Showing posts with label Izu Oshima. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Izu Oshima. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 31, 2022
Tuesday, August 23, 2022
Sunday, August 21, 2022
Rare Photo of Tosh Writing in Izu Ōshima, Japan
A rare photograph of Tosh Berman on Izu Ōshima, in his office, writing his mega novella for Substack, "The Impressions of Izu Ōshima." Intense heat, monster insects, and tons of cats pissing outside. Oh, and an active volcano. Read Part 3 of my story here, and do subscribe as well: https://tosh.substack.com/p/impressions-of-izu-oshima-novella-aa4?r=352m9&s=w&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
Friday, August 19, 2022
Raymond Roussel Tribute by Tosh Berman
I think of Raymond Roussel's work whenever I'm on an island. Inspired by Roussel, the actual location Izu Ōshima is two and a half hours away from Tokyo. When Lun*na and I stayed there for an arts festival, we had only cold water and intense heat with the addition of strange biting insects and an island full of abandoned cats. You could have cut the air with a knife. Under all this, I wrote "The Impressions of Izu Ōshima" in a feverish (the only way) manner. Read Part 2 here:
Thursday, August 18, 2022
Saturday, August 13, 2022
Thursday, August 11, 2022
Subscribe to tosh.substack.com
Two things that impressed me in life are the writer Raymond Roussel and Japan. The next piece I will publish/post on my Substack page is Part One of "Impressions of Izu Ōshima." Subscribe to tosh.substack.com
Sunday, December 8, 2019
Tosh's Journal : December 8 (Tribute to the Bathtub and Izu Oshima Islan...
My job is to reflect on life, and unfortunately, it doesn’t pay. I have a deep interest in the world around me or how I see that world. To be perfectly honest, the world can easily exist without any input by yours truly. Yet, I have known people who wait to hear from me before they enter such a world. My problem (and it is mine alone) is that I can’t get a regular paycheck for my writings on such an interesting landscape as what is out there. “There” being whatever is not within my world.
My ‘world’ is one where I take long baths and focus my thoughts on the bathroom wall. I notice the cracks in the wall, and I immediately think of them as examples of deep distress that is around me, but quite honestly, not in the bath with me. The tub is a no-zone. My sense of being is how hot the water is, and is there enough shampoo in the bottle? Other than that, the crack on the tiled wall is my total concentration on what that scar means to me.
Due to my poor eyesight, the crack has many dimensions attached to it. I often think of it as an island among the blue sea, since my bathroom tiles are in that color. What is the consistency that makes such an image to be so profound? I imagined Commander Perry as he approached Japan’s little island, Izu Ōshima, in 1854, that is two hours away from Tokyo on a jet boat, but still, such a remote island. It has an active volcano and five restaurants on that island that is full of abandoned cats. What one would think of as a stalled car engine is a wave of the sound of cats’ purring in unison. Feline’s urine can be smelled in the exotic landscape on the island. Houses left abandoned, and the numerous monuments for people who had either died due to plane failure or landslides are scattered in the most remote and public areas on Ōshima. I loved the island because the heavy rains served my mood perfectly. Almost as good as being in my bathtub looking at the island of Izu Ōshima on my blue tile.
The words I write are as useless as the soap bubbles from my shampoo as it mixes in with the bathwater. They, too, become islands in the sea of Tosh’s bathwater. Real depression hits me when I undo the drain and watch the water empty into a pipe that leads to a filthy sewer. Whatever happens, there is always the sewer. No one can lie to that space, because I think the stink and filth is very much part of our DNA.
I dry myself, put some cream on my face (to even out the worry lines on my forehead and mouth area), and then I dress very carefully. First the underwear, then the socks, a striped t-shirt (since it’s Sunday, I choose a navy blue strip against white) and a sensible pair of walking shoes. I then approach my MacBook Air and try to enter into the adventure.
Sunday, September 1, 2019
Tosh's Journal - September 1st (Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan)
TOSH'S JOURNAL
September 1
Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan
"If I live, I live, if I die, I'll die." There is very little here, except the ocean, which surrounds this island, and the mountains. All structures and shops are close to the water as if it has second thoughts being in the jungle-like the growth of nature. Once you're on the island, you are here forever. Even if you leave, the insect bites seem to stay with you for a long time. I have rashes on top of other rashes, and for sure, me being here, must have shortened my life by at least minutes if not longer. If I die on this island, I will haunt it forever. I don't believe death is the end, but a continuation of one's hell. Once you throw the dice against the wall and your numbers don't come up - you're fucked, and you're fucked for life.
I came to this island because I needed to test myself in the sense that I would choose life over death. To me, it is the same. The fact it is in the middle of summer, which means the weather is not only hot 24 hours a day, but also humid, where one's sweat seems to attract every insect in existence on this island. The most common insect I have here is an overlarge spider. When you walk down one of the paths or even the street that circles around the island, which is a two-lane road, one often walks into a giant spider web. If I take a ten-minute walk anywhere, I find my hair has cobwebs and an occasional living creature of some sort. The other animal I see here, and I see a lot of is cats. Most, if not all, are wild. They don't look approachable, but still, they are beautiful creatures. I wasn't sure if it was due to my exhaustion from the heat, but I could have sworn I saw a cat as big as a large dog. It was an orange kitty, and looked normal, except it was huge. I immediately walked the other direction, because for sure, I felt the animal would have approached and eaten me. I think it would go for the eyes first and then the hair of my body. I then imagined that the cat would drag me into the bushes and eat the rest of my body.
I did see an odd sight when walking down a dark road, there were two crows in the street, picking on something. As I slowly approached these flying rats, I can see they were eating a dead squirrel. Which amazingly enough, I never see these critters on trees or anywhere else. Only once, and this squirrel is quite dead, yet still, a meal for the birds. I even saw a deer with horns, but he or she pretended to hide from me in a bush. The deer never lost sight of me as I slowly walked down the street. As a human, I don't feel that I should be on this island whatsoever. It belongs to creatures and nature. I often felt this way when I walk around the dog park in Silver Lake. Humans take their dogs here, but it seems like a concentration camp to me. There used to be grass, but now it is nothing but dirt and dogshit. There is something depressing to me when I see humans playing with their pets - it reminds me of master and servant. One can't escape the horror of being human and being part of the social system where one looks for love wherever they can find it, even for a dog that is with you because one feeds it. The beast must conform to the human's point-of-view of what an animal is - in other words, their pet or animal must reflect the owner's ego. Here on the island, beasts (cats) run free and I find it beautiful because here they are - as they are meant to be — not a human's concept of a beast, but indeed a creature on their terms.
I spend my time writing, mostly at the abandoned elementary school. My wife and I set up a portable studio within the space, which is jammed full of images of students and teachers who are no longer working there, and more likely no longer alive. Even then, nature is taking over the room. Insects roam freely from one body to the next, and when I take my clothes off to take my daily cold shower, I look like a map, not made by human intelligence, but from an insects point-of-view. So if I do die here, I will become part of the natural world - food for the cats, crows, and a dessert for the insects. - Tosh Berman
Sunday, December 13, 2015
The Sunday Series: Sunday December 13, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday December 13, 2015
My job is to basically reflect on life, and unfortunately it doesn’t pay. I have a deep interest in the world around me, or how I see that world. To be perfectly honest the world can easily exist without any input by yours truly. Yet, I have known people, who wait to hear from me, before they enter such a world. My problem (and it is mine alone) is that I can’t get a regular paycheck for my writings on such an interesting landscape as what is out there. “There” being whatever is not within my world.
My ‘world’ is one where I take long baths and focus my thoughts on the bathroom wall. I notice the cracks in the wall, and I immediately think of them as examples of deep distress that is around me, but quite honestly, not in the bath with me. The bath is a no-zone. My sense of being is how hot the water is, and is there enough shampoo in the bottle? Other than that, the crack on the tiled wall is my total concentration on what that scar means to me.
Due to my poor eyesight, the crack has many dimensions attached to it. I often think of it as an island among the blue sea, since my bathroom tiles are in that color. What is the consistency that makes such an image to be so profound? I imagined Commander Perry as he approached Japan’s little island, Izu Ōshima, in 1854, that is two hours away from Tokyo on a jet boat, but still, such a remote island. It has an active volcano, and five restaurants on that island that if full of abandoned cats. What one would think of as a stalled car engine is actually a wave of sound of cats’ purring in unison. Feline’s urine can be smelled in the exotic landscape on the island. Houses left abandoned and the numerous monuments for people who had either died due to plane failure or landslides are scattered in the most remote and public areas on Ōshima. I loved the island, because the intense rains served my mood perfectly. Almost as good as being in my bathtub looking at the island of Izu Ōshima on my blue tile.
The words I write are as useless as the soap bubbles from my shampoo as it mixes in with the bath water. They too become islands in the sea of Tosh’s bath water. Real depression hits me when I undo the drain and watch the water empty into a pipe that leads to a filthy sewer. Whatever happens, there is always the sewer. No one can lie to that space, because I think the stink and filth is very much part of our DNA.
I dry myself, put some cream on my face (to even out the worry lines on my forehead and mouth area) and then I dress very carefully. First the underwear, then the socks, a stripped t-shirt (since it’s Sunday, I choose a navy blue strip against white) and a sensible pair of walking shoes. I then approach my MacBook Air, and try to enter into the adventure.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Spirit image caught by Lun*na Menoh on Izu Oshima, Japan
Lun*na Menoh took pictures of her installation piece that took place at Art Islands in TOKYO on Izu Oshima island. This one image, it seems she photographed a spirit as it walked through her installation. Notice that the woman on the left side of the photograph doesn't have any legs, yet it seems that the legs are following her. Not trick photography. Image taken by I-Phone 5.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
The Sunday Series: Sunday September 6, 2015 (Izu Oshima, Tokyo, Japan)
The Sunday Series:
Sunday September 6, 2015
Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan
“If I live, I live, if I die, I’ll die.” There is very little here, except the ocean, which surrounds this island, and the mountains. All structures, and shops are close to the water, as if it has second thoughts being in the jungle like growth of nature. Once you’re on the island, you are here forever. Even if you leave, the insect bites seems to stay with you for a long time. I have rashes on top of other rashes, and for sure, me being here, must have shortened my life by at least minutes if not longer. If I die on this island, I would haunt it forever. I don’t believe death is the end, but really a continuation of one’s hell. Once you throw the dice against the wall, and your numbers don’t come up - you’re fucked, and you’re fucked for life.
I came to this island because I needed to test myself in the sense of I would choose life over death. To me, it is basically the same. The fact it is in the middle of summer, which means the weather is not only hot 24 hours a day, but also humid, where one’s sweat seems to attract every insect in existence on this island. The most common insect I have here is an overlarge spider. When you walk down one of the paths or even the street that circles around the island, which is a two-lane road, one often walks into a giant spider web. If I take a ten minute walk anywhere, I find my hair has cobwebs and an occasional living creature of some sort. The other creature I see here, and I see a lot of, is cats. Most, if not all, are wild. They don’t look approachable, but still they are beautiful creatures. I wasn’t sure if it was due to my exhaustion from the heat, but I could have sworn I saw a cat as big as a large dog. It was an orange kitty, and looked totally normal, except it was huge. I immediately walked the other direction, because for sure, I felt the animal would have approached and ate me. I think it would go for the eyes first and then the hair of my body. I then imagined that the cat would drag me into the bushes and eat the rest of my body.
I did see an odd sight, when walking down a dark road, there were two crows in the street, picking on something. As I slowly approached these flying rats, I can see they were eating a dead squirrel. Which amazingly enough, I never see these critters on trees or anywhere else. Only once, and this squirrel is quite dead, yet still, a meal for the birds. I even saw a deer with horns, but he or she pretended to hide from me in a bush. The deer never lost sight of me as I slowly walked down the street. As a human, I don’t feel that I should be on this island whatsoever. It belongs to creatures and nature. I often felt this way when I walk around the dog park in Silver Lake. Humans take their dogs here, but it seems like a concentration camp to me. There used to be grass, but now it is nothing but dirt and dogshit. There is something depressing to me when I see humans playing with their pets - it reminds me of master and servant. One can’t escape the horror of being human, and being part of the human system where one looks for love wherever they can find it. Even for a dog that clearly is with you because one feeds it. The beast must conform to the human’s point-of-view of what an animal is - in other words, their pet or animal must reflect the owner’s ego. Here on the island, beasts (cats) run free and I find it beautiful, because here they are - as they are meant to be. Not a human’s concept of a beast, but truly a beast on their own terms.
I spend my time writing, mostly at the abandoned elementary school. My wife and I set up a portable studio within the space, which is jammed full of images of students and teachers who are no longer working there, and more likely no longer alive. Even then, nature is taking over the room. Insects roam freely from one body to the next, and when I take my clothes off to take my daily cold shower, I look like a map, not made by human intelligence, but from an insects point-of-view. So if I do die here, I will become part of the natural world - food for the cats, crows, and a desert for the insects.
- Tosh Berman, Tokyo, Japan
Images by Lun*na Menoh
- Tosh Berman, Tokyo, Japan
Images by Lun*na Menoh
Friday, September 4, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The Sunday Series: Sunday August 30, 2015 - Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan
The Sunday Series
Sunday, August 30, 2015 (Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan)
I began to write my own obituary, because I don’t feel I will make it off this island. The fact that the local (and prominent volcano) Mount Mihara is fully active and ready to blow at a second’s notice, and on top of that, there is a major earthquake fault underneath the island. Every where I go on this island I’m reminded of death. On a walk, I came upon a monument and a little shrine that announced a plane crash that took place here which killed 30 people. In another walk, there was another shrine that honored the 35 people who were victims of a mudslide due to the typhoon that hit the island three years ago. And just before we arrived here, a plane went down and crashed into a house, killing the occupant, who by chance, just moved into the house. The volcano itself, attracted hundreds to commit suicide by jumping into the lava filled crater. The cruel joke is that one wished to be swallowed by the earth, but in fact, when you jump in, lava keeps you floating and you just burn to death by the steam coming out of your body. Death here is no joke.
So, if you look at this statistically, I have a 50/50 chance of making it alive from Ōshima. To be on the safe side, and concerned about not having the last word on my life, and not having the time to finish off the full memoir called “Tosh’s Unfortunate Life,” I decided to, at the very least, to write my own obituary. Here it is:
Tosh Berman (August 25, 1954 - Sunday August 30, 2015)
Born in Los Angeles and died in Izu Ōshima, Tokyo, Japan
“Tosh Berman was a writer, poet, publisher, and gentleman. The son of Wallace Berman and Shirley Berman. He went to school, but the school denied that he was ever a student. Nevertheless he never let a locked door stop him from getting a full education. In school, Tosh had a deep interest in whatever was happening outside the classroom. This leads him to fail Kindergarten, and he had to take that class twice. By the second time, he realized that the school world wasn’t made for his liking. At eleven years old, he wrote his own book of poetry “My Life, My World, My Everything” that was published in an edition of one on a notebook that his parents gave him. Due that the hand-printed manuscript was extremely hard to read, the author is the only one to actually read the book of poems. Even with that, Tosh gave the book a superb blurb in the back of the notebook: “Poetry is real, and this is the real deal” - Tosh Berman, Poet (author of “My Life, My World, My Everything.”)
As a teenager it could be thought of that he discovered girls, but the fact is, girls discovered Tosh. They found him peeking through various keyholes and windows in selective residences where pretty teenage girls were found to be residing. Being caught on a regular basis, Tosh learned to use language as not only as a tool, but also a weapon. The girls became wary of him when he claimed he was looking for his glasses in various suspicious locations. By the age of seventeen, he was lead tambourine player for the band “Knock Knock Who’s There.” They were the no. 1 band at Louisville High School in Woodland Hills and had a sizable female audience, due to the fact that it was an all-girl school. Tosh became a fixture at this educational institution, and his one goal in his life at the time, was to become a janitor at the school. Fate had other plans for him, for instance, he was kicked out of the band due to his reckless dancing, and insisting on having a microphone on stage, which in fact, he didn’t sing at all.
Tosh, it was reported, was a very bitter young man. He seemed to drink only liquids that had a tang taste, and usually had a puckered gesture around the mouth area. That look was quite iconic on him, and eventually many people imitated his look by holding their puckered lips together. Since then, Tosh started to have a following - mostly guys who couldn’t function in the world, and were often called dreamers by the local High School football team. Tosh was known for his militant “no exercise” stance, that he kept up till his death. He deeply felt that one should read a book instead of doing exercise. Or if one needs to do for exercise, they can clearly do so by reaching for a book on the top shelf, or do deep knee bends, when the book is located on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
It was only at the age of 21, Tosh decided to get a job, due that the parents refused to feed him till he found occupation. He went to the first record store, and got the job there, when he could name every member of Freddie and the Dreamers (Roy Crewdson on guitar, Derek Quinn on guitar and harmonica, Peter Birell bass, Bernie Dwyer drums and of course, Freddie Garrity on lead vocals and lead dancing). Tosh was profoundly moved when he read a quote from Freddie saying “The Dreamers and I have always been daft. You couldn’t call me a sex-idol, could you? Collectively, we’re no glamour boys.”
Tosh worked at a record store on Sherman Way in Reseda from the beginning of March 1975 to the end of March 1975. He often commented on the enjoyment of various porn actresses who worked as a stripper on the side, would come in to get music for their act. Tosh showed choreographed talents when he recommended the would-be strippers on how to do some of the movements. He was eventually let-go of the job due to his naturally suggestive sexual movements while working at the store. Customers and the fine-looking women who worked with him didn’t complain, but the city council of Reseda took notice, and requested that he be removed from the job. Normally something like this would discourage Tosh’s love of music, but alas, it only became stronger, when he devoted his life to various punk rock clubs around Los Angeles.
It was at this time, he became a professional friend to bands such as DEVO and The Weirdos. He would make sure the right drinks were in the right glasses, and kept the bands safe from the Los Angeles Police Department as well as the over-zealous female fans. He would often read poetry out-loud in the dressing rooms to calm the musicians’ nerves before hitting the stage. It has been noted that DEVO’s Mark Mothersbaugh would request Tosh to read Frank O’Hara’s poem about drinking a coke. To add to the effect, Tosh would serve Mark a glass of Coke as he read the poem to him. Tosh realized that this wasn’t a good career move, due that there’s no payment in what he was doing, so he decided to devote himself to the business world of making and writing poetry. Here he made his fame and fortune.
Tosh as an adventurer (both sexually as well as a world traveler) became an obsessed collector of rare petrified mummies that were caught in the lava flow of various volcano eruptions. His obsession with Mount Mihara, on the island of Oshima, one of the seven Izu islands off of, but still part of Japan, had an active volcano. In fact, a girl he was dating with at the time, Kiyoko Matsumoto, jumped into the flames of Mihara, when he refused to take her out for shaved ice near the black beaches on the island. She survived the suicide attempt, even though she did lose some inches in height wise.
Tosh settled down in the town of Moji-Ko, and married a girl from the area. Here, he found a publisher, Cole Swift & Sons, who had offices not only in Moji-Ko, but also in Bombay, London, and Paris. With them, he produced his first book of poems “The Plum in Mr. Blum’s Pudding.” The entire book was written in Moji-Ko, with a broken typewriter that couldn’t type the letter “E” due to the malfunction of the typewriter. It became the first book of poetry that doesn’t use the capital letter “E” nor a small “e.” This of course, caused a great deal of controversy in the Poetry World. For a little awhile it was banned in all countries that have a letter E in their country’s name. The scandal even touched Tosh personally, when for about a month or two he was known as “Tosh Brman.” (The “e” was removed from his last name).
Banned from writing poetry and told to be kept away from all workable typewriters, Tosh decided to start up a press TamTam Books, that focused on post-war French writing. At the time, he started this press, no one was interested in the writer Boris Vian, so, he devoted his finances and time to promote the works of Vian. Not surprisingly, no one was interested in Boris Vian when he closed his press. Therefore it was a major disappointment for him when he got turned down the highest French medal of honor, but also he couldn’t get a visa to visit France. In fact, he became banned in France. With that in mind, Tosh wrote his last book “Sparks-Tastic” that became an instant classic for the Kindle set. It seemed that Kindle would malfunction whenever it tried to download the non-fictional work. With a string of failures in his background and clearly, nothing was going to happen in his future, Tosh decided to move to Izu Ōshima, where he became a manager of the Innomaru House, an inn and a house of loose women who served not only the local population but also customers from the mainland. It was here when he….”
This is where I had to finish off the obituary, because at this time, I’m not sure what or how my “ending” will happen. Fate often knocks on my door, and it is that fateful moment where I either go with the wind, or against it.
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Monday, August 24, 2015
Mount Mihara Part 1 (Travel Journal)
This late morning we all ended up in the car and headed towards Mount Mihara. It’s an active volcano located right in the center of Izu Oshima, an island that is two hours (by speed ferry) from Tokyo. Driving on the island cannot possibly be the easiest thing to do. There is just the main road that goes completely around the island, and not one part of the highway that is straight. It is nothing but curves and sharp turns throughout the endless street. If you drive completely around, it will take an hour. I believe the entire milage of the circle is 35 miles. To get to the volcano from the Haru Elementary School, where we are all working and staying for the Art Islands in TOKYO art festival - takes about 30 minutes. The one street that leads us to a dead end, so we can park and walk to the mountain, can only fit one car. Yet, on this curvy road, it’s a two-way street. One can’t see what is around the bend, and usually you come upon a car head-on. So, one has to drive very slowly, and sort of hope that no one will hit you. As for me, I hold my breath till we get to the point when we can pull over.
We then walk through a very lush and green pathway that takes us to the desert that is nick-named "Pluto." The substance on the ground is fine black sand, with an occasional black rock. The immense space on the top of the mountain makes the island, down below, looks small for some odd reason. I did not feel that we came from down there, because "there" looks totally different when you're looking above the landscape. What I saw ahead of me was an endless black landscape that gave everything a shade of gray. Also, I noticed that there was no evidence of life, except for us tourists. No birds. No insects. No plant life. Just black rock and earth. There was also a strong wind that made me feel like I would be dragged to the bottom of the hill. I suffer as a result of vertigo, and suddenly I couldn't take another step in front of me. I felt if the volcano itself was dragging me into its entrance of no return.
I went back to the car by myself, and wrote this short travel journal.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
The Sunday Series: Sunday August 23, 2015 (Izu Oshima Island, Tokyo, Japan)
The Sunday Series:
Sunday August 23, 2015
Izu Oshima, Tokyo, Japan
Every Sunday, here at the Haru Elementary School, my duties are to sweep the floors and clean up the bathrooms. I’m here as an artist to take part in an arts festival that is taking place later next month. From August to the end of September, the festival takes over the elementary school as their gallery and office space. The school itself became something of the past, in 2009. Being here now, it is like the entire population of students and their teachers made a run for it, and just left everything in the classrooms intact. When I first walked in the door last week, it was an eerie feeling of a presence of not one, but many individuals who threw themselves from one classroom to another. The school itself was under construction by the noted Japanese architect Takamasa Yoshizaka, who once worked as an assistant to Le Corbusier in Paris. In fact, he translated Le Corbusier’s writings from French to Japanese. Although I’m totally not sure about this, but I suspect that he designed this school sometime in the early 1960s. On the property is an Olympic sized drained swimming pool and a baseball field - both are covered by natural growth with an occasional poisoned snake here and there.
In the principal's office, where I do my daily writing, I’m surrounded by images of past awards, trophies, and various class photographs over the years. The one thing that becomes clear from looking at the photographs is that teachers start multiplying faster than the students. Youth, over time, eventually moved to the main land, more likely to Tokyo, and left the island behind. I can’t speak for the property, but this structure has only been in existence for forty years or so. Yet it’s a building from the past, and left to rot. Artists, like rats, need space to do their art, so at the moment it’s a happy relationship between the recent past and the ‘now. ' Still, I feel a great deal of sadness seeing rows of trophies that no longer have any meaning for anyone. At the time, there must have been great happiness, and nothing but a great future to look forward to. But life had other plans, and what’s important then is now not-so-important anymore.
There are a series of photographs on the wall of various teachers who once taught here - and I imagine now, most are dead. The same for students. How many of these serious looking faces are alive now? Even the baseball diamond and the swimming pool are dead. It’s summertime and all I can smell is death. The sliding windows on both sides of me are open, and the mosquitos, dragon flies, and an occasional lizard crawls or flies in to bite or harass me. I wear insect repellent like it is cheap perfume and I want to hide the smell of my decay.
As I was writing late one night, I felt a presence near me, and I turned around and it was an older gentleman. I just presume that he was one of the artists here - so many come and go on a daily basis. The odd thing is he sat behind the table that was once the principal’s desk. He just sat there looking at me, with no emotion on his face. He was dressed in a suit and tie, which is an odd outfit for an artist here, and especially in the wet hot weather of August. It was strange, but then again I’m in a foreign part of the world, and therefore I don’t try to read one’s face, or clothing, especially since I don’t know the language or the customs of those who are from here. One distinctive thing I notice is that when I saw him, the temperature changed and it became slightly cooler. If he’s the reason to make the room more comfortable, then I’m perfectly ok with him being here. And since this is an open studio for artists, it is common for them to come and go as they please.
The room got warmer all of sudden, and I turned around and he wasn’t sitting at the desk, nor anywhere in the room. He left. Oddly I didn’t hear him leave the room. But since I was totally involved in my writing, I really didn’t think too much about it. When I finished my work and turned off the computer, I went to the hallway, and I saw the older gentleman slowly walking down towards the other rooms and making a left turn to one of the classrooms. Since I was going in the same direction, I went by the classroom expecting to see him there, but alas, he wasn’t there. I of course, walked past the classroom again, but I slowly went back and forth in front of the room just to make sure he wasn’t there. Nothing. I entered and I did notice that it was cooler in this room than the hallway - which was odd, because all the windows were open in the hall.
One shouldn’t do this, but I had some hot sake while taking a bath. It’s dangerous because you can pass out due to the combination of the heat of the bath, the temperature outside, as well as the alcohol. When I got out of the bath, while drying myself, I heard a noise outside. I put my clothes on and walked towards the noise, which was coming from the hallway. From the hallway, I could see a light in my office. The sound, which was like one or maybe two people walking with the faint sound of a conversation. It could be one of the other artists here, but I think not, because it was late, and everyone usually is asleep by now. I walk towards the office slowly. I wasn’t that fearful it was a burglar - my first thought it was an animal of some sort. Due that in the heat I keep the windows open in the office just to hopefully keep the air circulating. As I slowly approached the entrance I stuck my head inside the doorway.
What I saw on the desk was a girl in what I think was wearing a Japanese student uniform - maybe 15 or 16, laying on the top, with her skirt above her panties. I immediately turned away. I then put my head through the doorway, and this time, she was looking directly at me. No emotion in her face. Just laying there. As if waiting for me. But also at the same time, I felt her gaze was really looking at nothing. I felt panicked, but I didn’t want to make any harsh or sudden movement. When I look towards the desk again, I didn’t see her. Nor was there any sign of her in the room. I stayed there for ten minutes doing nothing. I then turned the lights off and stood in the dark for a minute or so. Nothing. Unlike the last time I saw the old man at the desk, the temperature didn’t seem to change. I was trying to logically figure all of this out. There is nothing to figure out.
It was a few days later, while looking at the wall while focusing on my writing, that I come upon her. She is one of many in a classroom photo, taken outside my (the Principal’s) window. She is sitting down in the front row, near the Principal. What happened to them, or why, I don’t know. Or perhaps it is just my imagination over-reacting due to stress, the heat, and being thrown into another culture. Nevertheless I walk gently into every room in this school, not knowing what is around the corner.
Izu Oshima, Japan
At the moment I'm in Japan, mostly staying on an island called Izu Oshima. Lun*na Menoh is participating in the 5th International Contemporary Art Exhibition: Art Islands in Tokyo 2015. As for me, I'm writing a new book which will be about the island as well as the rest of Japan. The structure where we work is the Habu Elementary School, which was abandoned in 2009. Since then, the arts festival, for their summer event, have taken over the premise for the last five years. It's a beautiful mid-century building designed by Takamasa Yoshizaka.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Tosh on the Island of Izu Oshima (Japan)
The above photograph is a satellite photograph of Izu Oshima, and the darkened area with the perfect round hole is an active volcano by the name of Mount Mihara. Which by the way, in the 1930s, was the number one suicide spot for young lovers. I don't plan to jump in, but one never knows.
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