Clayland 1 2 3 - PRINTER VERSION
>> On our first evening in Kyoto, Louise and I chanced upon a bar named Tanuki. The sculptural caricature of the tanuki—often referred to as a badger, but literally translated "raccoon dog"—was made popular by the Shigaraki potter Fujiwara Tetsuzo in the early 1900s and has come to symbolize the town. The sculptures vary in size from about one inch to ten feet and are seen outside drinking establishments all over Japan. The owner of this bar told us he often traveled to Shigaraki to buy pottery, and in fact had just returned the day before from the festival. The normal 90-minute drive, he recounted, had taken twice as long; once there, the wait for a parking space and the shuttle bus to the park was almost an hour. Finally, he said, he had to wait five hours to see the six or so exhibitions at the various halls. Louise and I were amazed. We could not quite picture how the secluded, friendly village we both thought of as a second home could possibly withstand an onslaught of this sort.
When we arrived at Kyoto Station with Val for the trip to Shigaraki, the barkeeper's story took on real meaning. Track One was lined with hundreds of passengers. We thought this must be a tour group waiting for a special train, because neither Louise nor I could recall ever seeing more than a handful of passengers waiting for the train to Shigaraki. It was with disbelief that we boarded the two-car train for the hour-and-a-half journey. We ended up standing in the coupling between the cars, squeezed in between our luggage and other travelers.
At the Shigaraki station to greet the train were young guides, looking like roadies at a rock concert in their shiny silver jackets with the park logo on the back. They were gathered around a 15-foot-high tanuki, directing everyone to the route for the one-mile trek to the shuttle buses. Fortunately we were able to find one of the few taxis, and because of that, were mistaken at the gate for a band that was to perform that afternoon, and allowed to drive into the park instead of fighting our way up the hill through the crowds with our luggage.
There were people everywhere. It was like a giant theme park you might encounter here in the U.S., only the theme was ceramic art. There was a "food-of-the-world" pavilion, and row upon row of booths selling not only Shigaraki pottery, but also crafts from around the globe. I was overwhelmed as I strolled around this park that had been hacked out of a mountainside and watched the crowds standing in huge lines, not for the chance to ride the world's largest roller coaster, but to see an exhibition of European dinnerware. I should have felt heartened and reassured by this show of interest in ceramic art, but something held me back.
I do not know the exact moment when disillusionment overcame me. Perhaps it was as I strolled by the pristine noborigama with a shape I had never seen before in Shigaraki. This was explained later by some perturbed Shigaraki potters, who said someone from Seto had been hired to build it. It might have been the noisy entertainment at the large amphitheater that could be heard all over the park. Or maybe it was the fact that the performance was surrounded by more "roadies", whose purpose was to keep you from photographing the spectacle.
There just seemed to be so little of the real Shigaraki there. None of my friends or acquaintances from the area had a nice thing to say about the park. Some, as soon as you brought up the subject, would
>>
© 1980 - 2024 Rob Barnard . All Rights Reserved. Site design: eismontdesign
>> On our first evening in Kyoto, Louise and I chanced upon a bar named Tanuki. The sculptural caricature of the tanuki—often referred to as a badger, but literally translated "raccoon dog"—was made popular by the Shigaraki potter Fujiwara Tetsuzo in the early 1900s and has come to symbolize the town. The sculptures vary in size from about one inch to ten feet and are seen outside drinking establishments all over Japan. The owner of this bar told us he often traveled to Shigaraki to buy pottery, and in fact had just returned the day before from the festival. The normal 90-minute drive, he recounted, had taken twice as long; once there, the wait for a parking space and the shuttle bus to the park was almost an hour. Finally, he said, he had to wait five hours to see the six or so exhibitions at the various halls. Louise and I were amazed. We could not quite picture how the secluded, friendly village we both thought of as a second home could possibly withstand an onslaught of this sort.
When we arrived at Kyoto Station with Val for the trip to Shigaraki, the barkeeper's story took on real meaning. Track One was lined with hundreds of passengers. We thought this must be a tour group waiting for a special train, because neither Louise nor I could recall ever seeing more than a handful of passengers waiting for the train to Shigaraki. It was with disbelief that we boarded the two-car train for the hour-and-a-half journey. We ended up standing in the coupling between the cars, squeezed in between our luggage and other travelers.
At the Shigaraki station to greet the train were young guides, looking like roadies at a rock concert in their shiny silver jackets with the park logo on the back. They were gathered around a 15-foot-high tanuki, directing everyone to the route for the one-mile trek to the shuttle buses. Fortunately we were able to find one of the few taxis, and because of that, were mistaken at the gate for a band that was to perform that afternoon, and allowed to drive into the park instead of fighting our way up the hill through the crowds with our luggage.
There were people everywhere. It was like a giant theme park you might encounter here in the U.S., only the theme was ceramic art. There was a "food-of-the-world" pavilion, and row upon row of booths selling not only Shigaraki pottery, but also crafts from around the globe. I was overwhelmed as I strolled around this park that had been hacked out of a mountainside and watched the crowds standing in huge lines, not for the chance to ride the world's largest roller coaster, but to see an exhibition of European dinnerware. I should have felt heartened and reassured by this show of interest in ceramic art, but something held me back.
I do not know the exact moment when disillusionment overcame me. Perhaps it was as I strolled by the pristine noborigama with a shape I had never seen before in Shigaraki. This was explained later by some perturbed Shigaraki potters, who said someone from Seto had been hired to build it. It might have been the noisy entertainment at the large amphitheater that could be heard all over the park. Or maybe it was the fact that the performance was surrounded by more "roadies", whose purpose was to keep you from photographing the spectacle.
There just seemed to be so little of the real Shigaraki there. None of my friends or acquaintances from the area had a nice thing to say about the park. Some, as soon as you brought up the subject, would
>>
© 1980 - 2024 Rob Barnard . All Rights Reserved. Site design: eismontdesign