Like everyone, I’ve been transfixed by the news lately. It’s been hard to tear myself away from the updates coming out of Japan -first an earthquake, then a tsunami, then nuclear disaster. It’s been frightening, frustrating, and deeply unsettling. To quote journalist Sree Sreenivasan‘s excellent column at DNAinfo, this is the most documented event in history.
For the past few days, I’ve hesitated to look at any “before/after” photos -not because I don’t think they’re important or good at providing perspective, but because I keep putting myself in the shoes of those who’ve lost houses, friends, loved ones: would I be okay with having some stranger ooohh and aaahh (and awwww) over where I used to live, where I built a life, and where only destruction and radiation reign now? I’d like to slap that stranger, actually. Stop your aww and do something.
So it caught my attention when I saw, last Friday evening, a link that Elephant Journal
had posted to Facebook relating to Japanese erotica; a comment hd been posted below it, questioning the wisdom of said link owing to the tragedy that was unfolding. The link -and page -have since been removed. Hmmm. Seeing the article gave me a wholly different, if surreal, perspective on the crisis in Japan. There’s so much more to Japan (or Haiti, or New Zealand) than collapsed buildings and scenes of destruction. The people that walk through the mud with their small bags of belongings, remainders of their past lives, are a vital part of a culture we so easily take for granted within the sphere of both global and local experience. It was weirdly heartening (and humanizing) to be reminded of such an intimate aspect of Japanese culture at such a bewildering, tragic time.
Likewise, the news that Carnegie Hall will be continuing with its two-month JapanNYC celebration
struck me as heartening, and a deeply important symbol right now. Culture plays a central role in life, and for me, it’s in these times of tragedy and loss that I turn to it more than ever. I feel stupid, bad and ignorant that it takes a gigantic wave to remind me of all the Japanese artists I love; with the Elephant Journal link, I couldn’t help but think of how much I’d enjoyed Sei Shonagon’s poetic, thousand-year-old work The Pillow Book
, especially in my early 20s, when I would carry a copy around through various cities and adventures, making my own list of Things That Please The Soul (or Things That Please The Flesh, as suited the moment). The Carnegie Hall site
reminded me of when I saw Seiji Ozawa
, and how very different my perspectives on classical music landscape would be without him. Then news of numerous Yohji Yamamoto exhibits through London
-a designer who re-ignited my on/off interest in fashion -and reports of a celebration of Japanese pop culture in St. Petersburg
, Russia. Another report detailed how the incredible Hiroshi Sugimoto is getting into theater
, specifically the traditional Japanese forms of noh and bunraku. Today, I came across a report on NY Art Beat detailing an exhibit by Yoshitomo Nara that happens at the Asia Society in the fall
. I directly credit Nara’s work
for inspiring me to draw again after many years -and for even daring to attempt to draw people in the first place.
But I can’t begin to describe the guilt I feel over all such newsy discoveries. It’s not like I didn’t know about these artists before. I’m suddenly seeing all these reports as a direct result of my mental tuner being firmly zoned in on the Japan frequency for the last five days. I love these artists. I love their work. Life would not be the same -not as bright, gorgeous, inspiring, or challenging -without their uniquely wonderful visions. I don’t want a tragedy to happen in order to remember and recognize them. All I can do, I think, is share my love of what they’ve contributed -to their country and to the world -and move along. It feels like the least -the very least -I can do.