Four Seasons In Japan, by Nick Bradley

 

Full disclosure - I read this book in the spring, and this would be a better review if I'd done it then - but there we are, I didn't, so I'll just have to do the best I can. This is the first book I've reviewed here for quite some time, and I want to kick off with a book I really enjoyed - and I liked this one so much that I've already given/recommended it to several friends.

First off, let's look at the cover - because it very much reflects the feel of the book inside. Its lines are clear and elegant: it's beautifully balanced: it exudes calmness and a contemplative feel. The branch at the top bears autumn leaves: the one at the bottom, spring blossom. The title, in a simple, clean font, stands out against the large moon, which in turn is suspended against a blue sky. So we know that nature and the turn of the seasons are going to be important. And the cat? Well, there is a cat in the novel, but this is also a nod to the author, whose first book was called The Cat and the City, and who did a PhD on the cat in Japanese literature. (Though Nick Bradley is English, incidentally, he spent many years in Japan.)

The book has two interlinked stories going on. It starts with Flo, a translator who is going through a difficult time in her personal life - her relationship with Yuki, her Japanese girlfriend, is breaking down, and she isn't handling it very well. 

And then she finds a book which someone has left on her train. It's called The Sound of Water, by Hibiki. She's never heard of the author or rhe publisher - and it has been rather beautifully published. She begins to read.

The story is about a tough old woman called Ayako, who lives in a small country town called Onomichi. We learn pretty soon that her husband and son are both dead, and that her son committed suicide. We learn that she owns a small coffee shop, and that she loves the familiar routine of her days, and her small circle of friends. But something has happened which she knows will disturb that routine: she has had a message from her daughter-in-law to say that her grandson is coming to stay. Throughout the day, the prospect niggles at her: it seems she does not know her grandson well, and is not looking forward to his visit.

He isn't either. He feels he's being sent into exile from the city because he's failed his exams, and the prospect horrifies him. 

At first things don't go at all well between them. But gradually, as one season changes to the next, their relationship develops. Kyo, the boy, learns a great deal - about his father, about the past, about life. And Ayako learns things from Kyo, too.

Flo is fascinated by the story and decides she wants to translate it. But she must first find the author to get his permission - and that turns out to be no easy task.

There's so much more to the book than this. In fact, glancing through the first few pages, I find myself being drawn again into this world, which is so different from my own - particularly that of Kyo and Ayako: I find them more likeable characters than Flo (who could perhaps do with a dose of Ayako's tough love) - and I decide I will read the novel again.

Oh, and the cat has one eye and is called Coltrane. And there are pictures. It's a really lovely book.

The Red Dress

It's a glorious object, the Red Dress.  Made out of burgundy silk dupion, it has a fitted, boned bodice with a v-neck and long sleeves, and a very full, beautifully draped skirt with a train. It's like an echo of something out of the Tudor era - but really it belongs to the world of myth, and legend, the sort of dress that a queen at the height of her powers might have worn for ceremonial occasions.

The Red Dress

But what's special about it isn't the cut. It's the embroidery which covers it. And it's not even exactly that: it's the symbolic value of that embroidery. This dress is the embodiment of an idea.

It first took shape in the brain of Kirsty Macleod, a remarkable artist from Somerset. She conceived the idea of a dress which would be created not by a small team, but by 380 people, mostly women, from all over the world, many of them vulnerable, victims of poverty, survivors of war, refugees. Of these 141 were commissioned and paid for their work, and continue to receive a share of the profits from exhibitions: the remainder were volunteers, many from audiences at exhibitions and events. For fourteen years, the dress - or often just sections of it - travelled the world, being seen, telling its story, and having embroidery added to it. Now it's finished - and still travelling. I saw it a few weeks ago in Somerton , the ancient capital of Wessex, now a pretty town in Somerset.

The dress itself is stunning, and of course it's the centrepiece. But its story, which is told in a series of short films, is an indivisible part of it. We follow Kirsty and the dress all over the world, and we hear the voices of many of the women who worked on it, creating beautiful work and making themselves heard. 

I keep thinking about the project, and trying to work out what makes it so powerful, so resonant. The world at the moment is a difficult, threatening place, with war, poverty, cruelty and want seeming to spread across the globe like a blight. But something like this shows that there are good things too: that there's kindness, and community, and beauty and creativity. It shows also how small beginnings can give rise to significant results, how an idea can take to its feet and dance across the world. It's a symbol of hope.

This half angel, half bird, is the work of a Russian woman. Not far from it is embroidery by Ukrainian refugees.

Motifs from Africa.

The snowdrops were done by someone local - possibly from Glastonbury. I particularly liked the swirly motif at the bottom, because it's a doodle I have done ever since I was day-dreaming in lessons at school. It's surprisingly hard to make it symmetrical.

For more information about the project, see The Red Dress.