On the Big Unknown
Deep within myself, I knew the contrast between the sturdy, stern canvas and the shimmering silk was right. One material enhanced the quality of the other, creating a subtle vibrancy. To me, it made perfect sense; it needed no argument. I was eighteen, in the final year of Fashion Design High School, working on my piece inspired by Japanese architecture. My teacher, whose face I remember but not her name, told me these two materials should not be combined in one dress. She looked at me with such disdain, as though I had violated some obvious rules. I could not articulate why I thought it worked perfectly, and she couldn’t clearly explain her objection. It was lost in translation. In my head, I told her to fuck off; in reality, I stubbornly continued working on my creation, ignoring her mean comments. I used white linen and pale sage green for the long skirt and an extravagant sculptural top, with fragments of rich red canvas hidden in the skirt’s volume and an abstract headpiece.
The contrast between the materials and colors was an unknown territory that attracted me—as courage or poetry that was gentle yet confident.
***
Tuesday, July 23, late morning, almost lunchtime. Walking down the street, I hear my neighbor Elga’s voice from behind the wall. Due to her recent dementia, her speech is now bereft of distinct words, I can only recognize the tone, knowing it’s her. The street is empty, and I listen to the sound of my sandals flapping against the hot road. The sun confidently beats its big drum. This kind of summer heat is familiar, something I've known through my skin forever, pulsing through the rustling leaves of the linden trees.
As I approach the cafe, I see Danko from the house across the street. Together with his elderly mother, they occupy a table on the terrace that spreads onto the sidewalk. Two weeks ago, I heard Danko’s mother saying she didn’t like this spot, complaining the coffee was too expensive and whatnot. Since then, I’ve seen her there every day. I overheard her telling her friend, quite enthusiastically, how she loves sitting here now—the apartment has gotten too hot, while this spot feels nice and breezy.
In the queue, I greet a woman I know from the nearby bookstore. As I sit down with my espresso, I see Jan, a former colleague of mine, passing by. He stops for a brief chat.
At this time of the year, the sun moves off the tables on the left side of the sidewalk around 10 am, shifting to the tables on the opposite side along the library wall.
By 11:30 am, the sun moves away from the cafe terrace completely, leaving behind a pleasant shade.
Danko’s mother has finished her cappuccino but remains seated, surrounded by her neighbors. She sits on the plastic chair like a matriarch on a throne. I finish my espresso and head back home.
Entering my apartment, I’m embraced by the cool shade of the old house with its thick walls. Around 5 pm, the sun moves to the other side, illuminating the lower left corner of my bed.
The softness of familiarity, like ripe fruits under fingertips.
Later that afternoon, I open the door and recognize the scent of my landlord’s perfume. Barefoot, I reach up on my toes, stretch my hand upward, and pull a large branch to pick a soft fig from our neighbor’s tree. I place the fruit on a small porcelain plate. The fig’s plump body partly obscures the drawing of Mount Fuji. I’ve had the saucer for many years, always studying the scene: the two women, one pointing something out to the other: Look!
The scene she points to lies outside the picture frame, beyond the rim of the plate.
The plate is one of the most familiar things in my household, yet it depicts something far away, unknown, almost surreal. As I eat the fig, I think that perhaps I've been looking at the drawing long enough for the distant, vast unknown to reveal itself to me.
Soon, I’ll be looking at the real Fujisan.
In recent months, I’ve been collecting the basic rules of that big unknown. No rubbish bins on the streets, no tips—tipping is considered rude. No eating out on the street, no tattoos in public baths. But there’s only so much you can know beforehand. Fragments bereft of context, like single brushstrokes taken from a vast, intricate painting full of depth and dimension, shaped by time, time, and more time.
I know where the moon rises at this time of year when I look at the sky from my home, but I cannot wait to sink into the big unknown. I crave to have my inner framework shaken to the core by this silent force.
What truly matters—the tissue between the lines—can only be seen, felt, uncovered at a certain pace—I mean, slowness, in a place where no one knows you. Knowledge shimmering like light filtering through the leaves (komorebi).
What kind of dreams will I have? How will my hair feel after being washed with local water? What unexpected things will I see coexist, things I could never have imagined, and things my teachers would never have allowed to coexist?
In the cafe, amidst the softness of familiarity, I wrote notes on the unknown:
the unknown makes us feel alive
the unknown is a place where we can meet ourselves anew
the unknown is the fire that cracks a seed—some seeds can only sprout this way
Luckily, the unknown can only be imagined within what we already know. It brings its own questions, ones we could never, ever anticipate.