Atsui desu, ne

It has been so hot for so long, without pause, I wonder if it will ever be cool again.  I've even forgotten the sensation of feeling cold.  Winter is a distant memory, and seems like a dream or maybe a voyage to another country.  I looked at my wool scarves in the closet and couldn't ever imagine needing those here in Kyoto.

It is a heat that makes you a little dizzy, a heat that makes you feel slightly sick.  It touches not only your body, but your mind.  It controls your every action, like a disease.  You can think of nothing else but the temperature.  It dominates conversation: atsui desu ne (it's hot, isn't it).  You hear this phrase over and over and over.  It is a reflex, like blinking.

The world even sounds different in the summer heat, a low, dull, mumble.  The science fiction soundtrack (circa 1955) provided by the hundreds of cicada in the trees makes you think the apocalypse is nigh.  You are sure the Earth is on a collision course with the sun.  It is only a matter of time before things begin to spontaneously combust, the city around you engulfed in flames.

There is always a note in the information pamphlets you get at temples and shrines about the structures burning down.  They are never specific as to the cause of the fires.  I'm sure now it is spontaneous combustion caused by summer heat.  I believe this may be the real reason the emperor moved the capital to Tokyo after more than a thousand years.  The royal family just couldn't take the summers anymore; they wanted a home in a slightly cooler locale.

Sweating while engaged in vigorous physical activity - sport, labor, etc. - is normal.  This heat is such that even perfectly static positions like sleeping somehow produce perspiration.  Eating, sitting, standing, reading, talking are all sweaty activities in Kyoto during the summer.

I now understand the semi-obsessive placement of vending machines dispensing beverages around the city.  It is not so much competition among beverage giants like Asahi and Suntory; it is something more noble - an attempt to save the population from fatalities like sun stroke and heat exhaustion.  The vending machines placed every 50 meters or so are aligned with the distance a human can walk in temperatures near 40°C (104°F) before needing to slake one's thirst.

I said something similar about the Kyoto winter last year: 17 summers in New York could not prepare me for summer in Kyoto.

Under the Influence: exhibition views

Notes from Kamigamo Tedukuriichi

An early rising with the cicada.  The heat and sunshine already pouring into my apartment.  The Sunday train platform is quiet.  The walk from Kitaoji station along the Kamo River is pleasant, the sound and smell of the river somehow makes me feel cooler.

I arrive at Kamigamojinja sometime after 8:00.  The temple grounds are already buzzing with vendors setting up shop.  I realize immediately I am a rank amateur among serious professionals.  Giant, mylar picnic tents, sandwich board signs, easels, tables with table cloths, director chairs, multi-tiered shelving, bust-forms, racks, hangers, mirrors.  I unroll my tatami mat on the gravel with the large black ants and place my moku hanga T-shirts in six neat stacks.  Open and ready for business in 5 minutes.  This is the Zen approach to business.  Exactly and only what you need, nothing superfluous.

I am happy to see my neighbor shares the same minimal aesthetic.  He sells musical toys made from found and recycled materials.  I become slightly less self-conscious.

I am grateful for the clouds that periodically block the blazing sun.  It is my only respite.  One must suffer silently, I suppose.  My other neighbor, a jewelry maker, graciously offers me the shade of her tent.  I fear I may ruin her business if the passerby see a gaijin, so I place my chair at the back of her space.

One hour and 35 minutes pass before anyone stops to look at my T-shirts.  The seeds of doubt have been planted.  I am reminded of the pop-up gallery I had in Red Hook.  The hours and hours of doing nothing.  Only here there are hundreds of people expressing their indifference to my creations.  In Red Hook simply no one turned up, so the insult was less bruising.

I am glad for the ¥1,200 folding chair I bought.

The horrible "Engrish" mall T-shirts parading by are salt in the wound.

On this sweltering day mostly people just want something to drink, or maybe a fan or hat or tenugui to mop their sweaty brow.

The musical toy maker sits stoic on his little stool waving his fan like a Buddhist monk doing zazen.

I busy myself by shaking the dust from my T-shirts and sprinkling the gravel with water.

I study the people passing, try to pick out the ones who might be interested in a limited edition moku hanga T-shirt: a young rock-n-roller, a stylish mother, a hip dandy.  But no, but no.  Everyone walks by without a glance.  I think I could have a sign that reads "free T-shirts" and they would still pass by.

Hot, tired, dirty and disappointed, I close shop at 2:00.