Stop & Go (part III): a 3-day journey to Japan’s Northeast

Links to Part I / Part II of the series.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” was my mother’s immediate reaction when I told her about the impromptu invitation from a reader.

“Ma, there’s always a dozen good reasons to say no to the unexpected,” I had replied, “but this time, I’m determined to go with the flow. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted.”

My mother, whose ever-protective instinct has deep roots (and a rich historical jurisprudence) in her Russian background, had a point: I was about to spend three days in a land I do not know, with a woman I had never met, and with whom—as far as I knew at the time—I had no connections in common.

My host’s hyphenated surname indicated the presence (at least on paper) of a foreign husband. Her Linkedin profile listed her as having attended Kings College in London, being an advisor to the Towada Art Center, and working as a freelance newscaster. So what could be the worst-case scenario? I was just about to find out.

A metallic grey Nissan Note pulled up in front of 14-54, and out came Yoko. We greeted each other like old acquaintances, with a cozy feeling that set the tone for the rest of the trip. She went inside to thank the lads for their hospitality, I dropped my backpack on the backseat, and off we went.

The spirit of mow-tie-nigh

First stop: the Towada Art Center, of which Yoko is a board member. A fancy latte for breakfast just wasn’t going to cut it, so we sit down for a bite in the bright room that houses the museum cafe. The floor, designed by Tokyo-born Taiwanese artist Michael Lin, is a colorful patchwork of floral patterns inspired by a traditional weaving technique known as Nanbu sakiori (南部裂織).

Cotton used to be a luxury during the Edo period, explains Yoko, in this region dominated by the more humble, coarser and resilient hemp (asa, 麻). Locals marveled at the soft touch of second-hand fabrics brought by coastal ship from Kyoto, and found creative ways of incorporating every bit of usable cloth in their garments, table mats and other decorative items.

“If a patch is the size of three azuki beans, don’t throw it away,” mothers would say. Such is the spirit of mottainai—a term translatable as “what a waste”—that permeates Japanese culture, especially in poor rural areas.

The catchword is finding an echo in international efforts to reduce waste and boost recycling, and is being promoted across Africa by Kenyan environmentalist and Nobel Peace Prize laureate Wangari Maathai. The Japanese government has also been trying to pitch mottainai internationally as something uniquely Japanese—come to think of it, its use by WEF and Maathai could well be the result of public relations campaigns via the moneyed assistance of PR giant Dentsu and the government-controlled Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA).

But as is too often the case, navel-gazing bureaucrats in Tokyo failed to grasp that there’s nothing particularly Japanese about this concept, beyond the word itself: every deprived community around the world, especially in rural areas, puts frugality and the ability to extend the life of objects, materials, and even food, at the front and center of its core values.

What’s the point of putting a national stamp on a universal value?

French “cuisine” doesn’t rule our palates any more than the explosive bouquet of a pho on the sidewalks of Hanoi. Japan’s satoyama (里山, village+mountain) has no more exclusive claim to the notion of living in harmony with nature than any hamlet in, say, a remote Swiss valley. And along the same lines, “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” is just a phrase coined to instill in urban youths a bit of their not-so-distant ancestors’ common sense.

Still, every country, region or community have their own—if not exclusive, perfectly legitimate—take on universal concepts. Here in Towada, one of the manifestations of the spirit of mottainai is the restitching of old cloths into eye-pleasing embroideries known as Nanbu Hishizashi, named after the clan that ruled most of northeastern Honshu for more than seven centuries.

con + temporary = art?

With a stomach now reasonably full, and neurons racing to register the wealth of information I was getting from Yoko, it was time to visit the museum before we hit the road for real.

My recognition-craving ego would love to wow and woo the reader with erudite descriptions of the permanent collection of Towada Art Center, but unfortunately I suffer from a double affliction in this regard: I’ve spent too much time reading Philippe Muray’s vitriolic essays on contemporary art as a symbol of the cultural decay of our times; and I simply lack a genuine interest in the field. The curious reader will be better off browsing the TAC website’s page dedicated to the permanent collection.

All I can tell, candidly, is whether a particular work or installation arouses any sort of emotion inside me, as opposed to leaving me completely indifferent—or worse, wondering about the artist’s honesty (for attempting to con me temporarily).

I got a few pangs of the latter with what turned out to be the works of a Swiss artist. For lack of anything nice to say, I won’t mention their name, but I’ll admit to wondering whether they just made up the concept off the top of their head, and how much they had charged in the process.

Perhaps the most lasting impression came from Location (5), by Belgium-born Hans Op de Beeck.

At first, the visitor is invited to step from the bright corridor into what appears to be a pitch-black room. I entered with an arm extended horizontally, just to make sure I wasn’t going to bump into anything. As my eyes adapted to darkness, they started picking up slivers of information: the contours of a lamp, not unlike those found in library reading rooms, on a table flanked by cushioned benches. Looking up, I found myself gazing at a the curves of a highway disappearing into an eerie night landscape. 

Yoko, who was right on my heels, summed it all up in a whisper: “Just like in a David Lynch movie.” Spot on. Here we were, sitting in a dimly-lit American diner, in what could have been a scene from Mulholland Drive.

To each his own, as they say. For a few minutes, I found myself teleported into a completely different universe, my mind wandering between memories of my early teens’ coup de foudre with American Graffiti, The Irishman’s sit-down-face-to-face explicit nods to Goodfellas, and my own experiences of coffee & cigarettes in a legit diner. What the intended purpose of the artist had been, I did not know, but it was good enough for me.

Help! meets Apple, courtesy of John Lennon’s widow

Engaging public participation in the creative process may be all the rage, but careful what you wish for.

Wedged between two buildings, on a river of pebbles, is a classic from a highly recognizable—and bankable—name: Yoko Ono. Unafraid of hyberbole, the TAC goes as far as presenting her as “one of the most important artists of the post-war art world.” It seems that I somehow failed to get the memo, because despite my relative ignorance in the field, I’d probably name 10 people off the top of my head without ever considering the heiress of the Beatles empire—but that’s just me.

Nevertheless, Wish Tree is a refreshing concept consisting of an apple tree, on which visitors are invited to attach little paper strips carrying their dearest wishes.

You can learn a lot about a culture from what its people yearn for, and in that department, the first few strips I read were quintessentially Japanese: “May I pass the university entrance exam”; “May I succeed in bringing prosperity to my company”; “May I marry happily”; “May [female name] and I be friends forever”.

And then this, scribbled in red in what was obviously a child’s handwriting:

“Please make my father stop hitting me.”

Signed with a full name.

The strip was tied 2 meters above ground. Perhaps with the help of the child’s mother? Who knows. Yoko and I conferred, and quickly concluded we should better tip off the staff about this desperate cry for help.

Now that’s participatory art. 

[Onto Part IV]