Of course, when I proposed this outing, Lilia was eager to go. Art! A bus trip to Osaka! Polka dots! What’s not to like? So we made plans. But as Lilia enters spring break and the exhibit draws to a close, I find myself dreading the trip. I doubt my daughter’s capacity to keep herself entertained on the long bus ride to Osaka, and again on the trip home. If I go by myself, I could read, daydream, doze, but with Lilia along, I might have to chat—in sign language—for most of the trip. It would hardly be relaxing.
Also, I’ve been fatigued. A visit to my gynecologist the week before indicated that I am a tad anemic—nothing serious, just a prelude to the Big Change—but simply going up the stairs in our house leaves me winded recently. Usually, going to a big city involves a lot of walking, and we’d be wandering around the museum. I’d probably have to push Lilia’s wheelchair up inclines. I might even have to carry her. At the thought of physical exertion, I just want to cancel everything and stay home. But Lilia reminds me.
"We’re going to look at paintings tomorrow!” she signs.
"Um, yeah,” I say, casting about for some excuse.
On top of all of my other concerns, we aren’t really prepared. I was planning to show her a documentary I’d bought about Kusama’s life and work, and then discuss it with her. I’ve read the artist’s autobiography, Infinity Net, so I know that she made macaroni sculptures because she was afraid of food, and phallic sculptures because she was afraid of sex. I know that due to mental illness, she has lived in a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo for the past thirty years or so, that she credits her art with keeping her alive. If she did not paint, she says, she would kill herself. In other words, I’ve done a bit of research about the artist and I have some context, but Lilia doesn’t, not yet. Maybe we aren’t ready for this.
Maybe she would be just as happy with a quick trip to the nearby Otsuka Museum, established by the eponymous pharmaceutical company whose signature products include the sports drink Pocari Sweat. The company seems to employ every other person in Tokushima Prefecture, including my brother-in-law, a couple of expatriate friends, parents of my children’s classmates, and adult students whom I’ve taught during my twenty-five years in Japan. The museum houses tile reproductions of many of the world’s great paintings. We could pretend to look at the Mona Lisa! Picasso’s Guernica! Monet’s Water Lilies! According to a magazine article that my husband read, this place was voted by Japanese visitors to be the most satisfying museum in the country.
Then again, it was me who wanted to see the Kusama exhibit in the first place. If I don’t take advantage of this opportunity, I’ll regret it later. And how can I allow myself to be defeated by a little fatigue? Friends and family older than me are running marathons, for Pete’s sake.
On top of that, my daughter hasn’t been out of the house in three days. I remind myself that Kusama, who works with simple motifs, could be potentially inspiring to Lilia, an aspiring artist herself. Although some paintings and drawings make Lilia twist her cheek with her thumb and forefinger—the Japanese sign for "difficult”—she could actually imitate the dots, the line drawings, the macaroni glued onto mannequins. Also, like my daughter, Kusama paints in spite of various challenges.
I want Lilia to understand the considerable hurdles the artist has had to overcome to become a world class artist. As a child, Kusama experienced hallucinations. She heard the voices of flowers and animals. She grew up in a wealthy but dysfunctional family, and her mother forbade her from painting. She did it anyway. She even found a way to go to New York City, where she made a name for herself.
*
Lately I’ve had to literally drag my daughter out of bed in the mornings. Although Lilia can’t walk or hear without her cochlear implant, she is physically capable of throwing back the covers, getting out of bed, going to the toilet, washing her face, and changing her clothes all by herself. Even so, she has been lazy of late, making me wish for a winch and a crane. Now that it’s spring break, I don’t really blame her. But on the morning of our expedition, she is at her DIY best. She rises even before I do and composes a funky outfit – a black shirt with white polka dots layered over a white T-shirt with sparkles and a big pink heart, striped turtleneck, black-and-white-striped tights, and blue-and-yellow-striped socks. Perfect, I think, for a viewing of the art of Yayoi Kusama. She prepares her Hello Kitty rucksack and a handbag, making sure that she has her pink wallet, paper and pen, and books to read. She’s ready to go before I am.
I didn’t buy bus tickets in advance, but I manage to get front-row seats, the most accessible seats on the bus, both there and back. Thanks to the Japanese welfare system, Lilia’s fare is half price. We will also be able to get into the museum for free: Lilia, as a person with special needs; me, as her companion.
We have a few minutes before the bus arrives, so we pop into a nearby convenience store to buy sandwiches for lunch and snacks to eat on the bus. We’ll splurge on cake in the museum café later. I’ve already stuffed a bag of raisins to help with my anemia into my purse, but I buy some iron supplements and an Otsuka-manufactured prune Soy Joy bar containing extra iron for myself, and a chocolate Calorie Mate bar for the girl.
When the bus arrives, Lilia manages to hoist herself up the steps and into her seat with almost no assistance. I show the bus driver how to collapse the wheelchair, and he stows it in the belly of the bus.
There are not a lot of passengers now at mid-morning, and the traffic flows freely. It’s a gorgeous day—sunny, albeit a bit chilly. Out the window we can see the lush verdure of the hills of Naruto. We pass the resort hotels along the beach, and then we’re crossing the bridge that spans the Straits of Naruto where enormous whirlpools form when the tides change. I know that Lilia doesn’t remember this, but a few years ago we took a glass-bottomed boat out into the midst of the whirlpools, and Lilia had been amazed at the sight of a multitude of jellyfish swarming underneath.
Now, she occupies herself with her book, her drawing. I read for a while, then feeling guilty, I propose a round of shiritori, a Japanese word game. I let her go first. She writes momo (peach). I have to follow with a word beginning with the final syllable. I scribble mokuteki (goal) underneath. She thinks for a moment, then writes kiiro (yellow). We take turns another ten or so times before Lilia gets tired of playing. Next, I try to get her to review the English words I’ve taught her so far. The teachers at the deaf school dissuaded me from using English with her in her early years, saying it was hard enough for a hearing-impaired child to learn one spoken language, but recently she’s shown an interest in my language. I draw some pictures and simple words—dog, eye, cat—and encourage her to match them, but after a few minutes, she turns away. She isn’t interested in studying right now. She just wants to be left alone.
We cross over to Awaji Island, with its many onion fields, and then come upon the Akashi Bridge that connects to Honshu, the largest island in the archipelago. The glittering city of Kobe sprawls along the coast, easing into Osaka, our destination.
Once we reach Osaka Station, we approach a cab. I worry that the driver will balk at the wheelchair, but he is kind. "Take your time,” he urges, as I motion Lilia into the back seat. So far, so good. Within minutes, we’re pulling up to the museum, and then we’re in the lobby, preparing to look at "The Eternity of Eternal Eternity.”
One might think that Kusama’s oeuvre would be inappropriate for children. After all, at one time she was best known for her phallic sculptures, gay porn films, and for encouraging nudity in public settings as a form of protest against war. However, most of her paintings and sculptures are, in fact, child-friendly. The artist herself, who wears a bright red wig and polka dot dresses, retains an innocence in spite of her illness—or perhaps because of it. Much of her work is playful and whimsical. Also, children are more inclined than most adults to be attuned to an irrational fear of macaroni. In any case, my daughter is far from being the youngest visitor to the exhibit. Mothers and children in strollers fill t
he lobby and share the elevator with us as we descend into the underground museum.
The first gallery features a series rendered in black magic marker on white canvas entitled Love Forever. I hear a little boy say, "Kowai!” ("That’s scary!”) I’m not sure if he’s referring to the proliferation of centipede-like figures in Morning Waves or perhaps the repetition of eyes in The Crowd, but he gets it; he feels Kusama’s phobia, the intention that led to the work.
The next room is white with giant tulips dotted with large red circles, an experiential work entitled With All My Love for the Tulips, I Pray Forever. Lilia is delighted with the surreal space, the colors, the giant tulips, while I feel as if I’m in a Tim Burton film. We take several pictures, then move on to My Eternal Soul, in which many of the figures that appear in the black-and-white series re-appear in vivid pinks, oranges, yellows, and blues. For a Westerner like me, these colors and images seem joyful and exuberant, but in Japan, where mothers hesitate to dress their children in bright clothes, and married women tend to don somber greys and navies, such hues are unsettling.
Lilia likes the colors. She pauses before the bright paintings, then reads the somewhat baffling titles. Fluttering Flags, which applies to red flag-like images, is fairly straightforward. However the vibrant mood of a pink canvas covered with lushly-lashed eyes, a spoon, a purse, a shoe, and women’s profiles contrasts with its title: Death Is Inevitable.
Among my favorite paintings are the self-portraits toward the end of the exhibit. As a foreigner in Japan, I can relate to In a Foreign Country of Blue-Eyed People, which recalls Kusama’s years in New York in the 1960s as a rare Japanese artist among Americans. Red dots cover the face, suggesting disease: dis-ease?
Lilia is partial to Gleaming Lights of the Souls, another experiential piece in which we are invited to enter a small room with mirror-covered walls. Within the walls, dots of light change colors, giving us the feeling of being among stars or planets in outer space.
Finally, we watch a short film documenting Kusama’s life and work. There are no subtitles, but Lilia can see the artist at work, the assistant who eases her in and out of her chair, and who helps her to prepare her canvases.
"See?” I want to tell her. "We all need a hand from time to time.” But I don’t want to disturb her concentration, so I’m silent and still, letting her take in whatever she can by herself, and then we move on to the gift shop. I buy a catalog of the exhibit for us to look at later at our leisure before we head to the café for cake.
On the way home, I feel pleasantly exhausted, but hopeful. The trip was not as arduous as I’d anticipated. I’m also encouraged by Kusama herself, by the fact that she’s found a way to make a living—and to stay alive—through art, in spite of everything. I’m not pushing my daughter towards a career in the fine arts. As a writer, I know how tough it can be. I don’t necessarily expect Lilia to become famous, or even to earn money through her drawings or paintings, but I feel sure that having art in her life will bring her joy and satisfaction. It will enrich her life and give her a means of expression.
I’m hoping that with today’s expedition, I’ve pried the world open just a little bit wider for my daughter—and for myself. I start planning future trips in my head. The two of us can go to the Fashion Museum in Kobe, and the island of Naoshima. To the United States. To Paris!
Back home, on the island of Shikoku, my daughter is eager to tell her father and brother about the polka-dotted tulips, the mirrors and lights, and the chocolate cake. When she’s explained enough, she signs, "Paper, please.”
I give her a stack of white sheets, and she begins to draw.
Suzanne Kamata is the author of the novels Losing Kei (Leapfrog Press, 2008) and Gadget Girl: The Art of Being Invisible (GemmaMedia, 2013), as well as the editor of three anthologies, including Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2011). She is currently working on a mother/daughter travel memoir, for which she was awarded a grant by the Sustainable Arts Foundation. She lives in Shikoku, Japan, with her family.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
By Stephanie Han
The reason you became an expatriate in Hong Kong was not the glamour of travel, the lure of an exotic life abroad, adventures in meeting new people, or getting back to your Asian roots. Sure, you’re Asian, but on your mother’s side you are four generations removed from Korea via Hawaii. You already did the Korean Heritage Discover My Ancestors sojourn. No, the reason you are now an expatriate in Hong Kong is down to the man you married, who years later brought you and your son to Sun Lung Wai Village, Mui Wo, Lantau, Hong Kong. This is how it began:
You’re walking down the street in Lan Kwai Fong. It’s the night before the Handover—UK to China, 1997. You are near the California Restaurant, and you see The Man Who Brings You To Mui Wo eating a sandwich. This sandwich does not look like the sandwiches that you have seen in Seoul for the past year, which have been sad, sorry affairs consisting of two pieces of squishy white bread oozing green peas slathered in yellow mustard. This is a falafel pita sandwich. The guy holding it is blond, tall, wears two earrings (left/right) and a close-fitting, short-sleeve white sweater with a bold navy-and-green stripe across the chest. He looks like he’s from Los Angeles. You’re on your way home to California and you’ve stopped in Hong Kong for four days. You booked your return ticket like this over a year ago to see Hong Kong before it went back to China.
Why do you want to go to China, your mother asks. She doesn’t know why you booked your ticket like this. She finds it annoying. You’re supposed to go to Seoul and come back from Seoul and we are Korean, and why would anyone really want to go to Hong Kong anyway, as the only reason one goes to Asia is to go to Korea.
You hopped off the plane from Seoul and did a lot of sweating. It’s hotter here than in Seoul. You can’t believe how hot it is, how humid, how uncomfortable. You look like a sweaty wreck most of the time, your hair scrunched up in a ponytail, the dirt caking in the crack of your forearms, behind your knees. You’ve been touring and toting the Lonely Planet guidebook in your daypack, heading back to a friend of a friend’s apartment to crash at night. The friend, an ex-boyfriend, is now engaged, so his fiancée has stated that you are not allowed to stay in their home. On the scale of significant boyfriends, he was quite low, so you take no offense at this and chalk it up to her Old World or Old Country behavior. You swear you can hear a stringed instrument, some kind of gourd-and-wood number, moaning a screechy dissonant chord in the background whenever he mentions her. Not a big deal. He felt slightly guilty about this, so he asked his friend to put you up for a few days. His friend with the sprawling four-bedroom apartment with a view of a vast body of water has got to be one of the most annoying people you have ever encountered. He definitely reads books on how to make friends. No matter, you’re out of the house most of the day, come back when the guy is sleeping, stay in one of his empty bedrooms. It’s Handover weekend so it’s not like there are any hotel rooms available anyway, you think.
With an Asian face, you spend a lot of time eavesdropping in Hong Kong, mostly on Westerners, English-speaking ones, because that’s the only language you understand. Correction: you have also been listening to French conversations. In Hong Kong, you haven’t heard any conversations in Korean, the language you have spent the past year studying.
The guy in the white sweater seems friendly, but not in an obtuse or pushy sort of way, and you ask for want of anything better to ask: So, is there anything going on here tonight? Mostly you stare at his sandwich. It looks very good. If you actually knew him in the slightest, you would probably ask for a bite, but you refrain from doing so. It’s an offhand comment, but ushers forth a serious reflective response. Later he makes fun of you and says about your question: Oh, gee, 150 years of colonial rule are ending!
You are pleasantly surprised. The main reason is this: for the past two days, whenever you’ve had the chance to eavesdrop on English conversations about t
he Handover, mostly what has dribbled forth from the mouths of the English speakers are wild racist rants about The Chinese. The Chinese do this. The Chinese do that. The Chinese. It is beyond unpleasant. All you can think is this: No wonder they want you guys out! Wow. Colonialism. Intense. Empire. You think of TV miniseries with nineteenth-century costumes, people clothed in wool and velvet in the tropics. If possible, the Brits could possibly be worse than the Americans ranting about Koreans in Seoul. In Hong Kong, there seems to be little shame about such rants. On the subway, people say "Chink” in casual conversation! In Korea, it would be fair to say, you never heard an English speaking person say the word "Gook” or "Chink” in public. Privately, perhaps they used it, but never in front of you. Speaking in public like this strikes you as outrageous. This is not to say that you haven’t had an amusing conversation over a beer with someone English since you’ve been touring in Hong Kong, but you have found them, on the whole, to be fairly, shall we say, outdated.
Despite all of this, you are up for adventure, and the sandwich suggests to you, probably because you are hungry, that this person may be somewhat tolerable. You find The Sandwich Guy thoughtful, if not intellectual and serious; strange really to be having this sort of conversation on a street in a bar area. You are intrigued. Instead of the rant about The Chinese, he discusses colonialism, fears that people have about democratic rights, concerns of the local population, along with obvious references to national pride, and rightful return of land. You’re impressed. Yep. This one conversation manages to make you think differently about the other conversations you have eavesdropped on. Either this guy is a thoughtful exception, or he’s not an exception and you just heard the wrong bunch of idiots in all public areas of Hong Kong over the previous thirty-six hours.
How Does One Dress to Buy Dragonfruit? True Stories of Expat Women in Asia Page 11