(Subject written on a bag. Change it in for.. what?)
In Shimane prefecture I was sitting in an old house looking at a bedsheet. The house had been standing for at least a hundred years, and despite that was in great condition. I'd heard that this was a gallery from a student. I was excited just to go somewhere new, see some art, and take some tea in the neighboring cafe, but I hadn't realized just how special this place was. Or how special the bedsheets were.
It's run by a woman named Nobuko. The house was where her husband grew up as a child. Now her husband is gone, and when her mother-in-law passed away, she inherited the house. There's a decline in old Japanese houses recently. They're old, prone to termites, shaken by earthquakes, and the gardens are difficult to upkeep. So when an owner passes away, it's usually bulldozed over, and four or five boxy, concrete homes are erected and sold to young families who have no idea what used to stand there before they moved in, or what memories still cling to the earth buried under the concrete.
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