![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imomusA Norwegian, a Scotsman and four Japanese women walk into a Berlin restaurant. In between the sesame chicken and the panacotta two questions about Japan come up. The Norwegian, an artist, has been to Korea several times and Japan once. During the course of workshops with art students he's found it very hard to get them to do "critical thinking" -- for him, the beginning of creativity. What he finds puzzling, though, is how amazingly creative Asian countries are, despite this. They come out with the equipment we all use daily, with the most imaginative animation series, computer games, and so on. So how do they do it? The Norwegian also wants to know about the state of the Japanese art world. Is it healthy and thriving?
The ball's in the Scotsman's court. I take a deep breath, a bite of chicken, a swig of white beer, and start with the art world question. Japan's art market is underdeveloped, I say. There are some "pop stars" like Murakami and Nara, who've mostly made their names outside Japan. Inside Japan (a bit like Berlin), there aren't really serious art collectors. Inside Japan, people like Murakami and Nara make their money by doing corporate identity (Vuitton, Roppongi Hills) or mass-producing souvenirs. It's a bit like Andy Warhol's statement that he'd be happy for people to have his pictures printed on the side of plastic shopping bags. In Japan, it's really like that. Art is collapsed into the mass market. Galleries are often in department stores, and often show what we'd think of as commercial work; record sleeves, airline advertising. But also there's the wider perspective that Japan doesn't really have a tradition of high art separated from design, crafts, practical things, commerce. That idea of "fine art" is a Western import. And there's no point in accusing Japanese artists of "selling out". When Nara makes a puppy-shaped alarm clock, he's distributing his work through the radically flat social structure of Japan much the way Warhol said he'd like to.
As for critical thinking, that too is a Western way of looking at things. We in the West (in places like Scotland and Norway) have a metaphysical tradition which encourages us to think we can step outside of social contexts and judge things from a place of security, objectively. What we don't see is that what we call "critical thinking" isn't objective or critical at all -- it's all tied up with assumptions we inherit from Plato and protestantism, the idea that you can say "No!" and that this radical "No!" and the "outside" it comes from is where everything good starts. Asian societies have a different underpinning, a Confucian one, which sees the maverick, the loner, the outsider as a loser. For those societies, there is no safe or objective "outside". Radical affirmation takes the place of radical dissent; the "yes" wins over the "no", the "we" over the "me". You innovate not by trying to divorce yourself from others, but by joining a team. It is this team or family (Kaikai Kiki, Murakami's organization, would be an example) that makes everything possible, including expressions of originality.
The paradox you quickly reach here is that Western-style "critical thinking" is actually so endorsed by such central institutions (corporations, the academy, the media), is paid such daily lip service by educators and facilitators and team leaders, that it's become the most conformist, obedient, hierarchical and unoriginal thing you could do. As I sang in my song "Robocowboys", there's so many insiders on the outside / I think it's beginning to be the inside / there's so many mavericks off the beaten track / they're beating a track to my door / and i'm beating them back with a board. And so, all over the West, a kind of theatre of the absurd is played out in colleges and workplaces daily; the moment when some teacher, team-leader or other authority figure commands a bunch of cowed students or employees to "think critically" on cue. Shouting at them to "get out of the box", he actually crams them into one.
At that moment in the conversation a sort of miracle occurred. Naoko Ogawa, a Japanese woman who'd been very quiet up until that point, produced a plastic-bound portfolio from her case and handed round a series of clear-wrapped cards. On these were mounted her "jewelry" -- but it wasn't like jewelry we'd ever seen before. Naoko makes small aluminium rectangles with rounded corners and traditional Japanese kimono patterns printed on them. As the text on each card explains, you crush these metal leaves to your clothing, "either destroying or changing it". There's only a limited number of times you can clasp the crushed metal to the crushed cloth beneath before the aluminium fatigues and begins to crack. At that point, Naoko says, you should throw the metal sheet away and buy a new one.
The pieces themselves -- each one is unique, and in a packet you get three or four, in assorted patterns and colours -- were very beautiful. I'm not normally interested in jewelry at all (just the other day I was telling Hisae I can't understand people who stand in front of jeweler's windows gawping at silver and gold rings and necklaces), but Naoko's pieces were just so original and so attractive that I really wished I could afford the €118 she was charging for each packet. It was also a very Japanese proposition; the way the card was laid out, with a strip of pictures along the top showing, on a neutrally-dressed woman's torso, how to attach the metal tabs (the photos were very frontal in a Mark Borthwick sort of way), the rather conceptual, quirky yet unpretentious instructions (a bit like early 1960s Yoko Ono text pieces), the trad kimono patterns of the tabs themselves.
Naoko was typically self-deprecating about her work (if being a maverick is the Western conformity, being self-deprecating is the Japanese boasting); "I haven't presented them very well," she said. She told us she'd come to Berlin because she wanted to work with Bless, the amazing fashion design team on Mulackstrasse who do conceptual jewelry (they'll sell you customized designer USB cables!). After she'd interned for them for a while, Bless told her she should set up on her own. I'd love to direct you to a website where you can see or buy her stuff, but she doesn't have one.
The Norwegian's questions were answered much better by the Japanese woman's work than by the Scotsman's waffle. Here was something that presented itself, without big claims, in an artisanal tradition, something you could buy in a shop rather than a gallery. And yet its originality could easily match and outstrip that of your average work of art. The instructions printed on the packet asked the user to rethink his or her relationship with clothes and jewelry. The odd beauty of the results would spark conversations wherever the aluminium was worn. "That's pretty amazing," people would say, and their way of thinking would be subtly freshened.
The ball's in the Scotsman's court. I take a deep breath, a bite of chicken, a swig of white beer, and start with the art world question. Japan's art market is underdeveloped, I say. There are some "pop stars" like Murakami and Nara, who've mostly made their names outside Japan. Inside Japan (a bit like Berlin), there aren't really serious art collectors. Inside Japan, people like Murakami and Nara make their money by doing corporate identity (Vuitton, Roppongi Hills) or mass-producing souvenirs. It's a bit like Andy Warhol's statement that he'd be happy for people to have his pictures printed on the side of plastic shopping bags. In Japan, it's really like that. Art is collapsed into the mass market. Galleries are often in department stores, and often show what we'd think of as commercial work; record sleeves, airline advertising. But also there's the wider perspective that Japan doesn't really have a tradition of high art separated from design, crafts, practical things, commerce. That idea of "fine art" is a Western import. And there's no point in accusing Japanese artists of "selling out". When Nara makes a puppy-shaped alarm clock, he's distributing his work through the radically flat social structure of Japan much the way Warhol said he'd like to.
As for critical thinking, that too is a Western way of looking at things. We in the West (in places like Scotland and Norway) have a metaphysical tradition which encourages us to think we can step outside of social contexts and judge things from a place of security, objectively. What we don't see is that what we call "critical thinking" isn't objective or critical at all -- it's all tied up with assumptions we inherit from Plato and protestantism, the idea that you can say "No!" and that this radical "No!" and the "outside" it comes from is where everything good starts. Asian societies have a different underpinning, a Confucian one, which sees the maverick, the loner, the outsider as a loser. For those societies, there is no safe or objective "outside". Radical affirmation takes the place of radical dissent; the "yes" wins over the "no", the "we" over the "me". You innovate not by trying to divorce yourself from others, but by joining a team. It is this team or family (Kaikai Kiki, Murakami's organization, would be an example) that makes everything possible, including expressions of originality.
The paradox you quickly reach here is that Western-style "critical thinking" is actually so endorsed by such central institutions (corporations, the academy, the media), is paid such daily lip service by educators and facilitators and team leaders, that it's become the most conformist, obedient, hierarchical and unoriginal thing you could do. As I sang in my song "Robocowboys", there's so many insiders on the outside / I think it's beginning to be the inside / there's so many mavericks off the beaten track / they're beating a track to my door / and i'm beating them back with a board. And so, all over the West, a kind of theatre of the absurd is played out in colleges and workplaces daily; the moment when some teacher, team-leader or other authority figure commands a bunch of cowed students or employees to "think critically" on cue. Shouting at them to "get out of the box", he actually crams them into one.
At that moment in the conversation a sort of miracle occurred. Naoko Ogawa, a Japanese woman who'd been very quiet up until that point, produced a plastic-bound portfolio from her case and handed round a series of clear-wrapped cards. On these were mounted her "jewelry" -- but it wasn't like jewelry we'd ever seen before. Naoko makes small aluminium rectangles with rounded corners and traditional Japanese kimono patterns printed on them. As the text on each card explains, you crush these metal leaves to your clothing, "either destroying or changing it". There's only a limited number of times you can clasp the crushed metal to the crushed cloth beneath before the aluminium fatigues and begins to crack. At that point, Naoko says, you should throw the metal sheet away and buy a new one.The pieces themselves -- each one is unique, and in a packet you get three or four, in assorted patterns and colours -- were very beautiful. I'm not normally interested in jewelry at all (just the other day I was telling Hisae I can't understand people who stand in front of jeweler's windows gawping at silver and gold rings and necklaces), but Naoko's pieces were just so original and so attractive that I really wished I could afford the €118 she was charging for each packet. It was also a very Japanese proposition; the way the card was laid out, with a strip of pictures along the top showing, on a neutrally-dressed woman's torso, how to attach the metal tabs (the photos were very frontal in a Mark Borthwick sort of way), the rather conceptual, quirky yet unpretentious instructions (a bit like early 1960s Yoko Ono text pieces), the trad kimono patterns of the tabs themselves.
Naoko was typically self-deprecating about her work (if being a maverick is the Western conformity, being self-deprecating is the Japanese boasting); "I haven't presented them very well," she said. She told us she'd come to Berlin because she wanted to work with Bless, the amazing fashion design team on Mulackstrasse who do conceptual jewelry (they'll sell you customized designer USB cables!). After she'd interned for them for a while, Bless told her she should set up on her own. I'd love to direct you to a website where you can see or buy her stuff, but she doesn't have one.
The Norwegian's questions were answered much better by the Japanese woman's work than by the Scotsman's waffle. Here was something that presented itself, without big claims, in an artisanal tradition, something you could buy in a shop rather than a gallery. And yet its originality could easily match and outstrip that of your average work of art. The instructions printed on the packet asked the user to rethink his or her relationship with clothes and jewelry. The odd beauty of the results would spark conversations wherever the aluminium was worn. "That's pretty amazing," people would say, and their way of thinking would be subtly freshened.