On my last couple of days in Japan (I’m back home now), I made a trip to Naoshima, one of Japan’s world-renowned ‘art islands’, I had heard only good things about Naoshima and my expectations were high, although I had had little time to research the place and consequently I didn’t really know what was there beyond a Yayoi Kusama polka-dot pumpkin I had seen pictured by the seaside. There are several museums on the island, so I had imagined rooms full of paintings, prints, drawings, and sculpture, but Naoshima turned out to be something rather different.
If you are a devoted fan of architect Tadao Ando, who designed most of the buildings that comprise the complex of museums and galleries on the small island, you are likely to have a good time. Others may find themselves a bit perplexed. Ando is known for creating geometric spaces with blank walls of grey concrete, and there is a great deal of empty space surrounded by grey concrete in Ando's buildings on Naoshima – buildings treated with what seems like an exaggerated reverence.
The spaces themselves are considered works of art and visitors are fussily told not to touch the walls, told not to touch the art, told not to wear shoes in some rooms (but not in others), told to get in line and wait their turn. It turns out, though, that there is actually very little art on this art island. The entry fees seem steep considering how small the venues are and how little there is to see in them. The sense of being cheated by the fees was frequently palpable. I noticed visitors emerging from buildings with puzzled looks on their faces, their expressions wordlessly asking ‘Is that all?’
While the pseudo-sacred architectural spaces are of some interest, the sense of the sacred is ruined by the simultaneous demand that they function as places to display art and the art is not any better served. Signage is poor (see below) and the lighting is often appalling from the perspective of viewing art. In many spaces, there is only dim natural light (particularly an issue on an overcast day). Often outside light is brought in through thin slots that fail to properly illuminate what art there is, or, in some cases, cause the art to be starkly back-lit and difficult to see.
At the Chichu Art Museum, the Monet Room (which houses five large water lily paintings) has been designed along the lines of the rooms displaying the large water lilies at the Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris (designed with Monet’s input), the paintings illuminated by natural light in a room preceded by a vestibule. Monet’s idea behind the vestibule was that the space would act as a buffer zone between the outside world and the art, allowing visitors to relax and put aside everyday worries temporarily before entering the actual gallery space. The vestibule serves also to help the eyes adjust to the lower light levels inside the gallery area.
In this case, however, the gallery is hardly identified. Visitors are abruptly stopped by staff members in front of an unmarked entryway and instructed with gestures to remove their shoes, store them in bins, and then change into slippers. There is no indication of what’s in the gallery. If you don’t already know, you have no idea why you are being stopped and made to change footwear. I entered not knowing what the line was for. The mild anxiety and annoyance caused by the uncertainty would seem to defeat the purpose of the vestibule. The floor is made of patterned concrete. It doesn’t look fragile. It’s not clear why it’s necessary to protect it from shoes. If it’s too fragile to step on with shoes, then it seems a rather badly designed floor – another example of reverence for the architecture working against the intended function of the space.
Signage is almost non-existent in spaces at many of the venues, not only around the Monet Room at the Chichu Art Museum. What there is is small and discreet. In one building, labels for the art are mounted at navel height and the lettering is tiny and black on a silver background that blends with the grey concrete walls, making the labels hard to find and hard to read without bending over and getting very close. The attendants offer vague guidance in hushed tones, which also makes for poor communication. It’s no wonder many visitors seemed confused and annoyed. I used to think San Francisco MOMA's redesigned spaces and additions were confusingly laid out and poorly signposted (I still do), but they are vastly easier to navigate than the art spaces on Naoshima. Given that in most contexts the Japanese go way overboard when it comes to signage and giving instructions, the lack of information offered is a bit startling.
The system of buying advance tickets (available in some locations, not others, and often not at the site you're hoping to see) is confusing. By the time you figure out the system, you’re likely to find it’s too late until the following day, as many tickets are timed. A further complication is that there is a two-tiered system with guests of the Benesse House Hotel getting privileged access to venues, parking, and shuttle buses. The effect is more confusion and you feel like a second-class citizen at every turn if you're not a hotel guest. I would have enjoyed staying at the hotel, but it's booked more than a year in advance.
In all, we visited seven attractions – The Benesse House Museum (which hardly deserves to be called a museum), The Chichu Art Museum (small and with a tiny collection; ‘museum’ again seems a misnomer), the Valley Gallery (a two-day ticket to the Benesse House Museum gives you entry to this gallery as well), The Lee Ufan Museum, The Hiroshi Sugitomo Gallery, The Ando Museum (once again, a tiny space hardly meriting the name ‘museum’), and the Art House Project (a collection of abandoned old houses in the town center that have been partially restored and repurposed as exhibition spaces for various artists. Each one of these attractions charges an entry fee that seems inflated given the paucity of content a ticket buys you access to.
Perhaps the most interesting was the Hiroshi Sugimoto Gallery, which contained a small selection of large photographs by Sugimoto and included a spacious, attractive café overlooking the ocean that serves tea and a sweet (included in the ticket price). The tables in the café have glass tops supported by extraordinarily large sections of historic trees. After all the blank concrete, the sight of something organic was a relief. Smaller Sugimoto photographs were on display at other locations on the island in addition to the large photographs in the gallery. Some of these were in odd locations, making them virtually impossible to view. There was a group on an exterior wall in an area fenced off, making them unapproachable. Another was hung high on a cliff face, where no viewer can see it except perhaps with binoculars. All in all, there was much baffling about Naoshima, including Yayoi Kusama’s fiberglass polka-dotted pumpkins in two locations by the seashore. I don’t understand why so many people get excited by these, but there were lines of people waiting to take selfies next to or in the pumpkins.
I don’t mean to suggest that a visit to Naoshima is entirely pointless. I enjoyed the Monets. I enjoyed the Hiroshi Sugimoto Gallery, there were a couple of other spaces of interest among those I visited, but, overall, Naoshima turned out to be a confusing disappointment.
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