well discernible when viewed at a distance, the closer one comes to inspect their details the more fragmented they become. Instead, the fine surfaces of the employed materials come to the fore, scattering the motif into layers of lines, fluctuating between their material ground and the viewer’s imagination.

This play of surfaces, spaces, and light creates the illusion of communing with nature. Similar to watching fish in clear water on a bright day, the light’s reflection on a surface ever so slightly in motion can play tricks on the eyes: Is the fish swimming beneath the water plane or floating above it? Is it drifting along the water’s calm flow or did it just turn? Although bound to the paper, Ōnishi’s fish seem to move as swiftly and abruptly as the real ones. The landscapes, too, change within a heartbeat: A change of light upon their surface resembles the sunlight suddenly breaking through clouds or haze, highlighting visual structures not perceived beforehand and simultaneously hiding others in shadows.

In this sense, although applying the simplest pictorial means, Ōnishi’s Landscape set achieves a considerably sensual impact on the viewer. Just as nature itself, his works live and change with light and movement.