While there is some art that is meant to be admired for art's sake, I think that it is fair to say that most of the public art that is scattered around Japan rarely fits into this category. Art placed in front of public places, such as the space in front, at the rear, or along the side of government buildings, train station exits, and central parks are almost always there for some purpose aside from looking good. Exit a train station in Japan and you will probably run head on into something stone, bronze, and likely very large that is meant to remind you of something, or someone, worth remembering.

At its best, public art is intended to call forth some kind of emotional response. They are monuments that are supposed to jar your memory, something to break you out of your day-to-day routine. Remembering to return the video, buy that carton of milk, catch the train to go downtown: these are thoughts that "good" public art is meant to jar. The art is there to remind us that life is much more than going through lists, commuting to work, and catching that train. We are supposed to look at it with fondness.

Since most of the public art commemorating Japan's imperial past has been removed, remodeled, or transplanted to someplace innocuous, outside of public view, most of the public art that has been produced commemorate something less controversial. Abstract art and sculptures seem to be the most common figures. For the most part, they are objects of innocence, such as figures of women and children. Some of them are incomprehensible. Most of them have probably cost a lot of money.

The city of Atsugi, Kanagawa, is filled with large, ostentatious things. Walking by the many monuments that have been carved into its landscape are anything but innocent. They are totems to excess, reminders of the poor use of public funds by politicians. The largest of these monuments is located in Atsugi Central Park, which was constructed in 1997. Twenty-eight giant concrete balls, which occasionally spurt out water, have been arranged in the front end of the park facing the main road.

Now, there are probably some practical reasons for choosing something dead and grey over something, let's say, living and green. The concrete requires no pesticide. It requires no watering. It requires no fuss. Trees may live for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years, but they will die eventually. Concrete, on the other hand, is eternal. 1997 is forever. Unlike the trees that grow in the central parks of downtown Tokyo, these stone artifacts are dead, unchanging reminders of the past. And since they probably won't be going anywhere for the next few decades, they will remain, unchanging, as symbols of Atsugi's achievements as a city. What happened in 1997 that was worth remembering?

Maybe the concrete spheres are there to represent bubbles, symbolizing in concrete and steel the excessive personal and public spending that characterized the period. They could be there as a reminder of what went wrong in 1990s. In fact, I think that there are very few people that notice them. They are too bland to catch anyone's attention, unless the person is looking for cover after a long night of drinking.

The writer, a longtime resident of Japan,
is completing his Ph.D. in history in the United States.