Preparing for the PV Art Center’s “L’aura borealis” was surreal, but the 38th trip to Kyoto was out of this world
The diffused autumn light and the sound of the mountains filtered into the room as I set down my valise, and next to it I placed the large, soft-leather satchel containing twenty-three photographs of Laura. In two corners of the room there were wooden tripods with water-green paper lanterns, and in the alcove a potted sakaki tree nestled on the shelf devoted to the family gods. Crickets chirped faintly under the floorboards of the nine-tatami mat room, and etched upon the shoji screen were the lattice-like shadows of cherry trees and bamboo. The silhouette of a cat briefly joined them. The pervading scent was of cedar and orange blossom.
This was the remote villa called The Moonlight of the Grove, tucked among the foothills of the mountains above Lake Biwa in Kyoto.
Yukiko, one of the young maids, silently slid open the fusuma and said, “Mr. Tanaka is in the garden and will see you now.”
A floating bridge of dreams
This story begins when Laura left the coffee shop in Manhattan Beach. That was three-and-a-half years ago, where we’d met for an article I’d hoped to write about the film festival she had navigated into the South Bay. People have assumed that I fell in love with her on the spot, for why else have I ushered to fruition two gallery shows devoted to her?
“Alone in the Moonlight: Portraits of the Muse” was on view last year in the Creative Arts Center in Manhattan Beach, and “L’aura borealis: 100 Ways to Look at the Muse” opens on Friday, Oct. 26, in the Palos Verdes Art Center. Well, the shows weren’t my idea at all, and I tried hard to distance myself from them. But whether you want to call it fate or karma, or simply the unfinished business from a former life, I was very quickly in over my head, where I remain to this day.
I watched Laura leave, and it was then that I noticed a well groomed, but somehow oddly dressed Asian man sitting at a nearby table, hunched over his beverage. Without any expression he picked up his teacup, approached my table, and asked if he could join me, which he did before I could say a word.
This was how I met Mr. Tanaka, a connoisseur of the arts who lived on the outskirts of Kyoto. He soon let it slip that he owned a suite of prints by van Gogh, and naturally I was skeptical.
However, what caught my attention were his beautiful, soft, white hands, which looked as if they’ve been bleached or held underwater for a very long time.
To my surprise, he wanted to talk about Laura. She’s not my wife or girlfriend, I replied, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give out her number. This apparently offended him: “I could decipher your relationship by observing how the two of you conversed. And I perceived qualities about her that you are too insensitive to detect.”
Now it was my turn to express indignation. But before I could do so he leaned forward and said, “I am going to change your life. More to the point, we are going to change her life. We are going to celebrate this woman.”
My jaw dropped, as he continued:
“To do so, we shall stage art shows in her honor. There will be a trove of images, a collection of photographs and paintings by the very best artists, men and women who have mastered their medium and who are able to convey this lady’s grace, her true elegance, and the poignancy of her being. Life is a floating bridge of dreams, the years will pass all too quickly, and we cannot waste another day.”
“Really, now?” I crossed my arms. “What’s so special about her?”
“I’m sorry if you were unable to sense the radiance,” Mr. Tanaka replied, “or to realize that there is also the unspoken obligation of select women to inspire beautiful art, prose, music, dance. Do you know what a Muse is, and what a Muse does?”
“I have no idea.”
“You will,” said Mr. Tanaka. “Now, you must find and persuade 30 photographers to individually take her portrait.”
“There’s no way Laura will do this,” I retorted. “And you know what? There’s no way I’m going to do this either. Really, an art show built around this woman? That’ll be the day.”
I stood up, but 20 minutes later I was still there, for Mr. Tanaka had somehow convinced me that his scheme had merit. He pressed on, with anecdotes about Hiroshige, Utamaro, and Hokusai, that almost seemed like personal encounters, and as he did so I felt more in tune with his proposal. Suddenly I realized that he was right; my life, and the life of a woman I’d met just two hours before, would irrevocably change.
“And let’s say I can actually get Laura to agree. Then what?”
“You must come to Japan every three weeks with a satchel of new prints, and you must not tell anyone.”
“I can’t afford that. Too expensive.”
Mr. Tanaka reached inside of his kimono-like jacket and brought out a checkbook. I studied his long, pale fingers, and I watched him write.
“You have exquisite penmanship,” I said.
He paused, and I thought he was embarrassed. “Where I come from, calligraphy is regarded as a sign of good breeding.” Then he handed over a check for an amount I simply could not believe: “Deposit this today.”
Maybe he could afford prints by van Gogh.
“Assuming this isn’t a joke,” I said, “how do you know I won’t just run off with the money?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Mr. Tanaka looked me in the eye.
“You’re right,” I said. “I won’t.”
Laura politely declined, vehemently declined when pressed, and finally acquiesced.
Little did I know, in 2009, that over the next three years I’d make 37 trips to Japan. And I never told anyone.
It was always the same. I’d leave the Easy Reader on Friday afternoon, drive to the airport, catch a flight to Tokyo and then another to Osaka, and from there travel to Kyoto by train where I’d be met by the chauffeur, Mr. Ibuse. On Monday morning the flight from Tokyo by way of Honolulu would return to Los Angeles.
