Flight of Bones
The spell of the red flowers
in the nursery seeds planted
in World War Two Japan
in the afternoon shadow
of the Japanese Alps
in the personality shade
of a troubled family
a berating mother
sending the child to spy
on the playboy father
sexual obsession and fear
sitting side by side by
the smooth white river
stones, flowers speaking
of the war lingering
in the blackout factory
thinking of hanging
herself throwing herself
in front of a train
a shrink called her
a genius helped her
gain recognition
planning her escape
from self-obliteration
from endless revolving
in the infinity nets
the absoluteness
of reality
and unreality
a proliferation
of talking pumpkins
only to be reduced
to nothingness.
Yayoi Kusama grew up in a small mountain town west of Tokyo in a wealthy, high society family, owners of successful wholesale seed nurseries. As a child she had asthma and a partial hearing loss, and she suffered from hallucinations and periods of depersonalization. Her domineering mother forced her to spy on her father and his geishas, ripped up her artwork and tried to marry her off.
Infinity Nets
Out in the purple fields
of flowering spring
the blossoms sprung
tiny individual faces
opened pistil mouths
to her, to the child
the violets spoke
chasing her back
to her mother’s house
of anger, fighting
and a pencil, paper
the art supplies
her father gave
her only escape.
Her spirit floated
from her little body
wandering the border
between life and death
a thin curtain of gray
like a personal cloud
shadowing the girl
the young woman
bent over body
drawing, sketching
painting, creating
in a wild fever
born of desperation
reproducing endlessly
on the conveyor belt
to infinity, net
cast over her
life, art
her creed.
Paintbrush in hand
imagination overdrive
obsessions crawling
mind and body
working herself
away from madness
on an endless highway
of fear and visions
fleeing hallucinations
seeking obliteration
following the flowers
following red thread
on the path
to freedom
allowing her
to live.
Yayoi’s art has been called feminist. It’s been labeled pathological art brut, or outsider art. She doesn’t think it fits any category. She mixes East with West, realism with surrealism, hallucinations with humor and pathos. Her work is eclectic and electric and eccentric. It is her own, unique.
The Scandal Queen of Japan
“Ultimately, behind the impulse to fight is the simple fact that men have penises.”
Soft-sculpture figures
by the boatload
the couch load
the chair load
furniture obsessions
macaroni mannequins
overcoming fear
machine-made
naked polka dots
all the way
to her studio
across the street
her permanent residence
a psychiatric ward.
If it were not for art
I would have killed myself
a long time ago
before global fame
before legions of fans
her alter-ego pumpkin
black spots on a pier
of plastic and I’m here
but nothing
in Tokyo infinity
in mirrored rooms
dancing lights fly up
to the super-reality
to the unclothed universe
all together
in the altogether
the dissolution of self
via immersive obsessions
repetitions and intrusions
transporting us too
to another cosmos.
In the midst of the mid-century avant-garde art revolution, Kusama’s large scale paintings of nets and polka dots caught on. Critics called her work obsessional, austere, disturbing, and a tour de force. She expanded her work to include political theater, fashion design, and body art. Her clothes were sold in Bloomingdale’s, and she appeared on The Tonight Show. But in Japan she was a national disgrace and her family shamed.
Fire Burning in the Abyss
The Manhattan suicide addict
starving, suffering
the vertigo of nothingness
crawling into cold hands
no heat, no bed, no money
the downtown den of resistance
a shimmering veil across reality
fate like a chorus of violets
launching her like a moonshot
into the bright eye of acclaim
crowds at galleries, museums
drawn to her strange beauty
blending personal revelations
bare-faced self-promotions
branding the self as product
art as fiery weapon:
Go live your shining life.
Back home in Japan
the castle of shed tears
a studio down the street
from the stark white room
at the soft sculpt loony bin
in the moon dot aftermath
of obliteration
of eternity
the world’s
most successful
living artist
transcending
female Asian identity
art genres and cataloging
unnecessary boundaries
barriers and structures
dancing swarms of fireflies
fly up and out
of this universe
showing the route
to full happiness
to spending
everyday
every day
embracing red flowers.
Yayoi believed that Japan had ostracized her for her mental illness. But she returned there after 17 years in the U.S, famous and successful and so ill she chose to live in an open ward of a Tokyo mental hospital for her own safety. In the 2000s, she collaborated with several brands to share her style including polka dot Cokes and pumpkin-like BMW Minis. She continues to create at age 97 and traveling retrospectives of her work still draw massive crowds.