Sophie Calle's "Exquisite Pain" in Hara Museum, Ikaho, Gumma, Japan

In May 2025, we went to Hara Museum in Ikaho, Gumma for a family trip during the Golden Week Holiday in Japan. 

The traffic on the highways from Tokyo to Ikaho was a hell since it was the prime time to travel for Japanese. Being the driver of the family, I did not mind the pain of being trapped in the traffic jam because I knew that at the end of the drive, when we finally reached the destination, it would be a entirely new experience for the children for sure. My husband does not like travel and does not enjoy natural environment, so if we ever go out on a holiday, the destination is always a city. Automobiles are probably the main culprits of global warming, but they take us to places where public transportation doesn't. I think somehow cars mean a lot to women at home when they provide precious mobility, a rare moment of being in control and therefore a rare moment of independence. I remember having a chat with my Japanese teacher, who told me that her late husband, like my partner, did not like cars and didn't drive either. He, like my partner, thought that it was good enough if he could visit wherever public transportation would reach. As for the rest of the space, it does not matter to them. My Japanese teacher and I, however, share the same interest in driving and relies much on the power of the technology of automobile. It is not a love for car itself but the addiction to freedom that the vehicle promises. 

As we reached Hara Museum in Ikaho, the open space immediately made us leave behind the fatigue and complaints that we experienced on the road. The children also enjoyed the regular exhibitions very much. A lot of questions were asked, and a lot of chuckles were shared over curious facts about artworks. 

On of the collections that Hara Museum owned really struck me to the core of my soul, Sophie Calle's Exquisite Pain (1999). It is an art project in which she progressed through a journey before and after her boyfriend broke up with her. The work consists of two parts: the first 90 days to pain to the day on which the artist and the boyfriend agreed to meet up in India, and the later 90 days after the day on which the pain inflicted upon her when the boy friend failed to show up and told her that he had fallen in love with someone else. In the later ninety days, she talked to people, strangers to her, who narrated to her about their pain and loss, until the last day when she could finally recover from the loss of love. Since the children were around, I was unable to savor every panel of the artwork while spending time cautioning them against touching the artworks, against speaking aloud, and against running around in the open space. 

Every panel is a story of someone's sorrow, and every word is embroidered on a piece of fabric. There is an explanation in the article about how the embroidery (a work of tremendous labor) was finally achieved in a embroidery factory in Niigata, Japan. The form of embroidering pain was so powerful to me to the extent that I felt my hear ached at the same time. 

Several weeks before the trip, a friend of mine lost a beloved family member. I thought of doing something for her, so I started looking for poems about mourning to send to her, imagining that perhaps poetry can help. One of the poems that I came across stunned me with its simplicity and precision. It is Separation, a poem by an American poet, W. S. Merwin, in 1962. It writes, 

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

The three lines are as simple as the the briefness of counting one, two, and three, but they narrate the most unbearable pain. 

The stories that Calle narrated about her loss and that she collected from other people in pain on the embroidered panels embody every moment and movement of pain that one has to bear in every step of life after the day of pain has begun. Any loss is irreparable, and even if the threads are removed, untangled, and the pain is left behind, the surface of the fabric remains pierced.

"Do you think you are the greatest person in the world?"

Around 4 pm yesterday afternoon, Y asked me if she could have snacks and watch TV. I gave her a negative answer, given that she had watched a movie with her dad in the early afternoon. Her TV allowance had been spent for the day. She was persistent, begging, nagging, complaining, and then blaming in the end. Our conversation went on and went astray as below. 

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Y: Why can't I watch TV? 

Mom: You've seen a movie with dad today, and the movie was about 2 hours. You can have snacks though. 

Y: Mom is stupid!!! （ママはバカ！）

M: I don't think so. I am probably the smartest in this household. 

Y: Mom is stupid!　（ママは「ㄅㄨㄣˋ」（笨）蛋）

M: Ok, let's see. Who can drive a car in our family? 

Y: Mom. (Emphatically.)

M: Who can cook in our family?

Y: Mom, and sometimes dad. 

M: Who can speak mandarin?

Y: Mom and I and T. 

M: Who takes you to ballet lessons? 

Y: Mom. 

M: Who takes you to piano lessons? 

Y: Mom. 

M: Who takes you to kindergarten? 

Y: Mom and dad, too. 

M: Ok, who has appeared in all of your answers? 

Y: (tearful) No, it is not fair!! You have only talked about what you do. You have ignored what I do. I fold clothes with dad, though it was not much. There are people out there who invent things, too. Do you think you are greater than them? You have ignored what other people do in the house. Do you think you are the greatest person in the world? 

M: Ok, I will stop asking. It's your turn to ask questions, and I will answer. 

Y: No, that's not what I am saying. Don't change the topic. I am saying that you only talk about yourself!

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"Do you think you are the greatest person in the world?" 

That is a good question. Do I think I am the greatest person in the world? 

Over the years of motherhood and wifedom, I have been struggling with my own emotional resistance to the overwhelming pressure of life. In actions, I prioritize the family; in thoughts, I complain hard to the extent that I assume a hostile view on everything and everyone around me. I pity myself all the time. 

Y is right that I probably have considered myself to be the greatest person in the house. The emotion of discontentment has "distorted" my view on my everyday life. "Distorted" means that my view is invested with a bias against others in the matter of everyday life. The distorted view is certainly mine for self-preservation, but is it really distorted? Is not the distorted version of reality actually the correct one that other people have unjustly created for mothers and wives and confine them in the frame for exploitation? 

Am I the greatest, or the most capable, person in the world/the house? That is a good question. 

Reading for Kids

 

Surtout N’entrez Pas Dans Le Sac

In the regular events of the Reading to Kids group in the spring term 2025, one of the books that I read to children was a picture book in French, Surtout N’entrez Pas Dans Le Sac, or, Never Ever Should You Enter into the Bag, by a Togolese author, Gnimdewa Atakpama. 

The story is about a lion and a goat, both of whom want to build their respective homes on the same piece of land. The two animals, one herbivorous and the other carnivorous, resolve the conflicts by some violent means in the end. A perspective lens of the illustration helps distance the dramatic moment of physical force.

My audience, including the two classes of the 5th- and 6th-graders and their homeroom teachers, gasped at the resolution. Although the climax is meant to be witty, funny and surprising, each time when I read up to the moment of climax, I somehow felt that I was obliged to apologize for the development, so I made a comment, “sorry” (ごめんね!). 

Why did I have to feel sorry for the violence in the story when it is used by one character to restore justice? I reflected on my own simultaneous reaction after the readings. 

I came across the book more than 5 years ago in a nearby second-hand bookstore. The wittiness made me laugh when I read it through on the spot. But apparently T, around 5 years old at the time, found it scary. 

Shouldn’t the lion and the goat try to negotiate first? Can’t the story use a more civilized approach? The power of compassion and peace is the method most books for children will deploy. 

Civilized approaches do not usually work, I am afraid. Especially, in the case of the minority. There is this old question as to whether the subaltern can speak. They can, and they are encouraged to, but they won’t be listened to. When anger and dramatic measures are finally resorted to, the minors are usually considered to be uncivilized and rebellious, while the world has forgotten how they have tried to be civil without any avail. 

I remember once I tried to claim my rights on a certain circumstance, but the other party questioned why I acted “vengeful”.  In the end, my very normal act and wish became unfathomable and outrageous to the privileged power when it clipped their taken-for-granted interests. 

Of course, I did not develop this theory in front of the children, and it was satisfactory enough that they sat long enough to listen to the story, which was read aloud in a language alien to them, and chuckled when the story concluded. From time to time, I have doubts about the meaning of reading to children in other languages despite that I have set it a mission for myself. One fellow reader told me that it is a great opportunity for children to rely more on imagination to understand a story in a language unknown to them. The mechanism of imagination, and perhaps creative ability, overpowers a more restrictive model of cognition through language in a situation like this. I do try to perform the languages as much as I can dramatize it whenever I read. Several months ago in a city next to mine,  there was a cultural event featuring different languages other than English. Its flyer encouraged people to hear different languages to know their cultures, which are usually marginalized or stigmatized by mainstream languages. 

Reading for Kids (VII)

 

Today is the first reading-for-kids event this academic year. I did not go to T's class but ventured into a different group. 

I chose to read "Monkey Puzzle" by Julia Donaldson. The story has been a superb delight to me since I first read it. The twist in the story is a smart scientific turn.  I even gave it as a Christmas present to T's cousin, but I wonder if she and her dad appreciated the humor in the story. Just like today, every audience seemed to have followed along to know the fact that the kind butterfly continues to make mistakes, but I couldn't be sure whether the audience understood the reason behind the butterfly's mistakes.

Mattress Cover

 

I had kept this mattress cover for about fifteen or sixteen years. It was acquired in a traditional market near my maiden home, when I returned to Taiwan for the first time after my partner and I purchased our house in the current place. 

My mother and I went grocery shopping in the traditional market as we would do usually, if I was in Taichung. Traditional markets are wondrous places where one can get everything for his/her everyday life. It was a place where my mother would shower her love on me by answering whatever needs I had; it was also the only place where I could express my affection to her by accompanying her in the lonely journey that she made everyday. 

After my partner and I were able to settle down in a house, it was the first time for us to have a double bed. My mother and I went into the market and searched for some bedding fabric to furnish the marriage bed. My mother loves exuberant colors, and we agreed to get this set of a mattress cover, a pair of pillow cases and a piece of duvet of the same pattern. The seller emphasized that, as I remember, it was made in Taiwan by a factory, which manufactured for an international brand, too. He emphasized that the price was a good bargain.  

The set was brought to Taiwan, as if I could not get anything in Japan. In those early years when I just moved to Japan, I tried to compensate for leaving the country and leaving the parents behind by accepting whatever they would get for me. Those goods then travelled by sea to the new country. 

Today, I resolved to cut it to pieces and dispose it. The house now carries the lives of four people and is loaded with the belongings of four people. I sorted through things during the spring break, realized and decided that this cover had to go because there is not any space to store it in the house. 

Today, before I scissored through the fabric for disposal, I touched it and felt it with my hands. The fabric still felt very comfortable and silky (not silk). At the moment, I hesitated and began to imagine how to repurpose it, but all would take up a lot of efforts. So I had to stick to my original plan, and I said to it, "thank you for your hard work, and it is time to say goodbye." (お疲れ様でした。)

I knew well in my heart that the physical and mental spaces in me can no longer hold it. The color no longer speaks of my imagination about life and expectation. The physical space in the house no longer allows me to keep something whose practical use is not obvious. When I cut through the cover, the scissor also cut through me.