Hi, this is Hideic.
Recently, my wife and I got a rare chance to go out together without the kids.
That alone already felt special.
So we thought:
If we only have a limited window, why not go somewhere that is a little harder to enjoy with very young children?
After some discussion, we chose the Hyogo Prefectural Museum of Art in Kobe.
Now, let me be very clear.
We are not art experts.
Not even close.
If someone had asked me:
“Who is your favorite artist?”
I probably would have answered:
“…I’m currently recruiting one.”
Still, I had a reason for wanting to go.
Earlier, I had read a Japanese book called Why Do the World’s Elite Train Their Sense of Beauty? by Shu Yamaguchi, and it made me curious about whether art could sharpen the way we see the world.
Then I read Adam Grant’s Hidden Potential and became even more interested in the work and philosophy of Japanese architect Tadao Ando.
So I casually suggested to my wife:
“It’s nearby. Want to try an art museum for a change?”
Her reaction was not exactly:
“YES! THIS IS THE DAY I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR!”
It was more like:
“…Sure, why not?”
Good enough.
Mission approved.
Before Training Our Aesthetic Sense, We Trained Our Stomachs
Since this was a rare date, I felt mysterious pressure not to ruin lunch.
So naturally, I searched for a highly rated place nearby and found a Western-style restaurant called SAEKI.
We arrived about ten minutes before opening.
Four people were already waiting.
Apparently, everyone else had also decided that fried food was serious business.
My wife ordered a mixed-fry lunch.
I chose beef fillet cutlet.
We shared both.
And honestly?
Fantastic.
The mixed-fry plate was basically the Avengers of Japanese yoshoku:
cream croquette,
chicken cutlet,
minced-meat cutlet,
and a whole fried shrimp.
The beef cutlet was incredibly tender.
But the surprise star was the shrimp head.
Crunchy.
Rich.
Ridiculously flavorful.
For a moment, I forgot we were supposed to be developing our appreciation of fine art.
My aesthetic awakening began with fried seafood.
Not the elegant beginning I imagined.
But a delicious one.
“Who Is Your Favorite Artist?” — Immediate Defeat
After lunch, we walked to the museum.
At the entrance, we noticed that a free guided tour of the collection exhibition was starting at 1 p.m.
Perfect timing.
We asked if we could still join.
“Yes, of course.”
Excellent.
Maybe in 30 minutes, I would finally become the kind of person who could stand in front of a painting, narrow my eyes slightly, and say:
“Interesting use of tension.”
Before the tour, we visited another exhibition featuring mysterious and unusual works from different periods.
There were strange objects, old artifacts, and pieces that made you stop and think:
“Okay… what exactly am I looking at?”
And honestly, that was fun.
Then the announcement came.
The guided tour was about to begin.
We rushed back to the entrance, where a volunteer guide smiled and asked:
“Do you have a favorite artist?”
And there it was.
The question.
The final boss.
I paused.
Then said:
“I’m… still looking for one.”
My wife gave me the kind of smile that says:
“Yes. This is the man I married.”
Fortunately, the guide was warm and friendly, and the whole atmosphere immediately became relaxed.
Then the tour started.
And that was when the museum changed for me.
A Painting Becomes Different When Someone Teaches You How to Look
Before the tour, I thought I was looking at paintings.
After the tour, I realized I had mostly been looking at the surface of paintings.
The guide explained small details:
why a composition mattered,
how a scene was structured,
what kind of atmosphere the artist created,
where movement appeared,
what emotional tension lived inside a still image.
Suddenly, I began seeing things I probably would have walked past ten minutes earlier.
In Heizo Kanayama’s landscapes, I noticed branches bending under the weight of snow, the quiet surface of a lake, and the way sky, land, and water balanced one another.
In his painting of the Sea of Japan, the waves felt almost alive.
The rocks were massive and forceful.
Even the parts cut off by the frame somehow suggested that the world continued far beyond what I could see.
Then there was Ryōhei Koiso’s portrait of a woman in summer clothing.
At first:
“A woman standing there.”
After the explanation:
The thin fabric.
The lightness of the season.
The curtain moving beside her.
The suggestion of a breeze.
Suddenly the painting had air.
That was the moment I understood something simple:
Art is not always about knowing more. Sometimes it is about noticing more.
Without the guide, my brain might have used its usual filter:
“Nice.”
“Pretty.”
“Next.”
But once someone pointed out what to look for, the whole experience deepened.
Naturally, I became overconfident almost immediately.
I started rotating my shoulder and told my wife:
“Maybe I should become a painter and do your portrait.”
She looked mildly concerned.
My artistic career ended before it began.
Then Tadao Ando Hit Me With a Green Apple
The final stop was the Tadao Ando gallery.
This was one of the main reasons I wanted to visit.
And it did not disappoint.
There were architectural models, sketches, and displays that helped me understand works I had only read about before.
The famous Row House in Sumiyoshi.
The Church of the Light.
Spaces designed around concrete, shadow, openness, nature, and deliberate imperfection.
I had previously thought:
“Maybe I should actually go visit the Row House someday.”
But seeing the model helped me understand the structure in a way that photos alone never had.
Sometimes a model reveals something that reality hides.
You can see the whole idea at once.
The same was true for the Church of the Light.
I had seen images of the glowing cross before.
But seeing the structure made me understand how that light actually cuts into the space.
And then came the green apple.
A simple sculpture.
But the idea behind it stayed with me.
The green apple represents youthfulness, unfinishedness, and the desire to remain in motion rather than becoming fully “ripe.”
That hit me much harder than I expected.
Because we often think success means becoming complete.
Experienced.
Finished.
Established.
But maybe there is another way to live.
To stay a little green.
A little unfinished.
A little hungry.
To keep saying:
“There is still more I want to become.”
Standing there, I thought:
I do not want to become someone who stops moving simply because I have accumulated years, knowledge, or achievements.
I want to keep chasing something.
Keep learning.
Keep creating.
Keep testing myself.
Not because I am dissatisfied with everything.
But because I want to stay alive to possibility.
Maybe Museums Are Not Places for People Who Already Understand Art
That may have been the biggest lesson of the day.
I used to imagine art museums as places for people who already knew what they were doing.
People who knew artists.
Movements.
Periods.
Techniques.
People who could look at a painting and immediately say something intelligent.
But I had it backward.
Maybe museums are also places for people who do not know yet.
You can walk in with almost no knowledge.
See something strange.
Notice one detail.
Learn one story.
Ask one question.
And somehow leave thinking about your own life.
That was exactly what happened to me.
We went there because we had a rare free afternoon.
We ate great food.
We looked at paintings.
We laughed.
We learned.
And by the end, I was standing in front of a green apple thinking about how I wanted to live.
That is a pretty good return on one museum ticket.
My wife had not known much about Tadao Ando before that day.
I do not know exactly what she took away from the experience.
But I hope she found something.
A painting.
A feeling.
A small moment of calm.
Maybe that is enough.
As for me, the next time someone asks:
“Who is your favorite artist?”
I would like to have at least one answer ready.
Until then, I am still looking.
And maybe that is the point.
Nin-nin.
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