Jude Jiang is a bilingual writer based in China. She has a strong interest in bridging the understanding between western and eastern worlds through storytelling.
While some people might claim individuals with linguistic disabilities cannot communicate with others, that doesn’t mean they don’t have desire and innovative means to communicate with others. In fact, their creative use of body language may add more fun to our already formalized communication that too often relies on concrete vocabulary and grammar. In fact even with this concreteness, aren’t we still often confused by the others’ meaning much of time?
Working as part-time with intellectual disabled people inspires me to read the greeting languages that are unique to them. Unlike able-bodied people, disabled people who have difficulty verbally talking with others tend to use their bodies to communicate. Seeing how effective their self-innovated body language turns out to be, I found out myself recalling the fun memories of Atelier Hiko’s founder, Hiko-kun.
When someone, whether an acquaintance or not, enters his atelier place, Hiko-kun would pause his painting activity, extend his free hand to the newcomer, and cheerfully give a thumbs up. When I first saw this gesture, I didn’t know how to react. Instinctively acting out of imitation, I raised the thumb of one hand towards Hiko-kun and thought imitation could convey sign of peace to someone you just met. To my surprise, Hiko-kun, proactively reached out even more toward me, pressed our thumbs together in a friendly manner.
In Japan, most people greet each other by nodding or bowing at the waist. Furthermore, depending on the angle at which one bends their hips, the degree of respect they show toward others differs. This commonly shared greeting language indicates social status, but also plays a role of an invisible wall, forging social distance among people. Fairly speaking, the physically more egalitarian custom of touching, such as handshakes and hugs in Western countries, seems extremely rare in Japan. In this sense, it was refreshing for me to see Hiko-kun, despite rooted in Japanese culture, actively spreading this unique greeting language that he originally came up with to the ones surrounding him.
Speaking of widely-spread hand language, there are two common types in our daily scenarios that came across into my mind – handshaking and handwaving. In modern business scenarios, handshaking is meant to express an official bond. In scenarios where it is difficult to hear the other person’s voice, raising and waving your hands towards them, like a beckoning FORTUNE cat, is also a distinguished gesture. Because these two body languages are so well established, without any double, they would be read as the meaning of “That’s a deal.” and “Hello or goodbye”. In comparison, Hiko-kun’s thumb greeting, however, is much more flexible in the meaning it indicates.
Here is how I read Hiko-kun’s thumb greeting. By simply putting up your thumb, it conveys a positive sentiment as well as various possible meanings, such as “Nice to meet you,” “It’s a nice day today,” “Have a good time,” “Welcome,” “I’m doing well today, how about you?”, “Let’s all have fun,” or “I like that. How about you?” On top of that, if you receive the same thumb greeting from another person and the two of you then touch thumbs, a mutual understanding has been shared, or a special greeting given.
Admittedly, it is like learning a foreign language and that’s where the fun comes in. In fact when we study a new language, sometimes we learn vocabularies through shared understanding of pantomime and gestures. Communication certainly is enhanced by body language. What if we all tried giving someone a thumbs up? I wonder what fun interactions it might spark.
While many people appreciate the idea of architectural preservation of classic homes, the social and economic realities often make preservation or renovation troublesome. This situation also applies to Kominka（古民家）, Japanese folk houses. While there are government programs and non-profit organizations such as KominkaJapan network that try to assist people in overcoming obstacles and challenges to preserving these homes, there are still many Kominka houses facing modernization, gentrification or demolition.
On a recent trip to visit a vacant Kominka house, I attempted to discover the hidden challenges of preserving a link to the past through these homes, which the elder generations deeply revered.
Co-existing with Nature on a Daily Basis
With about one hour of traveling by public transportation, I arrived in this little town called Kaizuka, Osaka about 35 kilometers away from downtown. The local residential architecture was a mix of modern low-story single family homes, commercial buildings and Kominka houses, which often take a larger parcel of the land. After another fifteen minutes of traveling, my guide and I were standing in front of a stately and impressive Kominka house. My first sight perfectly matched my expectation for Kominka, which is about living in harmony with Mother Nature. It was structured with natural materials of wood, clay, and stone, as well as ornamented with Japanese-style gardens with pine trees.
The guide of this visit was M-san, who used to live in this Kominka house for more than thirty years. The house’s history dates back more than 150 years to the initial house owner who was her great grandfather in-law and was a professional in agricultural work. Therefore, he designed the house for the convenience of conducting agricultural work indoors. For instance, different from the usually narrow modern entrance room, Gennkan （玄関） are mainly for changing shoes. The entryway in this Kominka house is so spacious as to bring in livestock saddled with crops.
It’s not hard to imagine that in an era lacking the aid of advanced machines, agricultural work could take laborious effort from animals and humans alike. However, when I encountered this ancient lifestyle directly in front of me, it was stunning to stand where the ancestors had lived through such physically demanding lives. A wooden ladder climbed from the entryway to a second-story loft, designed as a storage space for storing crops in a dry environment. Seeing how steep the ladder was, I ascertained that I would be barely capable of even climbing upwards, let alone carrying crops in hand at the same time.
A wooden ladder climbed from the entryway to a storage space.(Picture by Jude Jiang)
It wouldn’t be exaggerating to think that the elder generation was more committed to living with nature, of which they had to take in both the pleasant and challenging aspects. While they brought in natural elements as ornaments and planted gardens to honor nature, on the one hand, more efforts had to be spent to co-exist with the harsher and crueler aspects affecting human lives. Can we, who have become so used to the conveniences of modern life, comprehend such an intimate yet challenging relationship with nature on a daily basis?
The Symbol of Home
The spaces within modern homes tend to be divided towards activities such as eating, sleeping, laundry, and so on. Likewise Kominka commonly exhibit rooms named by its function and there are a lot academic studies about utility and aesthetics related to different rooms. Not conducting an academic study, I attempted to simplify my focus down to the most basic yet significant behavior of human beings, which relates to cooking and eating. Here, I discovered the unexpected evidence of how meals took place at this Kominka house.
When M-san navigated me from one living room into the next chamber, she indicated the black soot staining the ceiling beams, “that was caused by using this Irori （囲炉裏）, a sunken hearth fired with charcoal throughout many years,” said M-san and she tapped a square space in the middle of the room, which now remains unseen, covered with Tatamis（畳）. I however remember having seen Irori in museums and older Japanese movies. Usually, above a stone-pit in the floor, there would hang a pot or kettle, equipped with a pothook to adjust the height.
Irori demostrated in illustration (Picture by Free Vectors, https://en.ac-illust.com/)
Used not only for cooking and eating around, it was also for heating and even clothes drying, the Irori was regarded to be the center of household life. Imagine on a cold winter day, a farmer returned home from exhausting farm labor. He would be served with warm tea, soup, and a hot meal while spending quality time with his family. This all was centered around a single place, the Irori. He might even take a quick nap on the Tatamis beside the warm hearth. If the home is the place with food and love, wasn’t Irori the symbol of this home?
Whether for rich or poor families, household life centered on Irori were common for most people. Back then, people shared intimate family interactions. However, when it comes to modern times, a TV has become the center of the household life. Recently this trend has transformed into virtual interactions through mobile platforms rather than real interaction with family members. As a result, family ties become diluted and meanwhile members’ activities are increasingly insular. That being said, perhaps the modern symbol of home and family has retreated to the virtual world.
One of the eclectic collections of intergenerational treasures in the Kominka house.(Picture by Jude Jiang)
A Room for Public Purpose
By discovering eclectic collections of intergenerational treasures, I was able to partly solve the puzzle of what life was like over a hundred years ago. The vision couldn’t be more vivid than when M-san led me into the most captivating space, the Enkai-shitsu (宴会室）, a large banquet hall.
Facing a placid garden adorned with pine trees and a pond, this banquet hall happened to be the best location to appreciate the Japanese style of tranquility. Composed of three rooms with removable Fusuma （襖）dividers, a specific kind of wood and paper Japanese sliding door, this room occupies a large space within this Kominka house, bigger than all the other personal spaces added together.
The actual size of the banquet hall is two times bigger than what’s shown in the picture.(Picture by Jude Jiang)
“The room was packed with all the acquaintances when we held a family funeral decades ago,” said M-san, “Even as a local person like myself, a family event with such a big scale held indoors was impressive. From the front to the end of the room, guests were sitting feet-to-feet in three lines throughout.” Following the details as she recalled her memories, I noticed that at the very front of the first room, a gold-plated Buddhist altar was placed facing the entrance. Beside it was hung a traditional ink painting of a farm house among mountains and rivers. Apparently, both of these installations played a great role in spiritually leading attendants’ thoughts during those solemn rituals.
M-san further introduced that aside from serving the family for big events like weddings and funerals, the room was also used for holding community meetings. The locals used to gather here to discuss significant topics, such as proposals for improving living in the town and so on. I wondered since this room was so rich with sublimated elements of religion and art, what kind of inspiration permeated the residents’ discourse.
A gold-plated Buddhist altar faced the entrance of the banquet room.(Picture by Jude Jiang)
Whether it’s the sharing of lament, joy or wisdom, what happened in that meeting room belonged to the public. Whereas nowadays, speaking of home, it has a strong connotation of the ownership of private space. Critical family event like funerals rarely are held at home but in professional funeral homes. Community meetings are held in official governmental facilities. The boundary between private and public spaces has never been more articulate than now. Today, making a room for public purpose at home would seem quite eccentric, at best.
Pondering the fate of the Kominka culture
At the end of the visit, M-san told me that her family was facing a hard dilemma. They were told by elder generations that preserving this family Kominka house is essential. Burdened by this responsibility, it was very hard for her family to finally decide to sell the Kominka to the real estate agency. However, what can be related to me is that preserving a vacant house and witnessing the decayed life of this once-gorgeous architecture is also unbearably painful.
It is uncertain after this Kominka house is sold, whether it will be preserved, transformed into other architectural form or demolished for property. But I hope whatever happens it will provide some of the values of nature, home and community that this proud Kominka embodied for over a century.
When we think of art, it is often envisioned as ethereal as floating clouds. I often see it as insubstantial as mist that escapes my grasp. My perspective, however, has started to change while spending time at Atelier Hiko, especially while witnessing how Yacchan creates his artwork.
My first meeting with the artist Yacchan arose from a misunderstanding. I was riding my bike to Atelier Hiko and thinking about its nagaiya architecture and how it needed restoration work. As I approached, I was excited to hear “Dang Dang Dang,” the steady sound of a carpenter swinging a hammer to a wall. There was a pause and then “Dang Dang Dang,” repeated in cadence. I wanted to find the carpenter and discuss the renovation work.
As I entered the atelier, I saw burly-figured altelier member Yacchan was intensely creating a unique art form. Highly focused, he was knocking in some small colored nails, one by one. His intensity was underscored by the “Fu Fu Fu” of his exhalation at each fall of the hammer.
What I took for granted as the sound of a carpenter’s labor was actually art under creation. I was fooled by my own preconception that art must be a lofty process. How embarrassing is that! The act of hammering nails is not merely limited to construction work, it can be artistic impression. Since Yachan was not knocking nails into the wall, I wondered what medium he was working with to make such a “Dang Dang Dang?”
Surprisingly, it came from what looked like a thin cardboard tube that seemed to be composed only of many layers of paper. How could thin paper resonate with the sound of hammering?
Yacchan had applied a generous amount of glue mixed with dye to penetrate the surface of the tube which soaked into the absorbent material. After letting it dry, it become almost as solid and durable as dried bamboo stalks. Through this unexpected process, the potential of paper as a canvas for art was unlocked.
For over one-and-one-half hours, Yacchan kept sitting still there, repeating the same sequence – knocking the nails into the paper tube. He relaxed his shoulders, elbows, and wrists, and relied on the weight and force of the hammer to do the work but sweat beaded upon his forehead belying his intensity on this early summer afternoon.
Since the paper tube tends to roll, it is unstable to drive a nail onto it. On top of that, Yacchan holds the paper tube with left hand while having the next 10 pieces of nails to be knocked. At the same time he swings the hammer down with right hand, aiming for the spot he wants to hit. I noticed the intense effort he made to line up the colorful nails in evenly-spaced rows of the same color.
I decided to throw away my preconceptions and experience the scene unfolding in front of me. I wanted to understand why Yacchan is so determined at his task. Was it perhaps the joy in creating that had him so deeply immersed in his art work?
As I was watching the precision of how his right and left hands coordinated together, Ishizaki-san told me that Yacchan’s favorite food was corn, and I immediately perceived it! The shape of the paper tube and the spacing between the nails are reminiscent of the ordered rows of corn on the cob! Had I solved it? If one can create something he loves entirely by relying on himself, then his happiness would be relatable.
“For Yacchan, the nails may represent ‘unreasonable things’. Every time a countless number of ‘unreasonable things’ are knocked into the paper tube, he feels slightly relieved and his favorite food, corn, can be sublimated.” said Ishizaki-san. I learned from her that Yacchan first started creating his “corn art” when going through a difficult and chaotic time during his middle school graduation. For him, it was an “unreasonable thing” that people had to part from each other at certain times in their lives.
Another reason may lie in the work itself, I pondered. Yacchan knocks the sharp, painful end of the nail into the center of the paper tube, leaving the flat smooth head of the colored nails in orderly rows on the curved tube. As a result, countless myriad-colored circles are lined up in an orderly manner on its surface. The sharp ends, like thorns that can cause pain, are safely hidden away within.
Yacchan continues to work with a serious expression on his face and I wondered what emotions fueled his art. Whether it was satisfaction or emotional unrest, like the interior of the paper tube, it was impossible to know what lies beneath. By the time he completed filling the corn full of nails, it was many times heavier than the original paper tube. He however stood up vigorously from his chair with lightness as if unburdened of a weight. I imagined I could feel his satisfaction.
Within that specific moment, the unbearable weight accumulated from numerous “unreasonable things” he must face, may have partially departed from Yacchan. Yet can he reduce that heaviness without going through the similar process again and again?
Then, another question arose. How should we confront works of art? Sometimes it feels unobtainable, like grasping at a cloud, and sometimes it we feel a deep meaning and weight that becomes anticipation. Despite attempts by scholars to categorize, define and interpret art objectively, subjective judgments differ depending on each person’s experiences. This is never clearer than with the types of “art brutal” that is created within the ateliers of special artists. In this way, can we see that a heavy corn cob of paper and nails might convey an unbearable lightness?
If you approach works by tossing aside your preconceptions, and then start by embracing the work and exploring how it was created, you can then experience the art through your own lens.
In this way, you may feel a weight and be shaken by your own ambivalent thoughts or sorrowful experiences and feel unable to bear their weight. That is an art experience.
I was honored to borrow from Atelier Hiko a collection of Haruna-san’s poems. Upon reading the first few entries, I told Ishizaki-san that I am amazed by the cleverness in her writing. Despite being based mostly on very common daily-use words, the topics were as diverse and compelling as ghosts, heaven, Osaka Pro Wresting, hiking, hot spring baths and birthdays. They were composed into slogans, poems, songs and letters.
As a foreigner who feels the “fish out of water” experience, I’m just grateful to read these thought that I find so genuine and powerful.
Among her fun writings, one poem caught my eye.
***
Email
Meaning dream.
That’s impossible.
It’s messy.
(I’m) still angry.
I will never forgive you.
That’s impossible.
Even if you cry, it’s probably your fault, teacher.
Why don’t you email me?
Hey, teacher.
Next time, you can’t do that again.
Do you understand?
I’m serious about it.
I won’t forgive you until you cry. It’s impossible even if you show your guts.
I don’t need a slogan. (*Haruna-san writes slogans to cheer up herself and others.)
That email thing,
Really make it happen, okay?
Make sure to keep doing it until the end.
I won’t forgive if you give up.
Also I want to get you angry.
***
At first glance, I felt that in this poem, she was longing for communication with someone whom she is close to. After not obtaining what she expected, she used strong words expressing the feelings of being hurt and angry.
However, the phrase “I won’t forgive you until you cry” resonated with my own experiences. I recalled a quarrel with my childhood best friend, and a mischievous image of myself emerged. No matter how many times the other apologized, I would pretend to not forgive my friend just to gain more attention from her. Of course I had already forgiven her – that is friendship. It was only at this moment that I started to see the hyperbole in my youthful sentiment.
Did Haruna-san also feel the same way when she wrote this poem?
After reading the poem the second time, I felt that the author has an enviable sincerity. If possible, I would like to borrow Haruna-san’s frankness by saying directly what I want to say. As adults, we often live our lives with too much caution. In a society full of polite behavior, isn’t it really embarrassing to express negative emotions?
If something that I don’t like happened, if something made me angry, if something broke my heart, I would like to say to the other person, “I won’t forgive you until you cry.” That way, both the other person and I would be able to reach a clear resolution (and perhaps a big hug).
I became aware of Haruna’s candor when I visited Ishizaki-san at Atelier Hiko for the fourth time.
It was a Saturday when the largest number of members attends the studio. While composing new poems, Haruna-san talked with other members about her concerns regarding a recent personal matter. Surrounded by a caring atmosphere, I was trusted to be part of the group, even while I was taking notes next to her. As I listened, I couldn’t help but feel that she carried such a sense of courage to openly discuss her disquiet with others.
“Do you have any secret, Haruna-san?” I asked curiously.
“No,” Haruna answered firmly.
I didn’t exactly understand at the time. However, as I’m reading the poetry collection now, I inevitably think of the reason she came up with such a solid answer. Maybe it’s because everything that came to her mind, including personal issues, worries, and anger, was all written down.
Well then, Haruna-san, I want to share in the power of your words! Keep creating and I will continue reading your poetry collections.
At first glance, it might seem that trampolines and the spark of artistic creation are entirely unrelated. I discovered how intimately and interestingly connected they could be. When one speaks of artistic creation, it tends to evoke the image of someone peacefully painting in front of a canvas or sculpting clay. So, when I visited the Atelier Hiko, a small-size black trampoline set in the corner attracted my attention. One might wonder what it is doing in an art studio.
Machitaka-san, who attends Artier Hiko every Tuesday, is an active fourteen-year-old boy sporting surprisingly sinewy muscles within his thin body. At 4p.m., he came barging in to the Atelier with the force of a typhoon. Right away, he started to arrange the spacing of the furniture to his own proper proportions – all the chairs in line, the desks divided by the proper distance and everything in its place.
“What is going on?” I thought. As I was trying to figure out the situation, he had already picked up the trampoline from the corner. Very conscious of his surroundings, he made precise adjustments to the positions of the surrounding chairs and desks before placing the trampoline in the middle of the room. Then from a menu-like booklet, he selected a picture card representing a music song. He handed his choice to Ishizaki-san, which I perceived as another significant step in his preparations.
With great anticipation, Michitaka-san went to the trampoline. As the music began, he hopped on with a conspicuous sense of happiness. As if he were a metronome, the piano played along to his well-controlled rhythm. His T-shirt swayed loosely, its slogan “Just do it” seemed to match his dynamic energy.
“He is making a sequence of fast body movements as well as spontaneously incorporating the changes!” I thought. The image reminded me of a trampoline gymnast. On top of controlling the speed of his jumps, I guessed he might be targeted to achieve some awesome movements.
His control reminded me of gymnasts’ determination and skill. For a moment, I didn’t know whether I was in an atelier or at a sports studio. I wondered what acrobatics he might achieve upon a full-sized trampoline. As an audience, I was eager to applaud his wonderful performance!
Jumping quickly, the excitement built up. Machitaka-san’s face blushed warmly and a bright smile emerged. “So is Machitaki-san, so is Hiko-kun…” as Ishizaki-san’s song drew to a close, his pace accordingly slowed down. I thought his energy was spent, but he promptly went to a nearby desk. With vigorous force, he started to draw with black ink.
Within just six seconds, a painting began to take shape on the paper. Four circles, reminiscent of the Olympic logo, yet imperfect in shape, were linked together. Each brush stroke conveyed a strong force. “Wait, is it painting or calligraphy?” I pondered. In the way it was painted, it could be seen as four geometric shapes yet it could also be read as four written characters. Zero or circle, character or image, it was impossible for me to decide.
As I was trying to seek for an answer, I found out that they were high-fiving, as if celebrating an awesome accomplishment. “That’s it!” I came to a realization. The art work that Michitaka-san made was not just a solo work; instead, it was a fruitful result of his teamwork with Ishizaki-san.
It was the culmination of arranging the space and the canvas, moving within that space, connecting through music and finally creating his own unique art. For this artist, I felt the whole room was his canvas.
Is this any different than the great calligraphers, preparing their brushes, inks and paper and meditating before making the first brush stroke?
A peaceful meditation, playing an instrument, taking a stroll or intensely bouncing on a trampoline, warming-up is an essential part in the act of artistic creation.
待ちきれない道隆さんはいよいよ楽しそうにトランポリンで飛び跳ね始めた。石﨑さんの弾くピアノ音楽とともに、「Just do it」と書かれたTシャツが彼のジャンプに合わせて上下に揺れていた。音楽のテンポが速くなると、彼は高く飛び上がるほど興奮し、体の動きも活発になっていた。足を前に蹴り出し、手も振っていた。
