Authors: Tal Streeter
Date Submitted: August 31, 2002
Article Type: Journal

Living in Japan:

I flew my kites quite often on the sandy beach of Suruga Bay near my home in Shizuoka city, about half way between Tokyo and Kyoto. My wife held the first big kites I made aloft while I braced myself holding a line a hundred feet down the beach, and waited for a slight advantage in the wind. At the right moment I imagined I would run at breakneck speed to pull the kite airborne. But the moment I began running and met the full force of the wind hitting the face of my large kite it was as if I were trying to run in the sand up to my knees. The pull was enormous. It was like trying to fly a ponderous anchor at the end of a long rope.

Tiny kites offered a more relaxing kind of pleasure, quite a different picture from my exercise at Suruga Bay. Between these appearances, which attracted crowds of curious Japanese, I enjoyed the delight of a small kite less than a few inches in height. Legs stretched out full length, I sat comfortably on the soft tatami mats of my home, leaning back on my elbows, a fan blowing softly over my shoulder, its light breeze pushing against a tiny kite dipping and turning in the far corner of the room at the end of a short sewing thread flying line. A friend said, “Not so exciting,” and I replied, “When it crashes it doesn’t sound like the big ones, but the feeling to me is the same. When an ant dies, it is as dead as a bear, and in as much pain.” A tiny kite alive in the air has a wonderful personality. I feel the tensions in my brow and face relaxing into a smile as I watch it skip around like an exploring butterfly.

Back in America:

My Flying Red Line kites, which emerged from this experience, reflect the traditions and culture of the ancient kites of Japan, pure white, handmade rice paper, carefully split bamboo and cotton strings, a long wide line painted in a vivid red dye down the middle, red lines drawn on the blue canvas of the sky. Following the scale of my large steel sculpture, the kites are generally quite large, requiring a half dozen helpers to hold them down to the ground once they have taken flight—-though I am equally attracted to the notion of pocket kites, a handkerchief you can pull out of your pocket, blow your nose (not too hard, please), and toss it up in the sky. And any kite, no matter how large, can end up looking like a tiny handkerchief, a dot away in the blue sky. Big kites may be a little bit machismo too, but the sky is a pretty humbling place to strut your manhood.

PDF Link: Journal Issue