It's dangerous to talk to an artist. Whatever you think of their art, after a conversation with them, you are bound to walk away intrigued, enchanted — maybe even disgusted (which isn't necessarily bad) — but mostly, hopefully, enlightened by a new understanding of their work.
The new installation by Tadashi Kawamata had seemed modest at the opening of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Tokyo's exhibition/retrospective of his work, especially in contrast to the photos of Kawamata's ridiculous swirls of teetering timbers swarming over urban landscapes. In 1982, when Kawamata was still a 28-year-old student, he became the youngest Japanese artist to create a solo show for the country's national pavilion at the Venice Biennale, the longest running of these major contemporary exhibitions that pop up in cities every two years.
He'd been discovered in the early '80s when Tokyo galleries were searching for something exciting after conceptual movements such as Mono-ha, "The School of Things," which valued materials in their natural state — stones in galleries — over the artist's touch — sculpting the stones. Instead of simply crafting objects, Kawamata created environments in which you could be immersed.