While recently driving around Gökçeada, I felt like a character out of Agnes Varda’s amazing film, "Le Bonheur." "Look what a beautiful place exists in my homeland," I wanted to sing. But my voice, cavernous at the best of times, was stifled by a cocktail of suspicion and fear of missing out. Yes, both, because this is my first time alone far from the city.

Nature has certainly been generous in this part of the earth. Aromatic shrubs of thyme, sage, chamomile, prickly pears, fennel and irises were all swaying in the wind in front of me. I see a parterre of colorful trees – almond, carob, fig – along with cactus and olive trees. The name of the village in Turkish is "Almond" because, as might be expected, there are so many almond trees here. I prevent my mind from drifting to didactic information. And suddenly, the scene, trees and wind whisper that something is absent here. I immediately typed that name into my Spotify, and the scene is now thoroughly completed: Masakatsu Takagi.

It’s an old and philosophical debate: What comes first, nature or art? Let me say it from the beginning: I’m on the art side. That is, art comes and replaces whatever is missing in nature. In this case, Japanese composer Takagi does exactly what I want to articulate and places the missing puzzle piece in nature with his extraordinary music. In his mountainside studio, he opens up the windows and allows the sound of nature to mix with his recordings. As he said in a 2019 interview: "Once I open the window, there is a reality. Birds are singing, the water is in the river, and the wind is coming. Everything is just moving, directing each other. But close the window; it’s like a human world." He does not see nature as merely a source of inspiration; he includes nature in all its reality in his music. Speaking of birds, a hooded crow is now landing on the hood of my car. Even if just for a moment, we look at each other.

I returned to my Spotify and could not move past his "Marginalia" recordings. I close my eyes to the scene. And now I’m telling myself that there is subtlety or sublimeness in this music. In one sense, I feel like Takagi secretly intended this by releasing "Marginalia" unedited. Also, in his interview, he expresses the crucial role nature plays as follows: "With "Marginalia," first I opened the window. So, sounds came in, such as insects singing. Like, ‘Chi, chi, chi. Chi-chi-chi.’ It’s like a metronome..."

As both a visual artist and a musician, Takagi thinks that art should be understood as a relationship. "It’s art about communicating with something else." He thinks of relational phenomena in their broadest sense. For him, everything is authentic. That’s why humans should not distinguish between humans and non-human beings when communicating.

Moreover, Takagi depicts relationships, communication and experience as literally edible things. "I’m always eating. Eating, eating, eating, from watching mountains or walking around or doing agriculture. I’m kind of like eating, eating, eating experience." And I think he digests what he eats through the creation of music. Takagi’s approach is a kind of sublation of "Carmina non dant panem" ("Songs do not give bread"). It’s our turn to listen – or should I say eat – his music.

I pause the music, stare at the sky and return to my cozy room. I take the shortcut because it’s time to be on the balcony. I’d better remember to request some boiling water from my chatty landlord. To have no part in her galaxy, I’ll hide behind my giant headphones again. It is what it is. Surprisingly, the instant espresso I prepare here is much better than the long infusion one. And I’ll sip my coffee while watching the drowsy town, sleek and thoughtless, as oysters close up themselves. I just let Takagi's music seep through.

Takagi’s music genre is more classically ambient. But when you look at his discography, you see that he has made many types of music, from soundtracks to commercial films. Even when you check out the names in the discography on his website, you understand how fantastic a world you’re faced with. I can exemplify what I’m trying to express as follows: "Marginalia," "Pia," "Rehome," "Eating," "Kagayaki" ("Radiance" in English) and "Bloomy Girls." He has also created great music for animated films. But, like now, I keep returning to those compositions, "Marginalia." Every piece of it feels like milky Polaroids, which I kept among old books. While I’m thinking about this, I look at the books I brought with me, whose covers I haven’t even opened. "I’m on holiday," I say, sniggering.

Because of the name "Marginalia," the music he records must be noted to something. I regret that I didn’t think of this before. After a mini Google search, I learned from the website of the company that releases his music that "he records in one take improvised piano lullabies and pieces inspired by several Buddhist concepts close to his heart." And that’s why he calls these pieces "Marginalia." Moreover, it’s not a finished record. Takagi will release a new piece digitally weekly, eventually sharing 102 piano pieces with his fans worldwide. I checked his social media account and saw that he will be releasing the first piece of August tomorrow. Wow, what a nice coincidence! So a new song of his will accompany me here in Imroz tomorrow. It doesn’t get much better than this.

The music Takagi creates is lush and immersive, revealing all kinds of tangible details that leave you feeling like you have shared the same experiences with him.