Minamikawa’s recent set of works is at first considerably eye catching, next, engaging and ultimately direct. His paintings are triptych of a kind, with geometric abstractions to the left and right and figuration in the center. Simple, familiar patterns such as slanted, parallel or zigzagging lines or polka dots provide emphasis to the broadly stroked, simplified and iconic subjects of the central panels.

Working off perceptions of recent news reel content seemingly dominated by televised wars, Minamikawa contemplates and approaches this topic with simplistic renditions of what comes across as a pornography of death — heavy tanks and billion-dollar fighter jets (which seem to be distinctively American) in action. Minamikawa accepts these as symbols of the modern age, now taken for granted on news broadcasts tainted with all-too-familiar images of war and genocide. Given that of course he is being selective of what media imagery he’s affected by and chooses to use in his work, it is clear that Minamikawa is communicating the sense that something is wrong with the current state of affairs. Whereas the idea of peace is often related through optimism, Minamikawa seems to imply that peace is simply the time when the war machines are off.

Minamikawa’s confrontation with the persistent flicker of the television finds him equated as being just a viewer, effectively a bystander. These days it is known as desensitization, the withering of our emotional thresholds: what we once considered unacceptable is now digested in thirty-second soundbites during mealtimes. In his consideration of the events taking place in the interconnected world around him, Minamikawa finds himself in the middle of the cacophony of media stimuli and its nulling effect, which is reflected in his use of color, brushstroke and technique. Faced with unfinished blotches, blot-like spots and meandering zigzag brush strokes in unused white space, it is clear that Minamikawa feels a sense of disconnect, desensitization and confusion in trying to make sense of the world that surrounds him.

Nevertheless, with such an approach, Minamikawa isn’t necessarily presenting a painting, but rather the suggestion of a possible painting. I would go so far as to say his approach is more apathetic than proactive in terms of the voices we tend to hear against war. Of course there’s the impetus to create these works, but does Minamikawa feel it unnecessary to paint his subject matter in clearer detail? Is the [video] reality of the newsreel enough for a steady diet? Aware of the paradox we face when needing to trust the media as honestly communicative, and yet feeling the subtle dissonance of the void emanating from it, perhaps Minamikawa’s works are an attempt to fill such an emotional, communicative and cathartic gap.

From what I had read about Ayako Maruta’s Suspended Figure, the main draw for me was that the artist has suspended lights and cables in such a way as to create arches — I was looking forward to witnessing something that defied the architectural convention of arches being built up from the ground. However my initial impression was one of confusion: the lightbulbs at the bottom of the installation’s ‘columns’ were obscured by the clothing displays, making it a little hard to get a sense of the structure’s grounding at first. Although the store as a whole had a striking contemporary Gothic feel to it, I nevertheless felt a little disappointed. The installation would have had more impact if there were a more spacing between it and the fashion collection. But then again, Diesel is first and foremost a clothing store.

In the gallery upstairs, however, Kimihiko Odaka’s Another Geography was very impressive. It felt like entering a cave made of foil rather than rock. With the gallery littered with bundles of metal tumbleweed, each illuminated by a mixture of warm and cool colored light bulbs, this store had transformed itself into a space-age terrain. The play of light on the shiny surfaces everywhere was particularly striking: not only did the colored light from within the tumbleweed reflect off the foil hanging above, but there was also a variety of colored LED flashlights provided for visitors to shine as they pleased on the ceiling. It was this striking by day, so oh what a sight it must be in the evening.

The night was hosted by Chris Palmieri, a founder of Tokyo-based web design company AQ and a long time fan of Christian’s work. After a brief introduction by Chris, Christian was welcomed on stage and presented slides on “style and function”.

Christian moved on to show us the largest typeface family he (or anyone) has ever worked on, the “Guardian” family. Commissioned by The Guardian, an influential daily newspaper in England for their first renewal in twenty years, it was Christian’s first work with Paul Barnes.

One of the works presented on the slide was DB, a set of fonts designed for the German National Railroad company for their train schedule. Originally Helvetica was used but the problem was the similarity in the basic shapes of the numbers 3, 6, 8 and 9, as well as certain roman characters. Comparing the two sets of fonts on slides, Christian explained to the audience how he had to be creative to design new sets of fonts that can used in the most humble of situations.

He explained how he drew four versions of a single set of characters, each with slightly different weights. This was done so that the designers can do a final test on the printing machine, which was still being assembled overseas. It was amazing to see the tremendous amount of work that goes into making these custom design fonts and how they create “harmonious visuals” on newspaper pages.

In his words, well made fonts should be systematic, where there’s “an internal logic that governs the relationships between the characters”. As Christian shows more of his works and explain his works, noticeably, quite a few audience members were taking notes.

The talk ended with a surprise gift to Christian. A member of the audience gave him a handmade box of “stardust fonts” with Christian’s name added as decoration on top. After the presentation, the night continued with an after party and the enthusiastic Tokyo type design community gathered around him to talk the night away.

The next TAB Talks #6 is being held on May 13. We have invited Tomoki Sakuta from Arts & Law and he will conduct a workshop-style seminar to tell us how to understand and use the law to avoid trouble in creative collaboration among artists and creators, as well as protect your copyright without needing to pay for expensive lawyer fees!

The first significant ‘window’ offers a comparative view. Brought to us by the photographs of Hou Yuanchao, these pictures document the ‘Forbidden City’ as it is now, but instead of taking the same views as probably countless numbers of tourists, he has chosen a guided path, replicating the views in the work of Japanese photographer Kazumasa Ogawa, which are shown alongside. During his visit to the city in 1900, Ogawa documented the city and its palace with impeccable clarity at a time when it was off-limits to common people. His mission was not one of inspiration sparked by a particular location but a quest for information, and he would also place people in his images so as to demonstrate a sense of scale. These were technical images in their purest form and their inclusion in the exhibition forms the second ‘window’ onto the famous city.

The third significant ‘window’ is arguably the most educational but its inclusion perhaps the most disappointing. Computer-generated video is generally considered to be the most visual and enlightening way of modelling the past, but in comparison to the other two “windows” which display evidence of their physicality (the age of the prints) and conception (the direct comparison to original compositions), it feels rather shallow, showing only its final form and nothing of its process.

As unrewarding an addition the video is, however, Hou’s photographs are also, at times, equally concerning. The comparative view is useful in that it documents a change in cultural values, and the hoards of tourists roaming the recent pictures illustrate this. However Hou’s decision to photograph the city from the same points of view as Ogawa also presents a struggle against artistic licence. In Ogawa’s picture of one of The Four Main Pillars in the T’ai-hê Hall, a tour guide is trying to extend his arms around the pillar to demonstrate its thickness; and in Hou’s photograph from the same position, someone is likewise hugging the pillar. Why recreate that act? Is he suggesting that we need to make sure that this is still the same building, albeit at least in scale? Why then, in other retaken pictures, has he chosen to ignore Ogawa’s composition? For example, in Ogawa’s picture of the The Mirror in the Ch’ien-ch’ing Hall, one of the mirrors was photographed from an angle, presumably to avoid taking his reflection. Yet Hou has turned the camera to face the mirror directly, showing not only the camera but also an infinite reflection, which begs the question why.

So, whereas Hou’s pictures seem to ask as many questions as they answer (perhaps the answers exist in the oddly unavailable English information), the most informative ‘window’ into this Forbidden City is by far the oldest one presented and this will ensure that it receives its fair share of visitors. In fact, Ogawa’s prints alone are worth a visit to the exhibition and should win any comparisons with online experiences hands-down. Google Earth may bring us close to the Forbidden Palace, but Ogawa’s pictures bring us closer. Despite attempts, they are not easily replicated and the experiences embedded into the physical surface of these old prints certainly cannot either.

Four years later, TAB has become the leading source for art and design information in Tokyo, and its younger sister KAB is putting the Kansai Scene under the spotlight (and celebrating a first year anniversary! Happy birthday!). With reviews, maps, bookmarking, smartlists, a mobile version and other features, TAB has made it easy for everyone from casual weekenders to hardcore art critics to discover new movements in the city and join the conversations around them.

By 2008, TAB’s New Yorkers decided to extend the family back home with New York Art Beat, a new art and design guide to freedom.

Today, with already 700 events covering 850 venues, reviews on the blog, and much more to come, this big baby is making its first steps.

Follow the beat.

Welcome to New York Art Beat.

Each of the diverse eight artists has his or her own room in the gallery in which to present a “unique world of expression.” Indeed, each of these rooms is a world of its own. Kei Takemura, working in natural fibers, transparency sheets, marking pens, and beds (!) turns the white gallery walls into a remembered, imagined room. Hiroe Saeki’s ink drawings, spiked with teapots and handbags and lashed with bright acrylic paint draw the viewer in close with their exquisite detail into a fantasy world ruled by contrasts and patterns.

Video/installation artist Mio Shirai offers a quirky, comical, and slightly Surrealist take on exploration, while Hiraki Sawa, also working in video, hones in on switches and rhythms, layering images such as Ferris wheels, flickering lights, and birds flapping their wings on a series of screens. Photographers Elina Brotherus and Polixeni Papapetrou present excerpts from their own lives: Brotherus through posed self-portraits of herself looking inward and outward and rich landscapes taken from her native Scandinavia and Papapetrou through dramatized scenes of children playing not so innocent games, inspired from her childhood in Australia.

Oddly enough, both artists working in sculpture choose air as their medium: Masanori Sukenari displays a form created by gray balloons, somewhat reminiscent of an air ship, though one with an animated quality and alive with breath and Takefumi Ichikawa shapes helium with transparent film into mesmerizing ethereal irregular-shaped balloons that are suspended in mid-air.

Some rooms are more likely to compel you to linger in them than others, some might captivate you and even puzzle you. With each room completely different than the last, the exhibition has a ‘house of wonder’ feel as you follow the path through the galleries in anticipation of what will be around the next corner. For example, Sawa’s room is completely dark, the entrance protected with two sets of curtains; the visitor enters from one side and emerges from another into Ichikawa’s room of cultivated lightness and air, the final room in the exhibition. Without distorting mirrors and tilted floors, the sequential shifts in perspective are sufficient to make your head reel.

The feeling is entirely different from attending, say the Modigliani exhibit housed in the same museum. With Artist’s File there is no preconceived reverence for the artists and works are laid bare on the walls sans textual guidance for the your eyes to pick them apart, ponder them from afar, and turn them around in your mind, and ultimately wonder, “the curators are drawn to these works, am I?”

— Susan Sontag, ‘Melancholy Objects’ in On Photography, 1972

“Beauty Convulsed”, the exhibition currently showing at the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography is the first major show in Japan to focus on the photographic aspects of the Surrealist movement. The 1985 exhibition “L’amour Fou” (Mad Love), curated by Jane Livingston and Rosalind Krauss, was groundbreaking in terms of its arguments of the centrality of photography to the Surrealist endeavor. This exhibition introduces the movement to a potentially new audience and extends the debate surrounding photography’s historical influence on its very definition.

Tracing the movement from its literary beginnings in Andre Breton’s 1924 Surrealist manifesto and the book Nadja to later visual incarnations in the work of American, Japanese and European artists, this exhibition makes it clear how far geographically and culturally Surrealism’s impact was felt. The show’s curator Kyoko Jimbo has put together a diverse range of photographs in an accessible, educational and exploratory way. Perhaps equally as importantly for this context she has introduced a broad range of artists work.. While many people are familiar with figures such as Breton, Man Ray and Hans Bellmar, they may not have heard of Shoji Ueda or Kansuke Yamamoto.

The thematic structuring of the work (divided into four sections – ‘city’, ‘object’, ‘body’ and ‘detail’) emphasizes the influence of the environment on the philosophy and aesthetic of Surrealism. Framing the beginning of the show are Eugene Aget’s images of Paris, which strongly convey the role Paris played as the crucible of many Surrealist ideas and images. Although the annals of art history generally do not refer to him as a Surrealist, his images are haunting and oneric as streets transform into places of encounter. Places, objects and people are imbued with a sense of otherness; their ordinariness is transformed by the attention of the photographer and later the viewer. The message of the show seems to be that rather than seeking to create an uncanny reality, the photographic Surrealists were responding to the nature of their lived reality — a reality that was underscored by a sense of freedom, but also perhaps the infringement of chaos where objectivity and subjectivity itself became fused.

Breton’s genius was to see that photography could hover between the literal and the possible and create a new visual language. As you meander through the show, the respective sections, (which at first seem unnecessarily superimpositions) create a sense of flow through time, unifying what could have become fusion of too many references. What saves the exhibition design from becoming too scattered is the clear thematic connections between the photographs. Like the ripples that spread out after a stone has been thrown into water, we can trace the effect of an initial Zeitgeist. Whether the ultra banal is transformed through the act of photography or whether the strange is constructed in a dreamlike way through the artists’ intervention, all of the photographs reveal a shared visual heritage that is connected to a sense of place and history, rather than technique alone.

The centerpiece of the show is a new sculptural work titled Hoto (2008), located at the heart of the exhibition. At over five metres tall and two metres wide it is a huge, literally towering presence; its mirrored surface inlaid with an array of variously sized, multicoloured LED counters. Unlike the somber anonymity of Miyajima’s signature work of the 1990s, such as the first work in the show, Death of Time (1990-92); or the representative piece that he showed in the Japan Pavilion at the 1999 Venice Biennale, Mega Death¹ (1999), Hoto echoes the colour and vibrancy of recent photographic works also on show in Mito. The scintillating countdown colours and mirrored surfaces conjure images of a “bejeweled tower”, suggestive of the work’s title². The angled, mirrored surfaces of the somewhat circular structure play with the viewer’s reflection, allowing you to visually locate yourself ‘in the art’, a direct reference to the overall ‘Art in You’ concept of positive interactivity and inter-connectedness³.

The exhibition notes locate Hoto and the other recent works in terms of the artist’s post-9/11 hope for peace and human community, using art as a conduit. These sentiments are at the heart of Miyajima’s more recent collaborative projects—examples of which were held as a part of the current exhibition, in which audience participants are photographed with numbers of their choice painted on some part of their body, against the background of the workshop location (such as Hiroshima, Okinawa, and others). Images from this series titled ‘Counter Skin’ (2007) effectively make up the visual bulk of the show, filling the two larger exhibition rooms. However, despite their larger-than-life size, and high-gloss Perspex finish, they seem to remain ‘artistic’ documents of a collaboration process. As such, one room of images is ample space in which to grasp Miyajima’s workshop concept and appreciate the aesthetic outcomes of the project, while the second room of similar images come across as somewhat unnecessary. I can admit wondering for a moment whether they were not simply included in such numbers so as to fill the ample exhibition space. With so much of the exhibition space given to these photographs, one couldn’t help wanting to see more diverse examples of Miyajima’s recent work…

Granted, a few recent projects are found scattered along the long passage adjacent to the main exhibition rooms. One such work is Death Clock (also produced through the caravan workshops, 2007) in which blurry, monotone images of the participants are overlaid with a long line of digits counting down. The seconds that you see elapsing on-screen are counting down to a time in the future, which each participant has chosen as their time of death. While the frank nature of the project and sleek design could be quite powerful in a different installation, here they have been scattered down the hall ‘next-door’ on a number of slim, new computers; a display more reminiscent of a museum’s educational program, rather than a curatorial outcome. This bolsters a sense of hierarchy between the ‘important’ works in the main exhibition space and these ‘additional’ pieces. Also on display here are some never-before-seen drawings, which seem to be literally and figuratively ‘caricatures’ of the more sensitive manipulation of commercial visual technology that Miyajima has become known for in his work with LEDs.

While Hoto commands a central place in terms of its size, and as a development of Miyajima’s signature aesthetic and use of materials, the other works, and particularly the prominence given to the photographs that resulted from the traveling workshops, all indicate a more feel-good collaborative message.

This is felt most clearly in the frankly amateurish Counting in You (2008), a ‘mural’ piece at the beginning of the exhibition that consists of phrases such as ‘peace in you’, ‘art in you’ and ‘hope in you’ painted on the wall, where in place of each word ‘you’ the artist has stuck to the wall an actual fragment of mirror, albeit many of them at a height which precludes them actually reflecting the viewer. Moreover, this is such a contrast to the first piece, Death of Time, that one cannot help but wonder whether the earlier signature work has been included simply as a token of what many people have in mind when they think of the artist, or whether this juxtaposition is designed to demonstrate the extent to which the artist has moved beyond his signature style.

The lack of rigour in a work such as Counting in You, pointed to a broader question concerning older or established artists, who have built a career working with recent technologies, yet then ‘return’ to more ‘traditional’ forms of art (paint, editioned prints, or even photography) as a late career move. What angst, or art-world demands, or social pressure prompts such decisions? Are these self-imposed? And how do we critically deal with such art, which seems ironically weakened by the very strength of that artist’s earlier work?

Considering the space available in Mito, and the fact that one usually sees Miyajima’s work in a larger group show or permanent collection, perhaps I was hoping to see more of a retrospective-style exhibition. While it may be too early for a real retrospective (was this another point of the show?), it would have been interesting to see more of his seminal pieces from the 1990s in a space that allowed comparison, and resonance, between individual works. Although the current exhibition reiterates the artist’s key concerns of life and death, mediated through the symbolic use of numbers to represent the cluster of complex individuals ‘we’ are, the artwork seems to be specifically conceived to counter (a word that had often appeared in Miyajima’s work) his stark aesthetic language of the pre-9/11 1990s.

One of my one of my earliest memories of any specific artwork, is a wall of constantly changing, yet ever-present, red numbers. As a longtime unconscious fan, it is impressive to see a monumental new piece like Hoto, just as it is important to note the artist’s more recent projects focused on ‘interaction’, rather than exhibition. However, the overall impression of this exhibition is one of imbalance. The patchwork outcome does not maintain the artist’s vigour throughout the sizable exhibition space. The somewhat uneasy spectrum of work leaves one wondering whether the organization was rushed, or if more exciting options were lost in conciliatory negotiations. Whatever the reason, despite the optimism and genuine energy one sees in the recent directions of Miyajima’s work, as an exhibition, ‘Art in You’ seemed full of possibilities, which unfortunately largely remain just that: possibilities, awaiting more concrete expression.

—

¹ Note that this work is not on display in the current exhibition
² The character for hō can mean ‘jewel’ or ‘treasure’, and tō, ‘tower’. However, this word has long been used as a specific architectural term, basically referring to the form of some two-storied pagodas, which Miyajima also references in the structure of his tower.
³ Explanations of the concept ‘Art in you’ can be found on the artist’s website, www.tatsuomiyajima.com.

Like the German Expressionists who influenced him, Davies used distortion and enlargement, looming shadows and obscured faces, to great emotional effect. This is most obvious in his depictions of huge, dark smiling men cavorting with tiny, white-clad smiling women. In one, a woman dances the tango with her partner towering above her, while in another a woman sits on a man’s huge knee, his hand under her bottom, a tray holding a teapot and two cups placed nearby. This last detail might be related to the print’s title, Une Romance Anglaise (An English Romance,) but the image is not particularly romantic. However, in spite of the man’s giant-like appearance and outsized smile, it is not exactly foreboding either. Like much of Davies’ work, there is humanity and tenderness in the embraces, but also a palpable loneliness. One wonders if one of the two figures is not merely a figment of the other’s imagination, the tableau a snapshot of a dream.

Davies drew inspiration from the life of busy city streets and circuses, as the German Expressionist did before him. His more intimate works, however, are the most affecting, such as that of a couple sitting across a table from one another, hands close but not touching, a ghostly figure standing in the shadows beside them. In 1980s Je Dance pour Toi mon Amant des Rêves, (I Dance for You, My Dream Lover), a man dances beside a radio, a grave look upon his face, while a girl, her back to the viewer, creates a monstrous shadow on the wall beside him. Again one wonders, who is the dream?

Davies made his engravings in a variety of ways, including mezzotint, a labor-intensive method in which light is scratched from a blackened surface to create the image. This technique, popular in the 18th and 19th centuries and later used in some of M.C. Escher’s work, allows subtle gradations of light and shade to be created without lines. Davies uses this technique to arresting effect in two simple but lovely prints displayed here, one dark and one light. In Sommeil (Sleep) we see a sleeping face emerging from the shadows, as if lit only by a distant streetlight through the window, or perhaps a bit of the glow from a hallway lamp creeping in beneath the door. L’homme au Bandoneon (The Man on the Bandoneon) is a soft and almost cheery image of a smiling man with a bandoneon, the small accordion used to play tango. Music is present throughout these prints, although one begins to imagine it as like the sound of a stylus needle on an old record with the volume turned all the way down, or perhaps that of a distant merry-go-round, turning slowly and carrying only one solitary child. Like many of the people inhabiting Richard Davies’ world, sometimes with arms placed limply on a table or hanging at their sides, and usually staring right back at us, the bandoneon player’s eyes do not smile along with his mouth. Estrangement and loneliness permeate many of these prints, but what makes them so compelling is that it’s not necessarily a sad loneliness, and it is an estrangement that Davies seemed to believe we all share.