Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about the threads that pull seemingly disparate pieces of my work together. Whilst I may have an idea going into something the sheer nature of arting/playing means that the result isn’t always an intended one. I see value in and enjoy the process of exploring an idea, a theme, a medium. a technique. It just doesn’t always got to plan.
Just like now with this post, I’m already off on a tangent diverting from my initial thrust. (I’m actually thinking of getting someone to interview me about my art and recording the session to see where my brain takes me that usually my fingers are too slow to capture. This, I see, is a parallel idea to the Hemingway “Write Drunk. Edit Sober” quote/misquote,)
I’m thinking about the ideas of uniqueness. Fingerprints, how they relate to contours, landscapes, landscapes of the female body. Also our eyes, doorway to our soul(?) their unique colours and patterns. Surely we don’t refer to them as eyescapes. Looking at leaves, they all have a ‘scape’.
There’s actually not too much to write about this cause mostly it’s still trapped inside my head, tangled, arse over tit.
Just so you know, I really like it when people comment here rather than just a FB like. To me, it feels like you’ve actually read it.
I’m guilty of this behaviour also. I’m trying to change. Unless, I’m stalking you – then I read but not comment.
Walking up a side street we spied a coolroom of hanging meat on the second floor of a restaurant. Naturally we were drawn to investigate. Gonpachi hadn’t exactly satisfied. Up we wandered and soon we found ourselves sitting down with some jamon, terrine, cheese and baguette, a rose wine for me and a red wine for Steve = Happy days!
This place was a delicious, delightful respite. Le Petit Marche in a back street of Roppongi was just what the doctor(chef?) ordered. Fortunately it was mostly patronised by Asian customers with only one other Western couple (American, I think).
It was from here that we walked up to Kento’s – a 50s/60s pop club which although was a bar, looked more like an american diner. The band does 15 minutes on, 15 minutes off throughout the evening of american 50s/60s pop – with the occasional Abba song thrown in for good measure. The band is appropriately attired and coiffed wooing the audience who really seem to get into the swing of things even if they have little to no sense of musical timing. I drank some sweet garishly coloured cocktails; Steve had some 12 year old Yamazaki whiskey. All was somehow right with the world.
Coming home along the main street where lots of restaurants and clubs are situated was a different experience altogether. So many noisy westerners that I became quite resentful. It’s an odd feeling because I am a westerner but I was almost offended by the presence of so many westerners. I’m still processing that bit.
One guy deliberately tried to bump into me either to pickpocket(of which I had nothing on me) or to ‘cop a feel’. Either intentions aren’t pleasing but that’s honestly the only unpleasant experience like that on the whole trip.
All in all, despite many instances of language barrier, we have fared very well. Japanese people, as a culture, are very honest. They also, on the whole, have very good english language skills. Way better than our ridiculously small grasp of Japanese.
Note to self – learn more basic language skills of the country I’m travelling to.