By Robrt L. Pela
By New Times
By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela
By Robrt L. Pela
By Katrina Montgomery
By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
Shimomura has drawn on those vivid, often poignant personal memories -- as well as camp diary entries penned by his grandmother, Toku Shimomura -- to create the paintings and stone lithographs on view in Phoenix Art Museum's "Roger Shimomura: An American Diary."
In 10 cartoon-style lithographs of the artist's camp memories and 30 small, equally spare paintings reflecting journal entries originally written in fluid Japanese script by his grandmother between 1941 and 1943, Shimomura, a Seattle-born Sansei, or third-generation Japanese-American, memorializes the ignominious fallout from Executive Order 9066.
Signed by President Franklin D. Roosevelt 10 weeks after Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, the order baldly stripped more than 80,000 loyal American citizens of Japanese ancestry living on the West Coast -- as well as an additional 40,000 longtime Japanese resident aliens -- of all their constitutionally guaranteed rights for ambiguous "security" reasons. Roosevelt, with the stroke of a pen, basically consigned 120,000 innocent people to an American version of concentration camps. Their crime? Physically resembling declared enemies of the United States.
The paintings and lithographs of Shimomura's family saga are less engaging than the story itself. Though more didactic than aesthetically challenging, more reportage than enduring art, they are not without a certain accessible charm and ironic sting. And given the fairly recent Chandler police rousting of brown-skinned people, the work is a timely reminder that another racist roundup continues to be well within the realm of possibility in this country.
"These are actually my first 10 memories of life," says Shimomura of the lithographs appearing in the exhibition. "For me, all of my first memories come from when my entire family was in Camp Minidoka in Idaho -- my mother, father, grandmother, grandfather -- everybody, including my uncles, aunts and cousins. The order only affected Japanese living in the so-called security zone, which ran along the coast of Washington, Oregon and California. It's interesting because over 95 percent of the entire Japanese-American population in this country [lived in this area]. The other 5 percent were scattered here and there. It had an effect on virtually the entire ethnic group."
Displayed alongside his grandmother's diary references is a corresponding group of acrylic paintings arranged in chronological order, beginning with the United States' entry into World War II. They trace events leading to the family's two-year stay in Camp Minidoka, after an interim stop at a temporary "camp" in Puyallup, Washington. According to the artist, "the paintings start with what occurred following Pearl Harbor -- the freezing of bank accounts, fingerprinting, anxiety and notification that was posted all over Seattle that we were going to be interned." Referring to a painting of two faceless women trying to wrestle a slice of luridly pink lunch meat and a hot dog with chopsticks, the artist recalls that "for days, we ate just bologna and wieners. That wasn't really suitable to the Japanese-American diet, at least the first generation."
Several of the artist's own recollections, such as being quarantined for chicken pox and adults' complaints about bad mess-hall food, coincide squarely with those of his grandmother, Toku, a "picture bride" born and trained as a nurse and midwife in Japan. Her traditional arranged marriage brought her to Seattle in 1912 at the age of 23. Becoming an American citizen early on, she delivered more than 1,000 babies in the Seattle area, including her first grandson, Roger, now an internationally known artist and longtime professor at the University of Kansas.
The strong psychological bond between grandson and grandmother becomes palpable in Shimomura's comic book-influenced images, which quietly depict wretched camp conditions. In several, the artist captures the prison-like quality of the tarpaper-over-wood-stud barracks, a lone, coal-burning potbelly stove the only source of heat for each 20-by-20-foot sleeping area during the miserably cold winters. One stripped-down image features a solitary pair of feet in traditional wooden geta. The feet carefully traverse frozen ruts of mud scarring the earth after snowfall. A painting with a journal entry date of July 1, 1942, focuses on women's high-heeled feet poking out of the shadows of a grandstand, the only oasis from the broiling temperatures of the Idaho summers.
In another painting, the face of the artist's mother pops from a background of fairground bleachers and a roller coaster in the far distance. "Prior to going into the camps, because they weren't ready, we lived in the state fairgrounds," explains Shimomura. "It was called Camp Harmony, ironically. We lived in horse stalls and office buildings. That was really bad, literally shoveling manure out of the rooms and throwing down grass and burlap bags. After three months, the camps were finally ready and they put us in trains and pulled all the shades down so we didn't know where we were going."
An image of the camp, featuring an ominous yellow sky, barbed wire and a guard tower, was prompted by his grandmother's initial impressions upon arrival. "In this painting, my grandmother describes her feelings when they stepped out of the train and looked with amazement at this camp, which became the fourth largest city in the state of Idaho virtually overnight," the artist notes.