A Girls' Guide to the Islands. Suzanne Kamata

      Open Door

      To Lilia, travel companion extraordinaire.

      1

      How can I get out of the promise that I made to my twelve-year-old daughter, Lilia?

      A few weeks ago, I invited her to go with me to Osaka. We would take in an art exhibition. The latest works of the Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama would be on display at the National Museum of Art. The show finishes at the end of March.

      Kusama is famous for her polka-dotted pumpkin sculptures. I’ve been interested in this artist for a while. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to get to know her work better. At first, I’d been planning on going alone. Maybe I could go while my twins were at school. It occurred to me, however, that Lilia was old enough to appreciate Kusama’s art. Plus, if we went together, I wouldn’t have to worry about hurrying back to pick her up from school. My son would be okay left alone for a few hours. My daughter is multiply disabled. She often needs help.

      Of course, when I proposed this outing, Lilia was eager to go. Art! A bus trip to Osaka! Polka dots! What’s not to like?! So we made plans. Now Lilia is entering spring break and the exhibit is drawing to a close. I am dreading the trip. I doubt that my daughter can keep herself entertained on the long bus ride to and from Osaka. If I go by myself, I can read, daydream, and doze. With Lilia along, I might have to chat in sign language for hours. It wouldn’t be relaxing.

      Also, it would be tiring. Usually, going to a big city involves a lot of walking. We’d be wandering around the museum. I’d probably have to push Lilia’s wheelchair up inclines. I might even have to carry her. At the thought of physical exertion, I just want to cancel everything. I’d rather stay home. But Lilia reminds me.

      “We’re going to look at paintings tomorrow!” she signs.

      “Um, yeah,” I say. I try to think of some excuse not to go.

      Well, we aren’t really prepared. I was planning on showing her a film I’d bought about Kusama’s life and work. Afterward, I’d imagined I would discuss it with her. I’ve read the artist’s autobiography, Infinity Net. I know that she made macaroni sculptures because she was afraid of food. She created phallic sculptures because she was afraid of sex. I know that due to mental illness, she has lived in a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo for the past thirty years or so. She credits her art with keeping her alive. If she did not paint, she says, she would kill herself. In other words, I’ve done a bit of research about the artist. I have some context. However, Lilia doesn’t. Not yet. Maybe we aren’t ready for this.

      Then again, it was me who wanted to see the Kusama exhibit in the first place. If I don’t take advantage of this chance, I’ll regret it later. And how can I allow myself to be lazy? Friends and family older than me are running marathons, for Pete’s sake.

      On top of that, my daughter hasn’t been out of the house in three days. It’s partly because I’m too lazy to push her wheelchair. It’s partly because Lilia is too lazy to wheel herself. Kusama, who uses a wheelchair, could be inspiring to Lilia.

      Also, Kusama works with simple motifs. Lilia is an aspiring artist herself. Some paintings and drawings make my daughter twist her cheek with her thumb and forefinger. This is the Japanese sign for “difficult.” But Kusama’s art is easy to understand. Lilia could imitate the dots and the line drawings. She could try to glue macaroni onto mannequins. Also, like my daughter, Kusama paints in spite of various challenges.

      I want Lilia to understand the many hurdles the artist has had to overcome. As a child, Kusama hallucinated. She heard the voices of flowers and animals. She grew up in a wealthy but dysfunctional family. Her mother forbade her to paint. She did it anyway. She even found a way to go to New York City. In America, she made a name for herself. If Kusama could get herself halfway around the world, we should be able to make it to a museum a couple of hours away.

      2

      Lately I’ve had to literally drag my daughter out of bed in the mornings. True, Lilia can’t walk. She can’t hear without her cochlear implant. Even so, she is physically capable of getting out of bed all by herself. She can go to the toilet, wash her face, and change her clothes.

      During spring break, she has been lazy. I don’t really blame her. But on the morning of our expedition, she is motivated. She rises even before I do. She composes a funky outfit. She wears a black shirt with white polka dots on top. On the bottom, she dons black-and-white striped tights. Her socks are striped with blue and yellow. Perfect, I think, for a viewing of the art of Yayoi Kusama.

      Lilia prepares her Hello Kitty rucksack and a handbag. She makes sure that she has her pink wallet, paper and pen, and books to read. She’s ready to go before I am.

      I didn’t buy bus tickets in advance, but I manage to get front-row seats. They are the most accessible seats on the bus. Thanks to the Japanese welfare system, Lilia’s fare is half price. We will also be able to get into the museum for free.

      When the bus arrives, Lilia hoists herself up the steps. She gets into her seat with little help. I show the driver how to collapse the wheelchair. He stows it in the belly of the bus.

      There are few passengers at mid-

      morning. The traffic flows freely. It’s sunny, but a bit chilly. Out the window we can see the lush green hills of Naruto. We pass the resort hotels along the beach. We cross the bridge that spans the Naruto Strait. Underneath the bridge, enormous whirlpools form when the tides change.

      Next is Awaji Island, with its many onion fields. Finally,

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