© Richard HuangExhibition: MURAKAMI vs MURAKAMI
Dates: June 1–September 1, 2019
Venue: Tai Kwun Contemporary, Hong Kong
(Watch this video first.)
A Chance Encounter
I was passing through Hong Kong in 2019 with an entire day to spare. Things outside were a little unsettled, so I ducked into the galleries in search of a moment’s peace and saw several exhibitions in succession:
A Visit to A Photographic Journey with Willy Ronis
A Visit to World Footprints on Film
© Richard HuangAlong the way, I looked up and spotted this building. Something about it caught my eye, so I walked around it taking photographs.
© Richard HuangThat was how I stumbled upon Tai Kwun Contemporary, part of an arts complex converted from Hong Kong’s former prison.
© Richard HuangTai Kwun was hosting the contemporary art exhibition MURAKAMI vs MURAKAMI. Curious, I asked the young woman guiding visitors what kind of contemporary art it was. What I meant was: Was it photography, installation, or painting? “Contemporary art is contemporary art,” she replied, with a look that seemed to ask whether I understood contemporary art at all. Pointing outside, she suggested that I visit the gift shop first to get a sense of it. I had to admit that I really did not understand, so I slunk off to the shop to see for myself.
© Richard HuangThe gift shop was awash in brilliant color, and my curiosity only grew. So what if I did not understand? This was a perfect chance to learn.
Only later did I learn that Takashi Murakami, born in Japan in 1962, is regarded alongside Yoshitomo Nara and Yayoi Kusama—the “Polka-Dot Granny”—as one of Japan’s three leading contemporary artists.
Kaikai and Kiki
© Richard HuangReturning from the gift shop to the gallery entrance, I crossed the central exercise yard, once used by the prison inmates. Two enormous sculptures stood there. The child with rabbit ears is Kaikai; the one with short ears, sharp teeth, and three pairs of eyes is Kiki. These two mischievous figures recur throughout Murakami’s work as impish, malevolent spirits. They also lend their names to his art management company, Kaikai Kiki. This was Murakami’s first presentation of outdoor sculptures since his exhibition at the Palace of Versailles.
© Richard HuangMurakami described them this way: “Take note of Kaikai and Kiki’s vacant expressions and the emptiness in their eyes. The theme I wanted to convey through this series was how nightmares could be transformed into abstract painting. Most visitors, however, simply find them cute and think they would make a good Instagram post.”
Visitors had to wear shoe covers to protect the gallery carpeting, which was itself part of the exhibition. The lift first carried us to the third floor, and we worked our way down from there.
The Birth Cry of a Universe
© Richard HuangThe main gallery on the third floor presented Murakami’s monumental post-apocalyptic works. Accessible to both elite and popular tastes, his art brings high art and pop culture together. Yet trauma and suffering lurk beneath its adorable figures, producing all manner of grotesque visions. These partly reflect his anxiety about nuclear power, particularly after the Fukushima disaster, while also evoking the wounds inflicted on postwar Japan by the two atomic bombings and the subsequent flood of American culture.
© Richard HuangThe exhibition’s centerpiece was The Birth Cry of a Universe, a 4.5-meter-tall sculpture covered in gold leaf. Fourteen years in the making, it was being shown in its complete form for the first time.
© Richard HuangThe work has the grandeur and solemnity of the cosmos, yet it seems unable to bear its own weight. Uneasy and flustered, its entire form appears to be collapsing.
© Richard HuangOne amusing feature of the exhibition was Murakami’s series of “excuse paintings.” Written almost like blocks of text, they offered excuses for works that “could not be finished on time” or were “not perfect enough.” In fact, they were self-portraits in words, written in a lively, humorous voice that gave visitors a revealing glimpse into the artist’s mind. Every gallery contained one. Here is an example:
“1. Tobias Berger, Head of Art at Tai Kwun and the curator of this exhibition, asked me to create a chaotic backdrop for the top floor of Tai Kwun Contemporary. I did not entirely understand what he had in mind, but I decided to rise to the challenge. Perhaps accepting such an unprecedented request would open up new possibilities for me. At the time, I had no idea how difficult it would become!
I had to convey a sense of chaos across a giant piece of cotton canvas seven meters high and seventy meters long. Throughout the process, I cursed myself again and again, saying it was simply impossible. But I had no choice. I had agreed to do it, so I had to grit my teeth and carry on.
First, I decided to dye the canvas. The idea was to save money, since using paint for the whole thing would have been prohibitively expensive. This time, however, my clever plan backfired. The quantity of dye I needed was available only in Kyoto, and because I had started rather casually, I ended up taking the bullet train back and forth over and over to buy more.
Dye alone, however, could not give the canvas enough surface density. Because untreated cotton does not hold color reliably, we had to seal the back with primer. That still did not seem right, so we turned the canvas over and primed the front as well. But a canvas seven meters high and seventy meters long does not simply flip over when you tell it to; the job swallowed an enormous amount of time. And then, as always, another surprise was waiting—the rainy season arrived!
At first the weather was clear, and everyone worked in the parking lot outside my studio. Then days of rain made it impossible to continue outdoors. In the end, we had to rent a large studio especially for this painting, sending the cost soaring. So much for the best-laid plans. Tobias had asked me to make chaos the theme, but he could never have imagined that the entire production process would descend into chaos too, leaving both me and my staff utterly exhausted. You could say he got exactly what he wanted: the exhibition would have a cotton-canvas backdrop covered in chaos—a dense expanse of troubles and anxieties. Sigh…
2. I know I am rambling, but if my work cannot move people or fill them with wonder, then all of this is just empty talk. Some may say that writing these speech bubbles across my paintings proves that my painting itself is no longer any good. Yet I firmly believe that this kind of noise and excess provides a way to think about what art means today. And so I continue with this trivial, meandering chatter.”
© Richard HuangMuch of the gallery floor was covered with skulls, forcing visitors to walk across this fantastical artwork. It quietly impressed upon us the message that everyone must die: all earthly wealth and worldly ambition are illusions, and in the end we return to the earth.
© Richard HuangI followed Tai Kwun’s distinctive staircase down to the next gallery.
Takashi Murakami’s Outlandish Costumes
© Richard HuangThe second-floor gallery was devoted mainly to eight of Murakami’s brilliantly colored costumes.
© Richard HuangMurakami likes to dress as the strange and extravagant anime characters commonly found in Japanese subculture.
© Richard HuangHe considers himself something of an otaku. He also modestly says that, because his English is poor, he has to communicate his ideas—and attract attention—through his clothes.
© Richard HuangPerhaps these outlandish costumes are also his way of questioning the rarefied, inaccessible world of contemporary art.
© Richard HuangThese costumes were on public display for the first time.
© Richard HuangI followed Tai Kwun’s distinctive staircase down to the next gallery.
Superflat Flowers
© Richard HuangThe first-floor gallery contained Murakami’s thought-provoking Enso paintings, infused with the Buddhist idea of sudden awakening. The circle symbolizes emptiness, unity, and the infinite in Zen Buddhism. The space invited meditation and reflection on the true nature of life.
© Richard HuangEven the ceiling was painted gold. The entire space glittered with splendor, and the effect was overwhelming. Gold also called to mind the religious icons, saints, eminent monks, and sacred places of history.
© Richard HuangThere were also the exuberant smiling-flower works for which Murakami is best known.
© Richard HuangMurakami commented on his flower works: “On the surface, my work is filled with countless happy flowers and anime-like characters, giving it an air of innocence and joy. But if you notice the darkness concealed beneath, you will discover a powerful use of contrast. That is what makes an artwork moving and able to sustain repeated viewing.”
© Richard HuangAcross the walls and carpets, the motifs repeated in seemingly endless combinations, creating an immersive experience for visitors.
© Richard HuangTan Tan Bo originated in a manga character by Shigeru Mizuki and is yet another incarnation of Mr. DOB, Murakami’s alter ego. A closer look reveals that every Superflat work emerges from painstaking research, meticulous attention to detail, and endless rounds of refinement.
© Richard HuangNearly twenty years earlier, Murakami had coined the term “Superflat.” It refers not only to a style of painting without three-dimensional perspective, but also to the territory where high and low culture meet. His practice is rooted in traditional Japanese ukiyo-e, while the energy and visual language of anime provide his main creative vocabulary, blended with elements of Pop Art. He draws viewers into worlds that are by turns bizarre and unruly or innocent and playful, using them to explore utopia and dystopia. “Murakami is not only the most important artist of Japan’s Heisei era; he is also the most important artist of the era to come,” said Emmanuel Perrotin. The French gallerist discovered Murakami in the early 1990s, when the artist was just beginning his career, and staged his first European solo exhibition in 1995.
© Richard HuangBack on the ground floor, I turned for one more look at Tai Kwun’s distinctive staircase. It was time to gather my thoughts on the exhibition.
Reflections
This exhibition, encountered entirely by chance, introduced me to Takashi Murakami, one of Japan’s three leading contemporary artists. His work is undeniably appealing—and highly commercialized. Yet beneath that appeal lies an ironic critique of mass culture. His art explores consumerism, popular culture, identity, and the relationship between art and commerce, while prompting discussion about the ways contemporary art and popular culture shape one another.
While researching the exhibition, I watched the video below, directed by Murakami. My daughter heard it and came over. “Dad, why are you watching Hatsune Miku? That’s for young people.” I told her, “Because I’m curious.”
I looked her up online. Hatsune Miku is a virtual singer whose voice is generated through vocal-synthesis technology, with no real human performer behind the character. Her success lies not only in the music itself, but also in how she embodies the rise and growth of virtual-idol culture. Her arrival ushered in a new era of virtual singers and idols, profoundly influencing Japan’s music and entertainment industries.
Murakami put it well:
“We want to see the newest things because we want to glimpse the future, if only for an instant. In that moment, even if we do not fully understand what we have glimpsed, it can still move us. That is what we call art.”
（We want to see the newest things. That is because we want to see the future, even if only momentarily. It is the moment in which, even if we don’t completely understand what we have glimpsed, we are nonetheless touched by it. This is what we have come to call art.）