SIGILLUM is a single-name artistic imprint publishing musical compositions and poetry
(with selected inheritances of the past) as artifacts and archiving the artist and his acts—
work that is difficult by consequence, agonistic against time, in which there’s authority,
and is catalogued scholarly, whose only measure is ripeness and the wonder wounding quality.

We came to be after countless meetings and invaluable time spent with Yvaska (composer,
poet) in Tokyo. Our position we find is as the flaming cherub guarding against a great rock
in this extremely weary land. In times when commodity is branded as art, propaganda
taken for poetry, and an artist of limited to no means necessarily forced to take part as a
cog in the capitalist machinery of vanity and corruption—we endeavor to be the gentle
robes that may to some extent sustain the artist in this windy desolation.

Dear reader, we wish to be transparent but this opacity in our nature haunts us. We owe
you the word, which in our case is not the first, we accept our belatedness, and though it
be too frail to sustain the flesh, bound by ordinance we still oblige you, dear reader, to
concede and grant us your company for a brief while.

Though naming it avails not, what we call Art is divine by nature and the poet a religion of
one. The true experience of a piece of art accordingly is a walk with god, a face to face, a
wonder wounding, a breaking of the vessels. It does not redeem the fall, it leaves us bereft,
the walk ends and we are alone. And we can say that we do it much harm to survive the walk
it being so majestic. It promises us nothing, it is beyond morality, it is out of times bounds,
it too will be when it will be. And it too is full of jealousy robbing us of simpler pleasures
and filling us with general discontent. It is not for the masses, it is a lonesome face to face that
is availed only to the solitary one.

Why then must you, dear reader, put up with all the hideousness that this face to face instills
in one. I cannot answer it, dear reader, I only knew myself long after I’d already fallen.
Time avails not, place avails not. The artist our only prophet and we concede ourselves to his
art out of helplessness as the face to face is too direct, immediate and sublime to be consoled
with reason and be denied. Then, dear reader, I could only entice you believing you are
already wonder wounded and to be of this company of the fallen.

I still owe you, dear reader, why SIGILLUM? Take it as defiance against augury. There is
nothing we can do for Shakespeare or Sebastian Bach, they encompass us and we occupy
a place vaguely small in their huge world. If we be the company of the fallen, let us be
three good friends and celebrate the fall, relish the exile and anticipate the upcoming walk.
Let us be as pilgrims who led by the holy spirit that descends in Beethoven’s Benedictus
to the gates of heaven and let the gates open for us as in Bach’s Sanctus. So in act let
SIGILLUM be the pilgrimage besides one who is bearing the cross and we be solemn
when solemnity is demanded and make merry when tis’ proper.

I would not be so harmful to speak about Yvaska, I can only say that I believe him of
potential to be the artist of our age and all ages. One must support such who brings god
down to us through his art and in need of much support we are. I would ask of you,
dear reader, to know him through his art and his own words then through mine which
are already in his shadow. Now, since I cannot stay though hopelessly it is to be wished,
I must say my farewell. It was a pleasing thing to know you dear reader, I hope you’ll
find us good.