Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

Apparently, “Nagaoka Fireworks” was burned into the mind of a 6-year-old.
It was a picture that came up on YouTube.
“What was that just now? Amazing.” “That picture is mazing, isn’t it?” “It’s more than amazing .” “The real thing is huge. Do you want to go see it?” “I’ll go. And I want to eat kakigoori.” “I’ll go too. I want to see Kiyoshi Yamashita.”
“Mom, I’ll go too! And I want to eat kakigoori.”

The three of us went to the Kiyoshi Yamashita exhibition in Shinjuku, Tokyo. Collages, pointillism, dyed art, pen drawings. Living a life where my cultural level is as low as the interest rate on my savings account, it was the first time I saw the real thing and thought, “I want a picture.”
And even more than that, there were many things I learned for the first time.

My knowledge of Kiyoshi Yamashita is limited to “The Naked General”. Fiction. And it’s the version with Gannosuke Ashiya. Of course, I was left with a lot of “Oh, so that’s how it was.” I had never even searched for him in the first place. Even though he is so famous.

What surprised me the most was that Kiyoshi only started painting in earnest after he had finished his travels. Apparently he painted very few pictures during his travels.
Since I had the image of Kiyoshi as a travelling painter, I couldn’t understand this at first. So when and where did he paint these pictures?

Many of the paintings that remain were painted after the artist returned to the facility after completing his travels. In other words, he painted them from memory. Kiyoshi’s memory was so amazing that he was even able to paint two identical paintings.

A question crossed my mind. Why was he able to paint such lovely pictures? Before he entered the institution, he was severely bullied due to his intellectual and speech impediments. It was also during the Second World War.
He was able to remember beautiful things as beautiful, so perhaps he also remembered ugly things as ugly. But his paintings are so detailed that they evoke love, so vivid that they seem to celebrate something, and simply charming. Looking at them, you want to believe in the brightness of the world.

His journey of 14 years was simply to encounter beautiful scenery. And to avoid conscription. What on earth did his eyes capture? What percentage of sadness was contained in his freedom?

Maybe it’s just me, but I still often feel resentment and anger from years ago, even decades ago. If I’m not careful, my memories come back to me like zombies, and every time they do, it feels like most of my life will be overwritten with humiliation and defeat. But that doesn’t have to be the case. Before I knew it, I had started repeating my daughter’s name to myself in order to counteract the self-intoxicating worries and to return to my senses.

Perhaps what a painting meant to Kiyoshi and what my daughter meant to me were similar.

My daughter was trying to pull out a water bottle from her backpack. “Can I have a drink?” I understand that feeling. The air conditioning should have been working well, but the museum was so crowded that it was thirsty. The speed at which the audience looked at the exhibits reminded me of a conveyor belt in a factory. From a child’s perspective, it would be more accurate to say that they came to see the butts of the men and women rather than the paintings. But she is no longer old enough to be held. “You can’t eat or drink here. I’ll buy you a juice when you leave,”
my wife gently scolded, and I spoke up. “It’s fine. Kiyoshi won’t get angry over something like that.” “Kiyoshi’s office will get angry.” “You shouldn’t throw him away.” A 43-year-old and a 45-year-old being scolded by a 6-year-old. Don’t underestimate Kiyoshi, I told him.

“Oh, there’s a bee.” My daughter pointed to a collage of chrysanthemums. It was true. A bee was hovering around trying to get nectar from the flowers. I hadn’t even seen it. I had been gazing at it intently just a moment ago. “Oh, there it is. I wonder if the bees are thirsty, too.” “No. Bees gather spice.” “Well, they also suck nectar, don’t they? Am I wrong?” “I want to drink beer.” “That sounds good.” “By the way, how about some shaved ice?” My daughter’s eyes could communicate with Yamashita-san. Her parent’s eyesight was clouded by her desire for alcohol, and she was also getting farsighted. There was too much difference in our dynamic visual acuity to capture beauty in order to appreciate the beauty while busying ourselves in a crowd.

I felt like if we stayed like this, we would miss something important. It’s summer, so I want to appreciate it slowly. Just as slowly as a fan can swing its head. My daughter is on summer vacation, and I’ll skip work and come on a weekday next time. If I were to come to see his paintings, it seemed like that would be the right choice. The exhibition still had a while left.

Our family motto is “When you get bored, move on to the next one.” Soon the three of us left the venue.
Where should we go for shaved ice today? That’s right. Let’s eat shaved ice at the nearby Komeda Coffee. That was a great idea, but when we headed to Komeda, they didn’t have beer. “What’s so great about that?” my wife said, trying to find something “beer-like” on the coffee shop’s menu. My daughter was holding her temple with a spoon in one hand. Maybe I’ve lived my life forgetting about days like these. I was already nostalgic for Kiyoshi Yamashita’s paintings.