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Naoshima is home to the Benesse Art Site and is located in the Seto Inland Sea, sometimes referred to as 'the womb of the Japanese archipelago'. That these islands are settled at all is amazing. It's another awesome frontier story involving finding your way at sea. The story goes that mainlanders set off in boats loaded with seeds and seedlings and knew from the signs, floating fruit and birds flying overhead, that they'd arrive sooner or later on terra firma. Where Noah took his family & other animals (nod to Mr. Durrell), these settlers brought seeds & seedlings. As in Noah's story, the winged ones gave the sign of the dream about to be fulfilled.
To think, the islands are so close and yet I'd never yet ventured over! No regrets but I am really glad that the first time was so deeply satisfying. Part of my reluctance, if indeed that's what it was, may have been that people had raved about it and so I expected crowds. I avoid crowds whenever possible; in my opinion, crowds and (most) art do not mix.
When a young friend who works on the island offered us an off-season discount for a stay-over four of us decided to make a night of it. Took a train to the ferry landing and hopped on a 20 minute ride before arriving at the Yayoi Kusama-adorned Pumpkin Port.
A short taxi ride took us to the Art House Project, a remarkable restoration of old houses transformed by artists into works of art. These spaces are shaped in conjunction with the original architecture, previous inhabitants, and Japanese traditions and aesthetics. The project houses are interspersed among islanders' homes, part of a vision that shows great insight into the purposes and possibilities of art. This meeting point of between the old and the new looked very promising to the eyes of this outsider. The 'citizens', as our friend referred to the islanders, are an integral part of much of the artwork on the island. The principle behind this seems to be founded on the principle of a mutually beneficial and dialogic relationship between the art-world and islanders.
Fram Kitagawa is one of the most influential and important art directors in Japan and is closely involved with the island project. He notes:
"In
today's society . . . the riches of nature are being destroyed, and
people are losing their psychological and spiritual well-being. The
world has been inundated with standardization, administration, and
efficiency, and the light in our spiritual lighthouse has begun to dim."
His solution:
"It
is necessary to restore a world where human life resonates harmoniously
with the sea and the islands, and contemporary art can help. Art can be
used to reveal the characteristics and true nature of the land. It has a
festive quality that can be brought out with the help of local people
and supporters from all over Japan and overseas. . ..”
He
claims, too, refreshingly against the grain, that art should not be
used as a ‘monument to consumerism’ but rather as an act of remembering
what has been lost.
"The
contemporary age puts the highest value on approaching information in
the shortest way--the most rapid way. I want art to be contrary to that,
to be slow. Contrary to the idea that art should sit on top of
consumerism, I want to revive art in a different way. The original
purpose of art is, I think, to help us measure the distance between
humans and the nature or civilisation they have left behind."
How do you feel about art as a means of measurement? As a means of mourning? Do I read the quote too literally? Has it been translated faithfully from the Japanese? I’m not sure, but I do feel there is something important being intimated. A reminder of good things we have forgotten, yes! But the sometimes painful work of reclamation, facing humanity’s folly --that’s not as easy, but is arguably more important so that we can truly move on. Move on as in ‘repent’, perhaps, to turn our lives around.
Kitagawa’s philosophy has been called 'idealistic'--hurrah! How else do visionaries emerge? How else are we to imagine alternative futures? It is backward looking in a nostalgic way, but in a slow, careful and beautiful way that is also, Janus-like, forward-looking, long-range, resistant to global trends and critical of the negative consequences of Japan's over-development in the past.
His philosophy of art is hopeful: it aims to 'revive a society unable to think itself back out of the urban/development mould.' To be enabled, by art, to think and to imagine and to live into a life based on a different foundation--one based less on fear and more on beauty, one that is not concerned with breathless, willful and narcissistic expansion, one that allows spaciousness and leisure to nourish the whole human person, one that values and honours humility and humour and harmony in relationships and offers a wonder-filled, textured milieu for enjoyment--all these ideals are very much present in the experience of the Naoshima project, but in a suggestive and organic way rather than a dominating or overtly didactic manner.
The tension between tradition and innovation is being very carefully held; the results are delightful. I had been having difficulty in the week prior to my visit with language that insisted on “concrete ideas”: an oxymoron if ever there were one! Serendipitously, Tadao Ando’s concrete structures made me smile, for here were ideas made concrete which were so elegant and unusual. They were serene and calming, formal and modern and fun.
I’ve been eyeing a book sitting on my shelf in the TBR pile called Spirit and Tradition: An Essay on Change by Stephen Platten and George Pattison which so the blurb tells deals with the very question of innovation in relation to tradition in the context of the church. I’d like to grasp the similarities between the 'radical conservatism' explored by the authors in relation to church life and the revivification of more harmonious living in a broadly ecological sense here. Pattison is a great writer on art, too, and I’m looking forward to delving more into his work in this area.
Below: one of the noren that fabric artists are displaying in the area; this shopfront's red and white is noren sea-themed.
The heavens opened as we were enjoying lunch in a big, beautiful, warm tatami-matted restaurant. The rain did not dampen our enthusiasm. In fact, postprandial site visits were enhanced by the smell and sound of raindrops. It added a lovely dimension to the experience of sitting alone in a dark, thatched installation space. Alas, however, it did rather subtract from the sunset champagne welcome on a viewing terrace that the hotel offered. Fortunately, by the time we did arrive at the hotel we were so filled with good things that after a rest and a glass of wine, we were ready for the lovely dinner brought to our room. Conversation, as you may imagine, was animated--our souls had been called upon, the doors of our minds opened. We talked late into the evening, the rain dried up, the lights on shores in the distance became visible.
One of the perks of staying at the Benesse house is that guests have the ability to live out their very own ‘Nights at the Museum’ fantasies. The museum stays open to the public until 9pm but is open for guests until 11pm. This suited my crowd-free preference most luxuriously indeed! But even in this more ‘conventional’ museum space it was the outdoor pieces that were more about experience than about simply looking at that held my attention. The big stones and the vistas (up and out) were my favourites. I trusted my unmediated attraction to them much more than I did the modern art pieces by known artists. Somehow there’s already a label and a response path laid down so it’s difficult to know what I honestly feel [about those works] and why. Much of the art is, I suppose what is called ‘conceptual’: who knew that it could be so engaging?
The Chichu Museum was our focus for the following day and after a leisurely morning we hiked up the hill past the Lee Ufan museum (saving that for another time!). The name 'Chichu' translates to ‘In [the Middle of] the Earth’ -- get a look at this entryway (yes, that’s a door on the far end of the wall) and you’ll know what an Alice in Wonderland experience we were in for! More I cannot say except if you’re wondering whether to go or not --you must, must, must visit this museum.
The whole thing was a complete and joy-filled revelation to me and I cannot recommend it highly enough. My personal top experiences, if I had to choose, would be one involving a James Turrell experience of darkness, so thick you could almost taste it and another James Turrell space, this one an experience of light.
Thank you, Naoshima! I can't wait to return.
Here are a few pieces from elsewhere that may be of interest:
- Pico Iyer's piece in the Guardian last year is linked here
- Artlog's Piece is by Spenser Nelson is here (the photos under the header are superb!)
- Adrian Favell's piece on the philsophy of Fram Kitagawa is here
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