Inside Yoshitomo Nara’s museum, natural light illuminated the entire space. The place was pure white.
The fierceness of the girls in his paintings has now drawn back a little. Something in him, knife-like, has receded slightly, more subdued.
Outside, a sculpture of a girl sat in the autumn afternoon light. Brightness and deep shadows fell across her. The pure whiteness of the sculpture seemed even more luminous. Her closed eyes gave her the calm presence of a stone Jizō statue.
Inside, faint light came through a small window. Against it, a small deer sculpture stood quietly in the dimness, slightly backlit. Quite high above the floor.
There were small sketches—drawn almost casually. Old toys were carefully arranged in a wooden showcase.
A large number of stuffed dolls of girls were packed together in a transparent wall case, but they were arranged very gently, so that none of them were crushed, and every face remained visible.
It was a clear autumn day. As the sun slowly declined, the shadows grew deeper. Fewer people remained. In that silent white space, I spent time with his work. I walked through the autumn garden surrounding the museum, looking at each tree, one by one.
On the way to the bus stop, the evening light illuminated the silver grass in the clear air. It was so still. Streetlights began to flicker on, and the air slowly grew colder.
While waiting for the infrequent bus, I wandered down a small path where the golden afternoon light was falling. I followed the gravel path and suddenly came upon a large open space. The autumn light had turned the whole place gold, and the trees surrounding it formed deep silhouettes.
I could have stayed there, staring.
