Yesterday we went to see the Escher exhibit at the basement museum of a large downtown department store. Couple of years ago we saw a Dali exhibit at a similar department store museum- poorly lit paintings hung knee high behind glass- so we didn't expect much. We were not disappointed. First we stood in line. Japan is a crowded country, half the population of the US jammed into a space the size of california. So waiting in line is not unexpected. The line stretched around, back and forth, up and down stairs, but, since the departo officials had no sense of humour, we were not required to go up and down at the same time or metamorphose into lizards. Finally we entered the excrusheeatingly hot display space where we seemingly were expected to stand in line to slowly move past the prints.

At the Santa Cruz house there are ants, tiny little industrious buggers, I believe they are called 'sweet ants'. They will make a trail from somewhere in the front yard, thru the garage, back outside, thru the backyard, around the corner, up a wall, down the wall... just to eventually arrive at the spilled honey in the kitchen cabinet. They are group-minded and determined. Put an obstacle in their way and they will crowd and mill about, confused and disoriented, until finally the pressure of their peers finds away around the obstacle.

This is much how visiting an art exhibit in Japan is. I've always held that art is to be enjoyed, gazed at, many museums even have seating for people who wish to bask and enjoy. Art is meant to be seen from a slight distance, in Dali's case perhaps several yards, in Esher's case a tad closer. Of course I can't expect the leisure of sitting and gazing when nine million other people are also interested in the work, but still, goddamnit, art is not meant to be seen at the very tip of a snot-nose. The line hugged the wall, moving forward glacially as each person took their precious second to examine the work from several centimeters distance.

We grew quickly frustrated and left the line to stand back and view the pieces we particularly enjoyed. Once a minute we could get an unobstructed view before the next lolipop-head moved in. My most vivid memory of Escher from henceforth will no longer be weeks of high-school pot-dulled staring at a well-worn coffee-table book, but the way a balding, precancerous-sored pie-head scalp blended into the foreground of the foreground of an european cityscape. Fortunately, i can see over the heads of most Japanese, but eventually i found that i could stand just a bit more closely than comfortable viewing distance and discuss the work with B (did i mention that no-one talks when viewing art, it is apparently sacred) and the line would stop. And mill about, confused and disoriented, until finally the pressure of their peers would find a way around the obstacle.

Amazing how adaptive humans are, couple of years ago I swore I'd never go to another art exhibit in Tokyo. I seriously wanted to kill after that Dali fiasco. But I enjoyed the Escher exhibit.