weekend recap, the kindness of strangers and a love for all things recycled and intricate

This St. Patrick's Day weekend was a wet one, but that didn't hinder a trip to Osaka to get a city fix. Only there for about 24 hours, it was a packed day and my appreciation for the kindness of strangers in Japan has been rekindled, along with my love of all (most) things Japanese.

If you know me well, you know that I come from a family of garage saler's, my father being the ring leader. I would estimate that a near 80% of our house in Berkeley is decorated and furnished with garage sale and antique store finds (though heavier on the former, mom and dad, feel free to dispute this estimate), though you would never guess it from looking at it. There is an art to garage sale-ing and my mother and father have pretty much nailed it. Therefore I have grown up with a love for and appreciation of furniture reborn, goods re-used and art rediscovered. One man's trash is another man's treasure; or in the case of the art exhibit that was the motivation for my trip north, one man`s trash is another man`s medium.

I found out about the small exhibit, "splash and flake" by Teppei Kaneuji through a weekly art email, artkrush.com (recommended) and so headed to Kodama Gallery pretty confident that I would have no trouble finding it, given the train line, stop and exit number. Reality proved otherwise. Being under no time constraints and spending the day solo, I didn`t mind the wandering the Osaka city streets, pretty much lost. But after about a half hour of covering the same three block radius, the rain became a nuisance and I knew that not finding this spot would weigh on me as Japan navigational incompetence. My mission to find this spot therefore intensified.

One thing I have come to know about Japan, and my sister can strongly join in on this opinion (once in Japan and having boarded the wrong train, she was, through the kindness of train officials, reunited with her friend miles away) that the people are very helpful (for the most part. Of course this is a generalization). So, in the spirit of this faith, I asked a few people where the Marujin building was (what I deciphered of my chicken scratch notes in my journal). The first was a cab driver who pulled out a map, but was not much help, I think I caught him in his path to lunch. The second had no idea where to begin with me, so I kept wandering, the rain getting heavier.

As I began to question my direction copying abilities as well as my pitiful sense of direction, I decided to hail down one more person. An artsy looking man, dressed in black with longish hair and a spider pendant necklace, who dragged a briefcase on wheels behind him, was my last attempt. He reminded me of family back home, though it had nothing to do with his dress. He also had no idea where the gallery was, nor the building where it was apparently housed. But, he brought me to a combini and there, we along with the store clerk stood hovered over a map of the area layed out on the counter. Sure enough the building was not labeled on the map. With no telephone number or address, I continued to feel unprepared, but sure enough, my new stranger guide called up information and got the number of the gallery and then proceeded to call there and get directions (turns out the building exists, but is not shown on the map). It truly is incredible how childlike you become when verbal language is cut off. I thanked the two men profusely and then the man in black walked me to my destination, claiming he was headed in that way anyways. I felt very taken care of, though helpless, but relieved to have arrived with daylight to spare.

It was no wonder the gallery was hard to find, being that it is one story big on the second floor of a pretty non-descript building next to a gas station. I was the only visitor and wandered through the three rooms slowly, enjoying the photograph collage pieces, pen drawings altered by water droplets and the intricate glued together wooden sculptures made from recycled materials. The quiet, solo investigations of the works was calming and I tiptoed through the space, as if to not wake the artist hidden within each one. Soon I was joined by one other visitor and as I left he remained, so as not to leave the exhibit completely alone.

The rest of the day was spent with a couple of friends, continuing to wander the streets for the most part aimlessly, in search of book stores and all things Japanese, like fake food shops, photo booths and comedy theatres. The night culminated in a fine Mexican meal, blueberry and mango margaritas and live music--American folk tunes. I managed to barely make it home on the last train, only due to more help from strangers, who keyed me in to the necessary transfers to make and cars to ride in order to get back to Gobo.