This year, some of Japan’s biggest art events came, if not roaring, then excitedly murmuring, back. The Setouchi Triennale opened on April 14, Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennale on April 29 and the Aichi Triennale on July 30, and all three ran through the fall.
The majority of the events took place before Japan’s borders opened completely to tourists on Oct. 11, and for Setouchi and Aichi, attendance numbers were down by about 30% to 40% compared to previous editions. But, people still had plenty of opportunities to queue for congested boats to participating islands and jostle to take selfies without extras in the background. The mostly masked visitors were asked to disinfect their hands and do compulsory temperature checks, but the return to crowded in-person events signaled a confident stride toward a new normal for Japan’s art scene.
Signs of life
Only the organizers of the Aichi Triennale really addressed the fact that the past three years had been ravaged by death and depression. The event, which ran straight from July through October, was curated under the theme “Still Alive.” Artistic director Mami Kataoka struck a somber chord in her welcome note: “During this particularly barren and unpromising period, all we have been doing for some time is groping in the dark.”
The theme’s title was inspired by a series by Aichi Prefecture native On Kawara. The renowned conceptual artist sent nearly 900 telegrams to friends and acquaintances over a 30-year period starting in 1970 with variants on the message, “I am still alive.” The sentiment on its own was playfully macabre, but became darker when the viewer considered three longer messages he sent previously to starting his project: “I am not going to commit suicide don’t worry”; “I am not going to commit suicide worry”; and “I am going to sleep forget it.” That he continued to affirm the fact of his existence over the next three decades underscored its tenuousness.
As one of the first works in the main exhibition space at the Aichi Arts Center in Nagoya, Kawara’s series set the tone for the triennale as both an expression of hope and a muted acknowledgment of the pandemic’s destruction: Millions of people around the world are unexpectedly no longer “still here.” (It could also read as a provocation; Aichi’s last triennale was marred by a controversy over free speech after a statue symbolizing wartime “comfort women” resulted in threats and caused the exhibit to close temporarily.)
Into nature
The past few years have seen creative processes and sensual experiences reduced to pixels. First, out of necessity, the pandemic produced an abundance of flat, glassy and smooth virtual interactions. Over this past year, one of the biggest art trends globally was the explosive rise of powerful artificial intelligence that can quickly make highly photorealistic and easily shareable illustrations. These art events, however, seem to stand in resistance; what made many of the works come alive was their scale, their textures and the way they played with their surroundings, all features lost as we’ve been glued to content on our phones.
Echigo-Tsumari Art Field, Niigata Prefecture, and the islands in the Setouchi Inland Sea, were broken up by season, and both brought art and nature into conversation. (That’s not a coincidence; general director Fram Kitagawa is behind both events.) A trip to these sites, which eschew the central gallery space that Aichi had at the heart of its festival, is really a journey. Festival-goers couldn’t log on or swipe through an online feed to experience these works; they had to move by land or by sea to explore these tiny nooks of Japan.
The outstanding works at Echigo-Tsumari really needed to be seen in person: Nawa Kohei’s “Force,” at the Museum on Echigo-Tsumari, begged to be consumed from different angles. Made of dramatic curtains of moving black paint, the piece bubbled, gurgled and even smelled. Meanwhile, the crowd-pleasing “Tunnel of Light,” by Mad Architects, while very photo-friendly, was also tactile and dynamic. Different works stretched across 750 meters of the Kiyotsu Gorge, with wide-sweeping views that changed with the seasons, and at the very end you could even walk on water. Christian Boltanski and Jean Kalman’s “The Last Class,” which covered an entire abandoned school, had pounding audio and flickering lights that felt like an asylum in a horror film, the specter of death following closely behind. Artworks elsewhere, like Tatsuo Kawaguchi's "Relation — Blackboard Classroom" and Junichi Kurakake’s “Shedding Time” were best experienced by touch, and Koichiro Azuma’s “Rotating Absence” invited participants to ride a bicycle.
Over at Setouchi Triennale, the region’s most Instagrammable work didn’t escape chaos.
Normally, Naoshima’s immensely popular Yayoi Kusama pumpkin sits flat and cartoon-like against the sea. Seeing its candy yellow gloss on social media is not particularly different from seeing it up close, except that in person you might have to queue to get your own selfie with the gourd. But 2022 was different. For most of the year, the sculpture was missing from its usual spot, having been ripped from its perch by a typhoon in August 2021. Until it was restored this October, its absence seemed to tease eager travelers, frustrating their plans by removing Naoshima’s most iconic view. This temporary shakeup to the pumpkin’s immutable veneer seemed to embody the will of God or represent an act of nature — or the lack of human foresight to prepare for either.
Elsewhere at the triennale, visitors were drawn into the site-specific: “Blown Through,” by Yuu Tetsura on Takamijima, was created from iron slats and allowed natural light to filter through the warped and bloated walls; for “Re:mind,” also on Takamijima, Akari Yamashita took over a Japanese-style house and stuffed bulging eyes and flayed creatures into its dark crevasses; “Songs From the Shore,” by Manal Al Dowayan on Ibukijima, showcased baskets that had been set on fire and put out in the nearby waters of the sea. Seeing the pieces in their “natural” habitats served as a reminder of all the things that can’t be captured in two-dimensional images.
Come together
In the early days of the pandemic when the news cycle was dominated by images of disease and despair, attention was fixed on the first responders, frontline workers and those most vulnerable to the urgent public health crisis. Artists and writers were left wondering a question that often comes up in times of war, tragedy and global crisis: What can art do?
Perhaps readers of this particular article don’t need to be convinced of the possibilities that art can offer. But I want to suggest that beyond the sublime and transformative powers inherent in being moved by a beautiful work, we also need art because it’s social. There’s a specific joy in watching other people look at art. Sometimes, there’s a long and searching gaze, the viewer’s head bent in concentration, then an actual “ah-ha!” moment. Or not: There’s also a shared feeling that can come from watching someone else give up, the rueful “I don’t get it” shrug followed by a brisk pivot to the next piece. After two years spent largely inside, I find I even have a new patience for the ridiculous dance of waiting for other people to finish posing for their artwork selfies.
For these particular Japanese art festivals, there’s one more crucial element. As government-funded revival projects, they’re also designed to bring tourism to remote areas and attract families and young people to places facing depopulation. Because art is also a business. And its return as part of the entertainment and tourism industries is a bit of hope for the renewal of economic activity. For this trio of triennales, it’s clear that art in all its forms can help people stay alive.
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