Japan 2011, the beginning:

2011

March 3

I’m an artist planning to visit Tokyo in April, in my wheelchair. I use images and words to explore, through my Disabled Gaze, relationships, social positioning and the psychological impact of the unseen exclusion (for example when steps or platforms are used as a metaphor)

I also work with other disabled artists and am currently preparing Phase 2 of Testing the Edges (Phase 1 being an action research project funded by Arts Council England, exploring and documenting what disparate groups of disabled artists might have in common and who the audience might be for their work).

Phase 2 uses the research conclusions and resulting questions to explore and document possibilities for integration of disabled and non-disabled people in creating and presenting an interactive performance piece. It will also research possibility of the informed audience and issues around the economic viability of Disability Arts.

Not speaking Japanese, but wanting to be able to access Disability Arts in Tokyo, I am attempting to find places to visit and possibly people to contact

Breaking. The word has become familiar to me. I see it every day; I don’t always notice it, but have a subconscious awareness that it is there. It has acquired an association with the brownish-orange colour and the marching line of alphabetic ants that accompany it – somewhere between the menu-bar and the headline article on the BBC News website that is my homepage.

Breaking; the significance of the word has never attacked me before. Breaking News: it is good to know what’s going on in the world and so instantly. Except that this news is personal. This breaking is the earthquake in Japan and the tsunami warning. It affects Tokyo where I have a loved one.

SP lives and works in the Japanese capital, he has been there four years and is familiar with life there. The implications of Breaking… hit hard; the horrendous possibilities of this particular Breaking… tear into me, sending my mind into turmoil.

The email that pings in from Tokyo reassures me that he is safe. His workplace is shaken, but not broken. The workforce has been sent home, transport is not working but SP lives close enough to his work to make this possible. His home appears safe. I would speak to him, but he keeps breaking up. Reception around the work building is poor.

Earthquakes, tsunami and the unseen threat of radiation; we may not be in the aftermath yet, but jargon is slipping into my conversation.

“Brown-outs” are a big concern. Japan relies heavily on nuclear power and being without electricity is already a problem. Power to communicate; power to produce, store and prepare food and water; power to rescue, to repair and rebuild; power is key to survival and recovery.

I reflect on my earlier use of “meltdown” to describe something that happens to me. I acknowledge that my own personal “meltdown” bears no relationship to the one that is possibly threatening Japan. It is hard to take in the enormity. I cannot immediately relate to the death tolls, the reports of injury.

How soon can Japanese power production return to necessary levels? Japan and indeed the commercial world depends on it. And how accessible will this crippled be Tokyo for a wheelchair user?

SP tells me that the streets of Tokyo are quieter than normal, but there are still restaurants open and food is available. His phone needs charging; the food in his freezer needs eating, and he is conserving his supplies of bottled water and non-perishable food.

As this day progresses further quakes are being reported, images of flooding and fires dominate the media; images of destruction, warnings of mud-slides and unstable buildings; whole villages and towns wiped away, all these things speak of horror and heartbreak.

The  arrangements are made;
the day has been booked.
Food, drink and the blue plastic
ground cover, all are
ready but the sun.
And a cold wind blows.
But all is not lost
and rescue provided by
an enormous bunch
of lurid pinkness;
balloons on strings,
stand-ins for the cherry
that failed to bloom on the day.

Today we take the metro to Meiji Jingumae, it involves changing trains and using platform lifts. It all happens very smoothly and although there are several points where I am anxious, the service is very efficient and the station staff always polite and helpful. We visit the shrine at Meiji Jingu and I take masses of pictures. The access is very good. The shrine buildings and Shinto Wedding Hall are set in 175 acres of mostly woodland planted by volunteers 90 odd years ago. There is also a garden which predates the shrine and woodlands. It is all beautifully kept, but there is a cold wind and I am glad to have lunch in the warm restaurant. The bowls of tea are constantly topped up and my hot-water bottle gets a refill too.

After lunch we head for Yoyogi Koen where the cherry blossom parties have already started. A long queue of mostly teenage girls, winds into the park from the neighbouring stadium. There are police, crowd and traffic managers everywhere; placards and collecting boxes lead me to think it has something to do with the disaster fund. I do not read or speak Japanese, I can only observe.

We stop to watch a troup of Elvis impersonators street dancing, before winding our way through the park. Progress is slow, there is so much to see. Between the party-goers are the entertainers and people playing games.

The entertainment varies from actual performances to people just practicing or the spontaneous coming together of passing musicians; Boy Bands attract masses of young Japanese girls. The atmosphere is energising and cheerful in spite of the silent fountains, cold winds and constant reminders.

Packing as much as we can into the day, we head off to Omote Sando, a label shopper’s pardise, where we take refreshment. Architecturally Omotesando is amazing – anyone who is anyone has a building here. The one we are in reminds me gently of the Round Tower in Kobenhavn, the floors all slope their way around (or in this case, oblong) to the top. There are fascinating boutiques, small restaurants and beautiful cafes lining the way.  I have roasted twig tea and a bean and chocolate cake with ginger cream; the smell and taste lingering Japanese reminders.

I seldom see anybody in a wheelchair, yet access is great and the attitude is amazingly helpful and positive. I feel more like a person here, and less like a wheelchair attachment.

.

Minato. Gateway to the sea.
Gateway? Is this your first
port of call? Sumida
feeds you, ripples and
scurries to greet you
and you nudge back,
pushing and teasing.
Gateway? Can she keep
you out? When you surge
with your burdens of
wreckage and mud, will
Minato survive? Will the
shrine on the corner
protect her?

Today I’m out on my own, it’s brilliant sunshine and I’m going from Minato, Chuo-ku, where SP lives by the Sumida river, into Ginza. Road works outside the flat require two police persons to ensure safety and even though there is no traffic in sight (it’s a very quiet road), I am solemnly greeted with a bow and the non-existent traffic halted to allow me to cross.

I pass my little landmarks: the shrine, the pots of pansies and orchids, the spider plants, and the playground and arrive at the lift to take me down to Hatchobori station. I am welcomed at the information booth; my ticket is secured, the platform lift unpacked and the portable ramp fetched. I wait patiently and they find this reassuring. The lift is operated by the staff and all is carefully done by the book. I then wait at a marked spot on the platform. The train stops on target and the staff flutter and fuss while I roll on board.

At Ginza I am assisted by an impressively helpful member of staff who, at the mention of ‘shopping’ escorts me out of the station and walks me to within sight of the Mitsukoshi department store. Here I roll around among Scandinavian knick-knacks, cakes so perfect they look unreal, and tiny shoes that seem strangely old fashioned. Next door are the big-name, diamond jewellery sellers and a flower shop.

I had decided to roll back via Higashi-Ginza and Tsukiji and at the store exit, attempt to confirm my direction of travel. Ginza, Higashi-Ginza and Tsukiji run imperceptibly into each other along a main highway.

Unfortunately none of the locals have heard of my destination; mention of Tsukiji however, brings eager confirmation that I am indeed going in the right direction. The road is a busy one, three or four lanes in each direction, but packed on each side with a fascinating selection of little shops. Dropped curbs here are as variable as in England, and uneven slopes cause the unfamiliar powerchair to career out of control. I need to keep my eyes open and be a little careful.

This route is now familiar and I relax and enjoy the roll, browsing some of the little shops along the way. Many are inaccessible: steps or impossibly narrow entrances keep me out. My path curves left at the river and I follow the walkway home.

Pausing by the river I reflect on the outing. I have not needed to say “excuse me” once. I have not been made to feel like a leper by folk backing away from me in alarm. No-one has looked dismayed at my mere presence or intimated that I am taking up too much space. I  have felt accepted in a way I hardly ever do on the streets of England.

I have felt like one bird in a flock of starlings: trusted to move carefully by those around me; to hold the complex pattern and respect my neighbour. Strange as it seems, I actually felt a sense of belonging.

In silver dragonskin
the rippling river
slides over the rolling
muscles of the sea.
Quiet now in her lair
Sumida still attracts
my attention. Su mi ma sen.
Excuse me! Not the
apologetic version I
repeat endlessly at home.
Here I am.
Take notice of me!
Su mi ma sen
Sumida showing me
another way, a better way
to be.

Today Sumida sparkles in brilliant sunshine and her reflections ripple on the ceilings of the flat. A good day to visit Roppongi Hills and the view from the Mori Tower.

I have discovered that the shrine I pass on the way to Hatchobori station is Teppozu Inari Shrine, dedicated to the Guardian God of Minato. Minato has reportedly been the gateway to Tokyo by sea since the Edo era, so it surprises me that so few Japanese have heard of it.

I roll over to the station, and complete the usual ritual to board the train. Roppongi is a longer journey and there are no wheelchair spaces in the carriage, so I try to park thoughtfully. My interpretation of Japanese way of thinking is something I call Narrow Focus. You see what you need to see.

Mostly it benefits me. I enjoy not feeling like a leper; not having people pressing themselves against a wall to give me three unnecessary metres of room; not constantly accusing me of speeding; not loudly warning loved ones that they will be mown down. Here people take it for granted that I will not do anything to upset the system.

The staff are a little less attentive at Roppongi, but it’s easy to find my way around. The station is in Roppongi Hills and the Mori Tower impossible to miss. I buy a ticket to the viewing platform and the Mori Gallery exhibition. An ear popping ride to the fifty-second floor brings me to The View. It is indeed impressive.

Tokyo stretches as far as the eye can see; Tokyo Tower, bold and red in the sunlight, is being slowly outshone by Sky Tree, the giant to it’s left. The sea of skyscrapers is punctuated by tiny hillocks of soil with mini-diggers working; by patches of rust where old metal objects gather in breakers’ yards; by gleaming blue ceramic tiles, the tiny roof-tops of ancient and modern buildings; by shrines and temples, the cemetery and the cherry blossom.

Eight lane highways carve grooves into the rich texture, then layer-up road, rail and river, linking the past with the future. Tokyo Harbour is also visible, glinting peacefully, the tsunami not in mental focus right now. Further around I notice a change in the tone of the misty skyline, this is where Fuji-San lives. I hope there will be time for a dedicated visit and that Fuji-San will not be hiding in the mist.

The gallery is on the fifty-second floor and I’m taken behind the scenes to access the lift. The poster I saw earlier was misleading; “French Window” is an exhibition of works by Marcel Duchamp and various winners of the Marcel Duchamp Prize. The play on words seems overly tedious to me: Duchamp’s playful “Fresh Widow” gains little from bouncing the idea back on itself. A shame because the exhibition is well presented, thought-provoking and fun.

My next destination, the National Arts Centre, is no fun at all to get to. Rolling through the rather seedier Roppongi Crossing is an adventure, but as the road surfaces begin to deteriorate, the journey gets a little dangerous. And the signposted route ends in steps. I do find another way, but the place is closed. I head back to Roppongi Hills, just a little frazzled and disappointed.

Later SP and I meet up to eat in the Mori Tower, not his favourite sushi place, which has steps, but somewhere he pronounces acceptable. The food is delicious. We make our way home through the moody half-dark that is Tokyo in recovery. The nuclear reactors and cooling systems are on the TV news. We don’t watch it.

The morning river is
pleated and folded. The sea
monster heaves it’s way
inland and the early
sun sparkles, scurrying
to the harbour, are battered
against the river’s concrete
containment. Battered and scraped
as the monster crosses the
river-bed; lazy this morning,
the caged animal not
breaching it’s containment
just rolling it’s muscle.
A warning, a statement:
You are the river, but I am
the Sea.

Today I roll along the river-walk to Tsukiji. Cherry blossom is exploding everywhere in the warm sun. Road-works threaten to block my exit, the rill normally containing water, is empty due to power-saving and is being repaired. The workmen assist me. I need to switch off the chair’s power and they push; the skinny wheels make control less easy.

Tsukiji has the famous Fish Market, but today I’m going to the Hamarikyu Garden. There are notices everywhere, mostly they seem to be about power-saving; here at Tsukiji they proclaim closures of a more drastic nature. The tsunami will have long term effects on the fishing, and the radiation will have it’s effect too; the notices are signed, “The Earthquake Generation”.

Access to the Gardens is terrible. The steep and wonky slopes that occur quite frequently are just too much for the skinny wheels. Power hubs do have their disadvantages. I switch off and grab a fit looking young couple; they manhandle the chair over the dodgy bits.

Inside I’m informed that I’m free entry, given a map in English and one in Japanese. The Japanese map has a wheelchair route marked out in red and I’m reassured. Then I notice the very wonky gravel slope that leads into the garden proper. My heart sinks. I point out the difficulty to the ticket man. He offers no help. I ask him to push the chair over the bad bit, he agrees and I’m in.

Somewhere I have read that “by English standards the park at Hamarikyu is nothing special” and maybe through English eyes it is not. However it has fabulous trees, elegant spaces, beautiful stones, a tidal pond, and the best cherry tree so far.

The tree extends a welcoming branch, arched low over the pathway so I am surrounded by the delicate scent and amazing blossom: magical. And people are queuing to have their photograph taken with it. I spend quite some time in this garden, now and again asking for help which seems willingly given.

Eventually I decide to find out if there is a different exit, there is and it’s accessible. I roll back, slightly anxious about my path. The workmen have finished for the day, and fortunately they have left just enough room for me to get through. I roll home along the river, chasing the last remaining rays of sunshine that filter through the gaps between skyscrapers.

.

Utamaro’s
woman riding
on giant fish
makes sense to me
now I too have
ridden a serpent;
The great snake monster
that is Gaia, arched
and rolling spine
curving and bucking with
shivers and shudders.
Oblivious.
I exercise the
Narrow Focus
and ignore
the dragon
beneath me.

Asakusa is today’s destination and I will need to change trains. Ueno is suggested as the obvious change point, but when I ask the station staff to check out the elevator situation they change their minds and send me via Ningyocho. An embarrassed-looking, but helpful assistant carrying the portable ramp, travels with me to the change-over station.

Asakusa is a large station with confusing signage. I join several Japanese tourists looking for the correct exit. Thanks to Google maps I have a good idea what to expect and in principle it’s easy to get to my destination. Confronted by the reality, I’m a little overwhelmed.

Soon, tiny shops line narrow walkways en route to the Temple Complex and, together with ancient and new pagoda-style buildings, vie for my attention. It’s hard to decide which to explore first. The shrine is my ultimate destination, but getting there is a joyful roll from one distraction to the next.

People here are very chatty, all of the Japanese mention the quake situation, none of the Westerners do.

I sample strange food including sesame ice-cream, which tastes a little like wet sawdust; buy a Japanese coin purse and look at Samurai swords. I find a beautiful kimono and copies of famous woodblock prints. And eventually I arrive.

There seem to be a lot of wheelchair users here and when I find the access lift is closed I enroll one of them in my quest. Sadly the lift is closed because of power saving. There are other shrines, some with one step and some with level access and all have burning incense as well as the flowing water for cleansing. There is plenty to see and do for all the visitors.

Here in Asakusa
are the crips.
We are many
with sticks,
crutches
and chairs:
powered or peopled.
We can all pass
the giant sandals
high on a wall
out of reach.
But to touch them
brings blessings
and good walking.

I sample the “Rubbing Buddha”, a metal statue with a soft brassy gleam on feet, knees, belly, chest and head. I watch a laughing woman rub her own knee, then the knees on the statue; an intense man who starts at the feet and works seriously upwards and a woman who rubs slowly on the belly; the man who is holding her hand, kneels down and reaches for the Achilles heel.

An elegant wooden hair-pin lures me into a tiny shop, and the owner soon expresses great concern for my safety. Tokyo is dangerous now, he says and he thinks I am very brave.

Around five-thirty it gets dark, the little shops are closing and lanterns are being lit at the night-time eateries. SP and I meet up around seven and I get my first experience of a rolling sushi bar. This one has chairs, so they can take one out for me.

I try two new dishes: the fish custard and the fermented bean curd. The first has a delicate flavour, but the second tastes like the pong of smelly feet. We eat quite a stack of plates-worth and drink copious mugs of Japanese tea.

We leave feeling full and happy, there is a moon and stars, Sky Tree has a few lights, the funfair has closed and all is peaceful.

The earthquake that shakes Tokyo later that evening is not unlike the frequent smaller ones that are a fact of life.

.

Disability Arts.
Deesha?
And words I do not understand.
Artist? Yes, artist, and
here we communicate.
I point to me:
disability.
Realisation dawns.
Oh, handicap.
No, oh no,
not here,
not us.

Today I return to the National Arts Centre and it is open. Getting in to the space is free for disabled people and carers, but the individual exhibitions cost varying prices. Tickets are bought outside, but all the information about the exhibitions is inside and the girl in the ticket office tells me there is no Japanese art in the building.

I go in anyway; there is a vast gallery of paintings by a group of local artists and it is free. The works are all large, but that is all they have in common; the quality varies a lot. I would guess there is no selection process. The whole area smells of fresh oils and is buzzing with visitors.

In the many aisles, I get lost, I keep thinking that I’ve been here before. Girls sitting in chairs, cleanly painted Western girls; roof-tiles, meticulously painted ceramic tiles with a mediterranean flavour; similar images punctuating a variety of all rather forgettable pictures.

The only one to stay with me is a disturbing, blue, Picasso style image of two naked girls looking stressed and unhappy.

Thinking that the artists themselves may be manning this exhibition, I try again to ask about Disability Arts. I am upset by the very negative body language that accompanies the realisation that I am asking about disabled artists.

I decide to explore Roppongi Crossing and Roppongi Hills before meeting up with SP for dinner. I am approached by a sad looking young woman who is possibly on drugs; I wave her away, not having the vocabulary to deal with the situation.

It is incredibly windy at Roppongi Hills and as I shelter in the circular shopping mall to take photographs she appears again, she is hard to shake off:

Roppongi
with an el:
a drafty spot for the well-heeled.
No sticks here,
no chairs.
I sit in the Hollywood
Metro Hat and I
could be anywhere, but
for the language.
And just down the road
Roppongi Crossing
caters for the rest.
Here I was propositioned.
A slinky girl
snaked up to me
with a thrusting body
and words incomprehensible
except for kinky.

.

Jizo-Bosatsu
future Buddha
possessor of all
the blessings of the earth;
and out of reach.
Jizo, comfort
for the souls of
unborn children.
But no comfort to me,
inaccessible on a hillside
half-way up steps.
Hasedera Temple, with all
it’s attention to detail
is a joy and a disappointment.
The garden, however
is exquisite
and gives me
it’s own blessing.

Today we are going to the garden at Kamakura, with, at the Hasedera Temple, the Jizo statues which I hope will somehow resonate with some of my own work.

We go via Yokohama and the final train journey from Kamakura to Hase, down a single line track is enchanting. Trees and shrubs brush against the carriages as we pass and in some places I’m sure the local inhabitants could reach out of their windows and touch the train.

The Temple garden is easy to find, but doesn’t look that accessible, it seems to be mostly built on a hillside. At the ticket kiosk I meet an unhelpful “jobsworth” but her collegue waves me in for free, with a wry smile.

The Jizo statues are sadly out of my reach. For the first time since I got to Japan, I am deeply disappointed. A great wave of it hits me, but we go in anyway. The garden is beautiful and I take picture upon picture.

I had plans for my artwork and the statues; at some point I will need to really think about that.

I have little glimpses of the Jizo half-way up the hillside and send SP up to photograph them while I wander the accessible parts of the garden. The beauty of it all soon lifts my spirit and I am reluctant to leave, but not far away is a giant Buddha and we plan to see that as well.

He proves to be in an attractive garden too, and although he’s big, he is, I’m told, not to compare to the one in Hong Kong; well, that’s for another visit!

We stop at Yokohama on the way back, do a little exploring and eat in Chinatown. Chinatown is very glitzy, in complete contrast to our day in the sticks, but our chosen restaurant is quiet, elegant and warm. It gets quite chilly here in the evenings.

We eat dim sum and drink Jasmine tea until we are stuffed and then take the trains back to Tokyo. It’s been a good day, we are both tired and forget one change. Thank goodness for the man with the ramp!

Today there have been no notices about power-saving, only notices about cancellations and reductions of train services, and at night it’s obvious that everywhere is operating with reduced lighting. Tomorrow we have an early start, we take the Shinkansen to Kyoto.

Surely I must be
falling off the
edge of the world.
The skyscrapers lean
to impossible
angles; and cars,
why don’t they
slide away?
Riding the Shinkansen
is a glide into wonderland.
Tokyo to Kyoto,
in just four stops.
I have no sensation
of speed, yet the
journey is over
so soon.

Today we get up at five, and I’m excited to be having my first high speed train journey. Japan has two incompatible power systems so there is no power-saving in the west of the country and the Shinkansen to Kyoto still runs.

Travel by wheelchair always takes longer than non-wheelchair users plan for, and access delays at the station mean that we arrive early for the seven-thirty, rather than late for our reserved seats on the seven-o’clock. And being early we secure seats in the unreserved carriage; it’s as easy as that. SP is a little disappointed, on my behalf, that I am missing the reserved carriage, but I am excited just to be on the train.

The train journey is incredibly smooth, there is no sensation of speed, just great views of Japan. There is countryside; mountainous, wooded, and lots of water, though seldom flat for long and hardly a view without buildings on it somewhere. The journey seems over too quickly.
In Kyoto we leave our luggage at hotel, eager to start exploring the city that claims such history.
The Toji Temple complex is close to the hotel and quite stunning; it’s shrines are impressive; the cherry blossom is perfect and the five-story pagoda, at 187 feet, the tallest in Japan.

We stroll through a public garden on our way to the next tourist attraction, it’s full of folk playing games and having cherry-blossom picnics. Hongwanji Temple initially looks somewhat life-less, but that impression is so miss-leading. There are ca. three thousand people sitting quietly inside as the second day of their seven hundred and fifty year celebrations begin. The thanksgiving ceremony to the founder is being televised; screens and loudspeakers make it all very accessible.

I am made to feel very welcome, ramps allow access to the main ceremony as well as various shrines. It is all most impressive; the great wooden building with it’s intricate carvings; the silk brocade robes of the processing celebrants, the flower decorations looking like Christmas trees in giant vases with blossoms like lilies and tulips; and the silence.

Then there is music and chanting and a sense of timelessness that eventually helps us decide to leave. We have no idea how long this part of ceremony will last and are now keen to check into our hotel. It is a relief to stretch out for a while; I smell of incense.

April 11: Walking in Kyoto

April 12: Golden Palace

April 13: In a Bamboo Forest…