Consumed

Over the years, the Materialist's father's enthusiasms have turned to many things, and places, and people. What appears at first to be a harmless affection for a certain diva, say, or city, can deepen into something closer to an obsession, often without his family noticing until the consequences of his adoration begin to affect them. The Materialist's father has, at various points in his life, been besotted with the Germans, Los Angeles, David Hockney, Robert Adams, Maria Callas, Renee Fleming, Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, and, most recently, the Japanese artist Nobuyoshi Araki.

Araki is a member of that great generation of Japanese postwar photographers whose pictures capture that period of modern Japan's most profound metamorphosis, those frightening and fragile years in the late forties through the fifties and early sixties, when everything the country was, and had thought of itself, was suddenly made to change. Their collective images chronicle a Japan so different than the one we think of today that they seem to belong to another world altogether: of filthy orphans, their faces already hard and brown as adults', smoking cigarettes by a curb; of a group of defeated middle-aged men and women, their clothes so shapeless it's difficult to tell one gender from the other, lining up for work; of a mangy dog, its fur oily, its eyes gleaming, its fangs bared, caught wandering the streets of Tokyo. Along with Araki, there was Daido Moriyama, Masahisa Fukase, Ihei Kimura, Shomei Tomatsu, Shoji Ueda, and many, many others, some of whom have become internationally renowned, and others of whom have receded from public memory.

Frustratingly, the Materialist is unable to pinpoint the exact moment her father's mild interest in Araki (about whom the Materialist had never given too much thought, being more of a Tomatsu and Ueda admirer herself) spiraled out of control. The Materialist's father likes his artists on the nutty side, and in Araki, who wears sleeveless shirts and tinted glasses and has batwings of hair on either side of his round face and who recently told a writer from the Japan Times that "every photograph is like a fuck, and the best of mine are like an orgasm," he has found the perhaps perfect embodiment of that artistic persona he admires. The Materialist and her mother sometimes fear that the Materialist's father is secretly hoping to amass every single one of Araki's images--an impossible goal, given that Araki has published almost 360 books and shot literally thousands of photographs--but one his enthusiasm seems worryingly to indicate.

At Taka Ishii, Araki's gallery, the Materialist and her father were greeted by Araki's registrar, a chic and warm woman named Elisa Uematsu, whom they both like very much. (Here the Materialist must digress and say that although all dysfunctional galleries may be dysfunctional in their own ways, all functional galleries are functional in the same way: there's always the slightly mysterious, elegant, and handsome owner [in this case, Taka Ishii]; the cheerful and hard-working and kindly female director [Elisa]; and the shy and sweet and unassuming male assistant [here, a very nice guy named Jeffrey whose last name the Materialist unfortunately doesn't know].) As Elisa trotted back and forth to the viewing room with boxes full of Araki prints for the Materialist's father to flip through, the Materialist busied herself paging through three four-inch-thick binders of Polaroids.

For such a major photographer, Araki's prints are relatively affordable; prices range from approximately $2400 for an 8"x11" image to $6000 for a 40"x60" one. Like most of his contemporaries, Araki doesn't edition his prints, which in theory means he could choose to sell a thousand copies of a given image. The actual numbers, however, are much smaller--for example, Araki no longer prints images from his 1989 "Tokyo Nude" series because he feels there are too many in circulation: about 30 of an image, in fact, which is smaller than some artists' actual numbered editions.

But the real best-kept secret about Araki, the Materialist feels, are his Polaroids, which also happen to make for some of the best souvenirs one could buy in Japan. Not only can one find in Araki's hundreds of Polaroids--of flowers, of nudes, of plastic monsters, of meals, of clouds, of men, of parties, of his cat--representatives of every major series he's done and subjects he's captured and explored, but one can do so inexpensively. Each Araki Polaroid is $300, and each--for those who can't stop worrying about the unlimited edition issue--is unique. Individual Polaroids don't come signed, but buy five for $1500, and you'll get one of them signed, as well as a certificate of authenticity. (Daido Moriyama, also represented by Taka Ishii, shoots Polaroids as well--of objects, of his home--though in Araki's case, the pairing of artist and medium couldn't be more perfect. Nevertheless, the Materialist snapped up a Moriyama, of a black leather glove on a mint-green bedspread, for $350.)

The Materialist has only two Araki Polaroids, one of which is shown here, and one of which cannot be shown because she doesn't think the Conde Nast legal and human resources departments would much approve of it. "Don't you think it's going to fade?" demanded the Materialist's father, frantically sorting through images. Probably so, the Materialist thinks; no one is quite able to say how long a Polaroid lasts, but it's certainly not indefinitely. But what is, really? Anyway, by the time the image fades, the Materialist plans on being long dead. In the meantime, it's a wonderful and inexpensive memento of both Araki and of Araki's Tokyo--not mutually exclusive cities, perhaps, but both places the Materialist wants to visit again.

Frustratingly, the Materialist is unable to pinpoint the exact moment her father's mild interest in Araki (about whom the Materialist had never given too much thought, being more of a Tomatsu and Ueda admirer herself) spiraled out of control. The Materialist's father likes his artists on the nutty side, and in Araki, who wears sleeveless shirts and tinted glasses and has batwings of hair on either side of his round face and who recently told a writer from the Japan Times that "every photograph is like a fuck, and the best of mine are like an orgasm," he has found the perhaps perfect embodiment of that artistic persona he admires. The Materialist and her mother sometimes fear that the Materialist's father is secretly hoping to amass every single one of Araki's images--an impossible goal, given that Araki has published almost 360 books and shot literally thousands of photographs--but one his enthusiasm seems worryingly to indicate.

At Taka Ishii, Araki's gallery, the Materialist and her father were greeted by Araki's registrar, a chic and warm woman named Elisa Uematsu, whom they both like very much. (Here the Materialist must digress and say that although all dysfunctional galleries may be dysfunctional in their own ways, all functional galleries are functional in the same way: there's always the slightly mysterious, elegant, and handsome owner [in this case, Taka Ishii]; the cheerful and hard-working and kindly female director [Elisa]; and the shy and sweet and unassuming male assistant [here, a very nice guy named Jeffrey whose last name the Materialist unfortunately doesn't know].) As Elisa trotted back and forth to the viewing room with boxes full of Araki prints for the Materialist's father to flip through, the Materialist busied herself paging through three four-inch-thick binders of Polaroids.

For such a major photographer, Araki's prints are relatively affordable; prices range from approximately $2400 for an 8"x11" image to $6000 for a 40"x60" one. Like most of his contemporaries, Araki doesn't edition his prints, which in theory means he could choose to sell a thousand copies of a given image. The actual numbers, however, are much smaller--for example, Araki no longer prints images from his 1989 "Tokyo Nude" series because he feels there are too many in circulation: about 30 of an image, in fact, which is smaller than some artists' actual numbered editions.

But the real best-kept secret about Araki, the Materialist feels, are his Polaroids, which also happen to make for some of the best souvenirs one could buy in Japan. Not only can one find in Araki's hundreds of Polaroids--of flowers, of nudes, of plastic monsters, of meals, of clouds, of men, of parties, of his cat--representatives of every major series he's done and subjects he's captured and explored, but one can do so inexpensively. Each Araki Polaroid is $300, and each--for those who can't stop worrying about the unlimited edition issue--is unique. Individual Polaroids don't come signed, but buy five for $1500, and you'll get one of them signed, as well as a certificate of authenticity. (Daido Moriyama, also represented by Taka Ishii, shoots Polaroids as well--of objects, of his home--though in Araki's case, the pairing of artist and medium couldn't be more perfect. Nevertheless, the Materialist snapped up a Moriyama, of a black leather glove on a mint-green bedspread, for $350.)

The Materialist has only two Araki Polaroids, one of which is shown here, and one of which cannot be shown because she doesn't think the Conde Nast legal and human resources departments would much approve of it. "Don't you think it's going to fade?" demanded the Materialist's father, frantically sorting through images. Probably so, the Materialist thinks; no one is quite able to say how long a Polaroid lasts, but it's certainly not indefinitely. But what is, really? Anyway, by the time the image fades, the Materialist plans on being long dead. In the meantime, it's a wonderful and inexpensive memento of both Araki and of Araki's Tokyo--not mutually exclusive cities, perhaps, but both places the Materialist wants to visit again.