I travelled to Sri Lanka in 2018. It was a difficult time for me. While I did not suffer any financial hardship, it was the first time after 11 years of seemingly unstoppable career in private practice I became unemployed.
It was a debilitating experience. In this consumer capitalist society, we take our identity from how we make a living. Our self worth is measured by how productive we are. The main metric is how much money we make.
I clung to my identity as a lawyer like a flotation device. When I had to let it go, I sank. The profession which demanded much of me and given much to me was lost.
I travelled with this hanging anxiety. A blurry sense of self.
It’s true that you can’t escape your thoughts no matter where you go. At Ella’s Rock, I stepped closer to the edge. I was thinking of jumping. The idea of ending the mental sufferings in beautiful vistas seemed romantic.
But my self-preservation instinct kicked in despite bouts of nihilism.
Sri Lanka, a Buddhist country, is also a prime centre for meditation retreats. I had been thinking of starting meditation, but at that moment I knew it was urgent to start. Just like a serendipity, I found a copy of Hermann Hesse’s Siddartha in the bookshelf of Highest Peak Bungalow guest house in Nuwara Eliya.
South Asia is photogenic. However, I was not ready to brave the intensity of the second most populated country in the world. A friend recommended Sri Lanka. Smaller in size and population density.
India Lite.
The two South Asian countries, being neighbours, have had a rather tense relationship since ancient times. In the Ramayana myth, Lanka is the kingdom of giants. King Ravana kidnapped Queen Sita of Ayodiya (India). His husband, King Rama, waged war to reclaim her.
In modern times, tension between the ‘native’ Sinhaleses and the Tamil minorities–brought by the English colonists to work on tea plantations–is still present. Unlike their Commonwealth peer Singapore, which adopted English as lingua franca, the modern Ceylon insisted on Sinhalese to assert cultural primacy of the majority population.
The Sri Lankan people are not camera shy. In convention with the stereotype of South Asians, they were happy to pose. I may be guilty of voyeuristic exoticism, but I am genuinely interested in my subjects. Their willingness to trust me in recording a piece of their soul is something I do not take for granted. Some of them lend a helping hand to me as a traveller. I try to be a mirror when I am photographing: a magic mirror, reflecting with my sentiency–connecting, sharing a brief moment of shared time space.
I am sure that my subjects have their woes. Most of them are not as well off as me, economically. But in our interactions, we were both happy. Just to smile at each other. Maybe we distract each other’s miseries with our foreignness.
I read the news that Sri Lanka is bankrupt–the government is bankrupt. The economic collapse led to institutional collapse. I wonder how my subjects are now. I hope they are persevering.
Arkademy Project is a photography collective focusing on critical and reflective photography with an interdisciplinary approach. Translation: documentary, street, travel–human interest photography. My kind of genres.
I browsed their website, the mentors’ portofolio. I knew instantly that I wanted to join their tribe. These are the photographs I am drawn to; the photographs I want to make: not just aesthetically pleasing but also meditations on human experience.
To be a photographer as an intellectual and an artist.
I only had one day to curate and submit my photo series. I got the information two days before the deadline (from an Instagram post, sponsored). I was not sure if I’d get the award. I have made entries to photography competitions before. Never successful (rightfully, when I saw the winners).
I am not a professional photographer, but I am no dilettante. I am always wary of using the word ‘passion’. They have been overused by us, millennials. But I am passionate about photography.
I may not turn this into a profession. I don’t need to make money from it. Maybe I’d progress faster if I choose to make a living from photography. But this financial detachment makes me unencumbered by the ‘market demand’. Of course, I risk being too self indulgent.
I am glad that I decided to stay alive back in Sri Lanka. ‘To live the question’, as Rilke said. The photography scholarship is a tangible answer.
I have not yet been able to love myself in the way people without a complex PTSD can. I still feel the need to attach an identifier, labels, to myself. I just realised that those labels are not fixed and I can use more than one. I chose identities which are relevant to the situation present.
I would do photography despite not getting any award. But getting the photography scholarship, an external affirmation and recognition, feels nice.
The impostor syndrome within me asks: ‘Did I get the scholarship because I am good or because the other applicants are bad?’ I did ask how many applicants applied out of the selected 12 photographers: only 50.
However, when life gives you an opportunity you must seize it. It does not matter if the opportunity is a dumb luck.
When I met the other awardees and saw their submissions, I realised how competitive the selection was. I felt more inadequate. Most of them are younger than I yet their photographs show immense depths, which require maturity.
I knew that I’d learn a lot not just from the mentors, but also from fellow participants.
Kandy was the capital of the last Sinhalese kingdom. It felt like Yogyakarta: an impoverished aristocrat who has to sell her cultural assets to make ends meet.
Tuk tuk drivers swarmed us tourists freshly offloaded to the station’s platforms. I thought we’d be more incognito because we share common skin tone with Sri Lankans, but our rucksacks gave us away. Taxi service providers at tourists’ point of arrival or main sights are less honest. However, we needed their services. So we bargained with one who has been stalking us and agreed on a price (overcharged, but still in affordable Rupees) for transfer to our hostel Clock Inn.
Along the drive, the driver solicited city tour. We said we’ll think about it and he gave his number. We checked in, unpacked and rested a while in our room. When we went down to walk around the town, the driver was waiting at the lobby. He asked if we have made up our mind for the tour. We told him we want to explore the town on foot first and left the hostel.
He was still there when we returned. Asked us again. This happened for several days. He intercepted us whenever we were passing at the lobby. His persistence was a reminder of the low season.
Kandy’s economy is supported by tourism. We got scammed more in Kandy than Colombo. One time we hailed a tuk tuk, agreed on Rs 200 fare but the driver stopped halfway when the road started going uphill. He ‘negotiated’ for additional Rs 200 (that old negotiation trick always work).
Being scammed is a part of travel experience and, unless you are negligent or unlucky, most of the time they are harmless (except for your ego). But the money lost to the scammers often deprived me of small changes for tipping the helpful local service providers.
The main sight in Kandy is Sri Dalada Maligawa, the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple. Lord Buddha’s tooth—said to be taken from Gotama’s funeral pyre—is stored in its inner sanctum. Whoever hold possession of the relic has the divine right to rule to the island.
The Portuguese claimed to have destroyed the heathen artefact in the 16th century. A claim contested by the Sinhalese: it was only the replica which was destroyed by the Catholic colonisers. Like a piece of True Cross or stock market valuation, it does not matter whether the sacred object is true as long as it is believed as true.
Every dusk a grandiose ritual is held at the temple. Traditional drums and blowpipes and conch shell musical instruments accompanied the monks in the procession worshipping the tooth. A stunning spectacle for photography and videography.
Puja of the Sacred Tooth Relic
However, it masked something hollow.
The temple has collections of paintings with self-righteous and holier than thou narratives equal to Biblical stories. Stories about how an evil king was vanquished for his faithlessness. Posters on Buddhism as the only religion consistent with modern science (astrophysics) because of its views and teachings on how the universe started with Nothingness.
I could not articulate such impression until I read Hermann Hesse’s Singapore Dreams. The sophistication of Buddhism philosophy was reduced to primitive idol worship. The proselytising Buddhism feels like another Abrahamic religion. An exclusive faith with a petty jealous god.
The Buddha Tooth reminded me that no spiritual discipline are immune from mutating to organised religions (as I have been warned by Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha). I wanted to shake off the bad aftertaste, so I went to the Buddhist Publication Society. The English books collections are limited. I got a pamphlet “Information about Meditation Centers in Sri Lanka Year 2013”.
I have always been interested on Oriental Meditation. Sri Lanka is a prime destination for meditation retreats. However, the pamphlet warned that meditation centres, the ashrams, offer basic meals (twice a day vegan diet) and bare lodgings (some even with no electricity).
A friend tried a silent meditation retreat in Thailand. Meditators were instructed not to speak or even write for two weeks. He felt refreshed after that. I wonder whether it’d be good for me? I am aware of the power of silence; the banality and the detriments of talking too much (as Mario Puzo, and Francis Ford Coppola, taught me in The Godfather). However, isolation and excommunication are also effective interrogation techniques to mentally break a subject. With my extraversion, the silent meditation may have adverse effects.
I have never meditated at that time. I’d better start somewhere less hardcore than plunging myself in those meditation retreats. I bought The Attention Revolution, a step by step meditation manual. It articulates well the how to, but I realised I will need to practice the manual as meditation is not just a conceptual exercise. There is a physical exercise involved, and I will need to be guided during such session.
My references on Oriental meditation is so Eurocentric, translations of Westerners studying under the tutelage of Asian masters. I have never read Dalai Lama or Thich Nhat Hanh. Not that the East-West label matters at all in this endeavour. However, as an Asian living in Asia, I had to travel all the way to the West to discover the Eastern Wisdom. But it has been a privilege to be initiated to the Western Rationalist approach. It infused me with a dose of skepticism which help me avoid that cultish herd mentality.
Kandy is the home of Sri Lanka’s modern artist Helga de Silva, the one memorialised by Sterophonics with their song ‘Madame Helga’. Her mansion, Helga’s Folly, is an art gallery and a hotel (the band stayed there, thus the song). The theme: surrealism. Helga imagines what if Salvador Dali, Brothers Grimm, and Lewis Caroll were flatmates. The rooms are mishmash of taxidermied animals, skulls, Mad Hatter’s tea party, murals, melted wax and candles, mirrors and shards of glass, pygmies, painted walls and windows.
Helga’s Folly living room by @adindaaditha
The mansion was empty when we visited. We only met two members of the staff, the receptionist and the resident curator. We were the only guests. With the mansion’s secluded location on a hilltop posh residential area, we felt like Chihiro in Spirited Away. We had two pints of Lion Lager; do what 21st century tourists do: photographing and posing for the Gram.
I read framed newspaper clippings on Helga’s privileged lineage: she was a Dior model; her brother, Sir George Desmond de Silva, QC., a barrister of Middle Temple, was the UN Chief War Crimes Prosecutor in Sierra Leone; her father and grandfather were prominent Sri Lankan politicians.
The first Sri Lankan I met in person was Harsha Fernando. He is a professional negotiator. He negotiated on behalf of Sri Lankan government with the Tamil Tiger (whom he described as the most reasonable negotiation counterpart despite their reputation as violent killers). Harsha also represented Sri Lankan tea plantation owners in negotiations with their workers (in which he advised them not to act like ancient raj, develop a relationship strategy with the most important people in their business, people with whom they share mutual interests the most: the workers). I took his interest-based negotiation workshop in 2015 (one of the best courses I took in my life, a hands on workshop for Fisher and Uri’s Getting to Yes).
‘Fernando’ or ‘de Silva’ are not Sankrit-Sinhalese or English names. Ceylon was a Portuguese colony before the British took over. The Sri Lankans with Portuguese surnames are of mixed descent, members of the country’s elites.
We heard that Kandy Esala Perahera Festival is a magnificent ten days procession with dancers and elephants marching in extravagant colourful ornaments. However, they are held around July or August. The only way to see a tease of the said festival is at the Kandy Lake Club. It was a quick course of Kandyan performing arts sans the elephants—which saved us from the ethical dilemma considering the cruel domestication methods and what they have to endure for the parade.
We visited the Garrison Cemetery, a burial ground for British soldiers as well as the empire’s accompanying colonisers located next to the St. Paul’s Church, a neo-gothic red bricks colonial era house of worship. We met with the caretaker Mr Carmichael. He was wearing a rubber flip flops when we met him, but speaks with Queen’s English. He guided Prince Charles in his visit to Sri Lanka. An official thank you letter from the Prince of Wales is framed in the cemetery’s office.
Lonely Planet said the caretaker is a wonderful storyteller. He’d tell the life stories of the denizens of the cemetery. However, he assigned his nephew to guide us. The barefooted apprentice caretaker, albeit speaks in second-tongue English like us, did well in telling stories. I took their photograph, I promised to send it by email to them. The caretaker is not familiar with internet. While his nephew only understands Facebook.
Many underprivileged people in South and Southeast Asia skipped the early internet age of emails and blogs—that time when you needed a personal computer to go online instead of affordable handheld devices. No wonder Zuckerberg wanted to provide free internet for rural India, it was Facebook’s philanthropic and commercial opportunity to dominate the internet in a land of billion users.
On the way to the church and cemetery, we walked through Deva Veedya where the local lawyers have their offices in Victorian buildings The street of gods is the street of lawyers and these Kandyan colleagues maintain the antiquity: no computers on their desk, just typewriters. I can’t imagine drafting my court submissions or contracts without digital word processor; no room for typo errors and reformatting. No wonder among the rows of law offices, typists still offer their services.
Street of gods, street of lawyers
Our favourite restaurant in Kandy is the Empire Cafe near the Temple. They serve both Sri Lankan and western foods—of which I always chose the former being a rice boy. We became friendly with a charming enthusiastic waiter.
A few months after our trip to Sri Lanka, he texted me. He lost his job at the Empire Cafe because, he said, he organised a tour for a group of Spaniards but they didn’t pay. He was struggling without a job. He was reconstructing his family home to a guesthouse to make a living. He needed money and asked if I, as his ‘friend’, can help sponsor him.
It was awkward to receive such request, but I remind myself that it’s easy to dismiss money matters as vulgar when you’re not poor. I wanted to help, but I don’t like being cheated too—I have not reached Siddharta’s non-attachment. So I asked further details. I didn’t know if he was avoidant in providing the detailed answers or unable to do so due language barrier. I was not convinced to help him.
We arranged direct transfer from Kandy to Bandaranaike International Airport in Katunayake (despite coded as CMB, Sri Lanka’s main international airport is not in Colombo). It was 8 hours drive. The van has no air-conditioner. We shared the ride with Norwegian and Belgian surfer girls. They just finished their surfing camp.
The driver is a Sri Lankan muslim (he told me and asked if I am; it is not intrusive to ask a stranger about his faith in Sri Lanka). He wanted to find work in Singapore and asked me how to do so. I told him just check the official ICA website. Singapore is a first world, official information is reliable.
Why he asked about Singaporean immigration to an Indonesian?
He made several stops, which may or may not be scheduled. Got lost and insisted to drop us first to the airport despite the itinerary was to transport the girls to their hostel then to the airport. We checked our Google map, the hostel is on the way to the airport.
My wife told me we should stick to our original itinerary. I was the only male passenger in the van. It’d be safer for the girls.
The driver complied when we all asked to go to the hostel first. The girls got to their hostel and we still had plenty of wait time when we arrived at the airport.
Were we being paranoid? Maybe the stops and the detours were innocent?
We hired a lady driver from Galle to Ella. Sami told us that Sri Lankan men are not aggressive like in India. She feels safe driving long distance. Indeed, Sri Lankans are approachable and helpful. A young man in Colombo escorted us to the bus stop when we asked which bus to take. If you’re a photographer, they’d be happy to pose for you and not too concerned with western concept of privacy.
Erik Prasetya photographs Jakarta with a Leica M. Cartier-Bresson, Salgado, and a long list of Magnum photographers’ works testified its prowess. The original rangefinder camera. Classic timeless design with the iconic red dot (or subdued, if you don’t want to announce ‘expensive camera’).
I have always had a crush with the M since I saw Blood Diamond; Jennifer Connelly wielding the M among hard men with Kalashnikovs and Armalites. I may never cover an armed conflict, but I practice photography the most when I am travelling.
Rangefinders are the happy medium between size and performance. Bigger firepower than smartphones, smaller than DSLRs. The ergonomics of a real camera is always better for making pictures. Smartphones’ features are distracting. When you’re travelling, you want to save your phone battery for navigating—and posting those pictures.
Never a best value camera. M’s lack of auto-focus at that price point was a deal breaker for me, a mere photography enthusiast.
Settled with the poor man’s Leica, Fuji X100T. Not exactly a rangefinder, a premium point and shoot. Beautiful retro (Leica-like) design with a pancake lens equivalent to 35mm and f2.0 aperture—an ideal street photography camera. Attached Lensmate’s thumb-rest and red lizard soft release button for better stability and look.
My EOS 6D and X100T are all that I need for travel photography. I have realised that when a picture is not good enough, it’s usually because you’re not close enough. Bang Bang Club. I use 50mm and 35mm lenses.
I was a contented traveler-photographer. Until the pandemic.
In the last months of 2020, I was demoralised—perhaps even depressed. I was burning out from the dullness of isolated days. I was running out of my resiliency in enduring the pandemic days. I found it hard to finish books I am reading, to choose which film to watch, or even to decide where to eat when dining out.
I wanted to write a New Year post. Something about surviving 2020. I had so much insights from 10 months of ‘house-arrest’. But I was unable to find the words. I sat and stare at the blank word processor page. When I force-typed the words, they were vapid.
I tried photographing my neighbourhood: potholed and cat shitted roads; government or community sponsored banners with vapid jargons (‘Bersama kita lawan COVID-19’); rows of ruko(shophouses) housing SMEs with alay copywriting: ‘Alpucok’ (alpukat kocok), ‘Kedai Netizen’. Digital images are extremely low cost to make and store, but they are not even worth to be captured.
Naturally, I was not alone. Even creative professionals felt similar burnout. My London host brother, Adithio Noviello, lost interests in photography—a career threat for him. He decided to return to film photography. He picked up his old Bronica ETRSi and started shooting again. He said analog photography allowed him to slow down, to savour more the process of making a picture.
Photography as therapy.
Iyo’s posts piqued my interest in analog photography. In pre-pandemic times, it felt senseless to revert back to impractical photographic equipment when you can spend your resources for travel.The subjects and the environment are always the more decisive factors in making a picture than your kits.
But I needed something novel to stimulate my mind. Thus begin my research.
I never used a medium format camera like Iyo’s Bronica. My search got me to Negative Feedbackrecommending Mamiya 7 and Romanas Naryškin’s review on Mamiya RZ67. Mamiya 7 seems to be better suited for travels, but you’d shoot from your chest with RZ67—allowing you to make better eye contact with your subjects.
Romanas reminded his readers that taking picture with analog camera will not make you a better photographer, but it will make you take pictures in a different way. He admits the impracticality of shooting with RZ67. It is a choice he made with heart, not head.
I spent weeks ruminating on the compactness of Mamiya 7 and the shooting experience of RZ67. However, when I saw the price of 120mm film rolls, I decided to start with 35mm.
The cheapest way is to use my father’s Nikkormat again. But I want a small format camera that I’d take when travelling. Negative Feedback recommended Minolta TC-1, a point and shoot with 28mm lens. It is not available in Indonesia. Another problem: it’s so hipster (try searching ‘#minoltatc-1’).
My further search led to ‘the best camera ever made’. Sounds heavy for a 1954 technology, but it’s a Leica. After watching Youtube videos and reading blogs about the M3, I knew that she’s the one. I have always been in love with the M after all.
Yet, I was worried that I won’t make good pictures; that I would be wasting money. What if this craving for analog photography is just a phase? Will I actually want to travel with a film camera, risking missed shots of priceless moments? 36 unreviewable-undeletable shots with full manual control seems to require so much skill.
The M3 does not have a built-in lightmeter. If I rely on my current light reading skills or the rule of the average from Kodak Pocket Guide to 35mm Photography, the learning curve would have large error margins (costly in terms of money and, worse, moments). Leicameter seems to be a complicated apparatus. Most modern lightmeters’ designs are not aesthetically compatible with the M3 design.
Thankfully, KEKS EM01 is an easy to use digital lightmeter. Its compact minimalist box shaped design is compatible with the M3’s. The hot/cold shoe attachment, unfortunately, is flimsy white plastic.
I found the justification for the acquisition of the M3 from Jillfit’s post (‘It takes a lot of courage to be willing to suck at something’) and Michael Ramage’s (‘Do something for yourself this year, get better at something…old. Find yourself again’). Digital cameras are my comfort zone photography, analog camera will drive me out of it.
So I went to Joelcam. They had two M3s for sale: a single stroke and a double stroke shutter release lever. The double stroke is the older version, more ‘vintage’ (I checked the serial numbers on f22cameras.com, the double stroke was made in 1955; the single 1962). Function wise, double stroke can better prevent accidental shutter release. Conversely, you can lost milliseconds for readying the shutter release.
The double stroke’s body is in better conditions. The single stroke has more wear and tear. I don’t mind cosmetic wear and tear as long as the camera works; the weathered look also gives that vintage feel (and makes it cheaper).
Arifin of Joelcam made his sales pitch: more and more photographers are turning to analog. Investment wise, analog camera price is not as depreciative as digital. He didn’t really need to pitch the M3. The moment I walked to the store, I already made my decision.
The M3 viewfinder is designed for 50mm lens. I’d love to get a Leica lens—the Summicron, Summarit, or Summilux. But I thought it is best to start with something cheaper: the Voigtlander Nokton 50mm f1.2.
Leica M3 with Voigtlander Nokton 50mm f1.2 and KEKS EM01 Lightmeter
Joelcam gave me a complimentary Kodak Gold 200 roll film. It became my first roll for my M3.
I walked out the store with the M3 single stroke. Anxious and excited, like successfully asking a lady for a first date. Hoping everything will work out yet knowing everything could be a disappointment. Downloaded and consulted the manual, watched video on how to load the film roll.
The M3 is heavier than it looks. The shutter speed options are limited from B to 1/1000. I never had to compensate the viewfinder parallax before. I was worried that I would only get a few good pictures or none at all. Dropped my first film roll at Rana Lab when finished it. A few hours later, the developed results were emailed to me.
Dapit the Builder (Kodak Gold 200)
I am glad that my success rate in making good pictures is not bad at all, especially for first time user. Matt Day is right. The Nokton produces visible vignetting in low light conditions. However, it is a great lens with good value.
The M3 is the first camera with which I do photography for the sake of photography. I read that the M3 is not a camera for working professionals but for artists. I am not at the level of an artist, but I am not a working professional. The fully mechanical functions and minimalist features, as well as the delayed gratification of seeing the results, allow me to enjoy again the thrill of shutter clicking and the excitement of anticipations. No white balance setting, no ISO adjustments. Just shutter speed, aperture, and focus.
My choice of the negative have direct and almost unalterable impact to the images. I found joy in experimenting with the negatives. After the Kodak Gold, I tried film rolls from a Ciamis firm, Lapan Film Lab: the BW400 and Cine200. They are half the price of established brands. My verdict: very grainy and inconsistent exposures in low light. The hidden costs of missing moments can be larger than expected. In anyway, I’m a Leica owner. I should be able to afford the investment of better (pricier) negatives.
Mini Cooper (Lapan BW400)
I am glad that I didn’t decide on Minolta TC-1. A point and shoot would have lessened my photography experience. If I am only looking for the analog look on the images, I could have used one of those filter apps.
I want my skills to match the fine apparatus I am using. I researched on black and white photography books. The first authoritative name appeared from my research is Ansel Adams, the father of straight photography, I acquired his trilogy The Camera; The Negative; and the Print, which unfortunately are too technical so I only skimmed them. Still, I was enlightened of my ignorance on many photography terms (and even the existence of large format cameras).
I bought Lambrecht’s Way Beyond Monochrome. The book focuses on developing and printing film. Too advanced for someone who have only loaded fewer than 10 film rolls in his adult life.
The references section, however, is a map to gold mines. Sontag’s On Photography is on the top of ‘Art, Perception, Composition, and Lighting.’ But another unfamiliar name kept reappearing: Mortensen, William. His books The Command to Look and The Model are mentioned as the classics.
I followed the rabbit down the hole.
Command is a book on how to make an impactful image with the anti-thesis of the straight (purist) photography. Adams dubbed Mortensen as the Anti-Christ and used his influence to exile Mortensen from the mainstream photography. Mortensen approach is to engineer a photograph in such a way using psychological nudges to make the viewer look, see, and enjoy.
The ‘pictorial imperatives’ constitute of shapes/patterns associated with our primal fear as well as universally appealing themes. The shapes/patterns are diagonals, S-curves, triangles, and dominant mass. While the themes are sex, sentiment, and wonder. Mortensen’s ‘pictorial imperatives’ are Roland Barthes’ ‘punctures’ in Camera Lucida.
Mortensen’s formula for two dimensional visual arts was adopted by Anton Szander LaVey in creating the rituals for the Satanic Church—rituals are aimed to satisfy the carnal desires of men and women, employing psychodrama theatrics which are often sensual and terrorising (like in Eyes Wide Shut).
LaVey’s The Devil’s Notebook feels like Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil or Hesse’s Demian, but with pagan carnivals. Perhaps, Satan is Abraxas. Satanism is not really about worshipping Satan or eating babies. It’s an alternative to mainstream religions and consumerism herd mentality. An atheistic philosophy of individualism based on responsible pursuit of pleasures.
I was a sixteen year old high school kid, sitting on a bench of a warung on a Saturday night; waiting for my friends who have cars to pick me up to party at one of the live music cafes in Kemang (was it Barbados?). The proprietor sat beside me, smoking a clove cigarette. He inhaled and exhaled nicotine and tar fumes. Contented in cancerous indulgence. He was illuminated by a dangling incandescent lightbulb powered by stolen electricity from the streetlights.
I wished I had a camera and the photography skills to take his portrait.
I couldn’t afford to pursue photography yet that time. But what really prevented me was Dazed and Confused teenage life. Gaining approval from my peers was more important. Spent my pocket money on cellphone credits, internet cafes, fast fashion, marijuana and cheap liquors (which tasted so bad you’d have to mix them). Got into a gang, but not a band; soft drugs and violence, but no sex other than masturbations.
Now.
I am reading books, on photography and other topics.
Yayoi Kusama and her polkadot pumpkins may be the most popular reason to visit Naoshima, a sleepy fishing island in Seto Inland Sea; face-lifted— soul-lifted—as modern art haven by Benesse Art Site. However, the true master of the island is Tadao Ando. A self taught architect with brutalist signature style: with concrete, metal, and wood as materials. Ando designed three grand art museums on the shoreline of the island: the Benesse House, the Lee Ulfan, and the Chichu Museums. There is also a little museum bearing his name, the Ando Museum—an old traditional Japanese house which inner-space is converted to Ando’s modern style.
Benesse Art House shoreline
Navigation
Naoshima’s main sights are scattered in three areas: Honmura, Miyanoura, and Benesse House Area. The island is compact enough for a day trip. However, we spent a night to better explore the island.
Accommodation and transportation options in the island are limited (or I should say, “curated”).
You can either walk, cycle, or take the cute polkadot public bus (100 yen flat fare) to get around. Cycling will give you the best flexibility: fast enough to catch up with your schedule yet slow enough to feel the surroundings. You can stop anywhere; not being dependant on bus stops’ timetable (although, like everywhere in Japan, the buses are punctual to the minute). Some of the bicycles for rent are electric powered if you want to pedal less. Since my partner can’t ride a bicycle, we walked and took the bus.
For accommodation, we took the word of our bible Lonely Planet. The Top Choice recommendations are Benesse House (it’s also a luxury hotel) and Tsutsujiso Lodge (a campsite). We chose Tsutsujiso for being budget friendly and the novelty of staying in a caravan (for larger group, yurts are available). The bathroom of the caravan is converted into a luggage store. There is a dedicated building for shower and toilet facility. You have to pay extra for hot shower, but we took bath in I Heart Yousento (public bath) anyway. We took Tsutsujiso’s breakfast and dinner packages for practicality. The meals are of high standards. We had sukiyaki for dinner. In the morning, I opted Japanese breakfast of rice, natto, and miso soup (rice boy forever!). My partner had continental breakfast.
Coffee, concrete, and sunlight. Buses, bicycles, and sento.
We entered the island through Honmura Port in the afternoon (took a speedboat from Uno Port near Okayama city of Honshu, the Japanese main island). Deposited our luggages at the town office (if you have not acquired the printed version of Naoshima Area Map, you can get one here) then explored the Honmura area. Our itinerary: the Art House Project, modern art installations in traditional Japanese houses.
But first, we needed to have lunch. We went to Cafe Salon Nakaoku, a relatively hidden cafe in the outskirts of Honmura, for the omurice (rice omelette) and coffee. It has that Showa atmosphere, complete with old box-shaped Japanese made Alexander Graham Bell cup receiver model telephone unit. We were seated on the bar, made the time to read after meal. And plan.
The first Art House Project we visited was Minamidera which houses James Turrel’s “Backside of the Moon”. We took a queue ticket for our time slot. When it our group’s turn to enter, we were ushered inside the house. It was dark inside. Light and noise discipline was enforced, we were instructed to wait in silence. Slowly, we could see a big white screen in front of us. My mind initial association was we were in a cinema and there were rows of seats in front of us. We were then instructed to walk and explore, I found out that the room was actually empty and the white screen is a window to a Zen sand garden with no ornament.
We were told that the light in the room never changed, but our eyes adapted to the low light—thus we could see the “white screen”. I understood the biology and the physics, but what fascinated me most was the psychology. My association of darkened room, where I was seated with strangers, is of a cinema (I love films). It was a positive association and I am glad for it. Maybe someone with traumatic experience would associate the room with something darker.
The other houses we visited were Kadoya/Tatsuo Miyajima’s “Sea of Time”, “Naoshima’s Counter Window”, and “Changing Landscape”; Gokaisho by Yoshihiro Suda; and Haisha/Shinro Otake’s “Dreaming Tongue”.
One thing I note of these modern artworks in Naoshima is that they are art for art’s sake. Indulging the senses, allowing the consumer (me) to contemplate their existence. They are objects of bourgeois humanism. The artworks are not art that was “created dangerously”—art for political purposes, as Camus asked artists to do—like Yoko Ono’s “Refugees Boat” and Ai Wei Wei’s “Odyssey” in Catastrophe and the Power of Art Exhibition at Mori Art Museum Tokyo.
Modern art, for me, is fun since they are free of interpretations. I can be shallow and superficial in perceiving and enjoying them, such as taking pictures with them (but never selfie—I still have a certain degree of self respect). I can create my own personal narrative and express my associations when reflecting on the artworks.
Inserting myself to Kazuo Katase’s “Drink a Cup of Tea”.
However, it is still important to understand the artists’ and other people’s interpretation. Ideas are memetic and it can only expand if copied, exchanged. Naoshima’s artworks main narrative, I read, is about coexistence between humans and nature as well as critics against the vapidity of consumerist society. I think it’s paradoxical to see bourgeois artworks, delivered by a corporation, protesting the diseases of capitalism. Of course, “paradox” only exist if I see things as binary, black and white. In Netflix’s Une Fille Facile (An Easy Girl), a billionaire who also invests in art claims he is an anarchist. Anarchist don’t care about money; it is easier to not care about money if you’re rich.
Lonely Planet rated Project Art House as Top Choice. While they are great, I think Chichu Art Museum deserves more of such rating. I did not know who Tadao Ando is or even the term “brutalist” when I first came to Naoshima. My first impression of Chichu reminded me of the Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum in Berlin. It looks like James Bond’s supervillain’s secret headquarter; felt like entering Cloud Atlas’ Sonmi scenes or The Matrix. The architecture is designed to adopt natural lights, therefore different weather will give visitors different experience. Ours was cloudy and rainy. The atmosphere was somber but I was ecstatic. The coldness and the barrenness—the brutal simplicity—seem to stir my consciousness; that feeling when you feel “at home”.
The subsequent exploration of the island was hazy. I consumed—no, I was consumed by—art. It is difficult to compartmentalise my experience in a linear timeline, but I remember the clarity of a life fully lived for that brief moment. Claude Monet’s Water Lilies paintings and the brutalist impression of a Spanish neighbourhood “Time/Timeless/No Time” are in Chichu. But in which museum I saw the “Banzai Corner” installation—Ultramen and Ultrawomen rising hands to the sky, the traditional Japanese salutation to the Emperor, lined up as a constellation of red-silver (the colours of Ultraman) dots creating a perfect circle? “The World Flag Ant Farm”? “100 Live and Die”? Where did we stopped for a coffee and lunch and bought a miniature “Shipyard Works: Cut Bow and Stern with Hole” from the gachapon vending machine?
Some of the installations, such as Turrel’s “Open Field”, require visitors to take off their shoes before entering. All require respectful silence as when one enters an Oriental shrine, a temple, or a mosque.
Photography is not allowed inside the museums and most indoor areas. Flying drones in the island is also prohibited. This is to promote enjoyment of the art. Social media has made many of us experience life with Instagram eye. The artworks in Naoshima are mostly three dimensional, one need to be there in person to savour them. (There are, of course, commercial reasons to prohibit photography: intellectual property protection and exclusivity. Fewer images present on the internet gives the island the aura of a Secret Garden; nudging people’s curiosity to come spending their yens in the island.)
My legs were sore from walking and bus hopping. The tiredness helped induce a transcendent state of mind. After dinner at Tsutsujiso, we had time to catch a bus to Miyanoura and took a bath at I Heart You sento. A few days before I experienced traditional onsen bath at Iwaso Ryokan in Miyajima, where wood is the main element in subdued colours exterior and interior design. I Heart Yu is the contemporary opposite: neon coloured plastic dominates. The exterior looks like a brothel. The men’s changing room is decorated with Middle Eastern illuminations of Turkish bath and clippings of retro 60s-70s advertisements. A life size elephant statue stands on the wall dividing the men’s and women’s baths.
I was the only gaijin that night. I read that many foreign tourists are reluctant to experience Japanese communal bath. The idea to be bare naked with other men is so alien to many cultures, especially Asian. I grew up in a home and a culture with strict views on sexual taboos. I also have a body image issue; I always worry if I look good enough. I am self-conscious being topless, even at the beach or by the pool; I take off or put on my underwear under the cover of towel in gym changing room. I am still shy being naked in front of my intimate partner (unless I am with erection). However, I Heart Yu was not my first nudist bathing: I went to a sento bath with my brother in Kyoto (awkward—we had not seen each other naked as adults) and shared onsen with my coworkers in a hotel under Mount Fuji for an office outing (super awkward—there was my boss). So I was more relaxed. I soaked in the hot water, feeling the release of tense muscles, and enjoyed the atmosphere. I observed other patrons of the bath (not staring): a guy has bushy hairs on his legs and pubic areas, but smooth like a dolphin on his upper body; an old man’s wrinkled flat ass seems to foretell how I will look in my senior years (if I live long enough).
My Norwegian friend told me that communal shower was common in his school year. It taught that bodies come in different shapes and sizes, not just the advertising driven standards of beauty. Only few people can have that Hollywood chiseled six pack abs. Also, nudity is not always about sex. I guess onsen and sento are a good way to to rewire my mind on body image issues.
I was the only one with tattoos. Many sento and onsen still refuse entry to people with tattoos. The body art is associated with the yakuza. However, I Heart Yu welcomes tattoos. Rather than imposing corporeal restrictions, the place only refuse entry to “members of an organised crime”.
Watching the steams and the water droplets condensing on the ceiling , knowing well I was protected from the cold of a winter night, ended the day with the satisfaction of an exploration. I Heart You is also designed by Otake. It is run by locals with a day job; they make sure the bath is always clean and the water temperature constant. I was grateful to them all for such a fine intimately indulging establishment.
We waited for the last bus to Tsutsujiso at Shioya Diner, a vintage rock ’n roll themed eathouse. We had a great night sleep in our caravan from the calmness brought by a hot bath and hot sake.
I Heart Yu sento
The sun was shining bright on our second day in Naoshima. Making the island and the modern artworks, both exterior of buildings and outdoor installations ripe for photography. The walk around the Benesse House was pleasant and made me glad I was alive. I know it is a privilege to contemplate on my existence. Sentiency is a burden, but it is also a gift. I think art helps me to appreciate the fact that I am a thinking animal.
We left the island by ferry from Miyanomura Port, where Yayoi Kusama’s Red Pumpkin greet and bid farewell to the visitors of the island. I wanted to take a photograph of it, but decided against it because there were too many tourists taking pictures of the installation. People began to flock the island for the Christmas Eve, we got our timing right to come before. So I just waited at the waiting area.
I heard Christmas carols, but sung in Japanese. It was the local choir, some of them are senior local citizens. Christianity remains a cult in this archipelago despite its popularity elsewhere. During the Toyotomi and Tokugawa period, the Kiristan were persecuted. I remember a short story set in feudal Japan by Ryunosuke Akutagawa “Dr. Ogata Ryosai: Memorandum”:
A Christian mother begged a Buddhist doctor to treat her sick and dying daughter. The doctor refused to treat her because she vilified non-Christians, including the doctor, as heretics and devil worshippers. Medicine is a merciful art, but the doctor was afraid of the punishment of his gods and Buddhas. Therefore, unless the mother renounces her Christian faith, he could not examine her daughter. The mother gave in; she renounced Jesus and stepped on her kurusu (cross necklace). However, the daughter died even after receiving medical treatment. She was furious and frustrated because she believes that she will not be able to go to heaven to meet her daughter when she dies.
How burdensome can faith be.
The Japanese rendition of Silent Night and other Christmas songs are a testament to the beauty of modern democratic society: the freedom of belief (and unbelief). Too bad the roar of oncoming boat’s engine obscured the choir.
We boarded the ferry. I stayed on the observation deck, watched the Naoshima’s landscape until it was out of sight. The winter wind chill sent me back to the passengers’ cabin.
Post trip notes
Now I know why I am fascinated by East Asia, specifically Japan. Hermann Hesse in Singapore Dreams posit that Asia represents paradise lost: the primeval forests; the primitive civilisations; and the superstitions represent something childlike and innocent (as opposed to European enlightenment’s rationalism, materialism, and industrialism).
The discontent arising from excess consumerism, the existential crisis caused by the newfound prosperity—the spiritual deprivation from the unveiling dogma by scientific knowledge; the status anxiety brought by the so-called meritocratic capitalist society—make modern persons fall to the golden age syndrome. Idealising simpler way of lives, ergo the exoticism of the Orient and the European obsession to the classics.
Japan is industrialised and modern. They have understood the need to preserve their ancient heritage, but they do not overly romanticised it. The East Asians are not apologetic to progress. They refused to satisfy the Western stereotypes of “traditional” cis “primitive” Asian people. Adopting capitalism and consumerism with glee. Therefore, suffering similar maladies: inequality, alienation, isolation, and the general meaninglessness of existence.
Many Asians, therefore, also seek refuge in Oriental Spiritualism. However, the line between spiritual and supernatural are thin and obscure. People who are anti-Old Age religions and suspicious to New Ageism (like me) tend to be skeptical to metaphysical claims. Yet I cannot deny that there is an existential—no, a survival—urgency to give meaning; to make life worth living and to make sense of our experience. Modern art gives that spiritual fulfilment without the need to make or submit to any metaphysical claims; enjoyable even without exerting my reasoning faculty (cf. philosophy).
Something changed inside me after my visit to Naoshima. It was a secular pilgrimage to a non-religious holy site. The prophets and saints and gods of atheism are philosophers, artists, and scientists. Ando is the pontifex maximus of the Naoshima “sacred” island. To borrow from Koil’s Mendekati Surga lyrics, he is “the architect who baptises consciousness”.
