The Yosuga Family

When I first started touring in Japan in 1999, it was a lot easier to get a hotel room, or a ryōkan (B&B) in the major metropolitan areas. As time marched on and Kyoto became a bigger and bigger tourist destination, it’s become nigh impossible. In 2014, I reached out to my friend Hiroko to see if she had any suggestions — something the locals might know of that may not be on my radar. Sure enough, she had heard of a new place that might be perfect: it was an artist residency called Art Space Yosuga (寄す処).

When I wrote to Numasawa Tadayoshi and his partner Mase Yukiko, it turned out our timing was perfect. We would fill the gap between an Australian photographer, and a ceramicist visiting from Europe. When Colleen and I arrived, we struck an immediate and meaningful friendship with Numa-san and Yuki. Although I was in Japan on an Irish music tour, my history in Japanese music came out; Yuki was studying shamisen at the time, and Numa-san had an understanding and appreciation for shakuhachi as he was a devout Buddhist, so we had much in common.

As Yosuga was still fairly new at that time, they asked if I’d help them write the “house rules” in English, since the hope was their guests would be coming from all over the world. There were of course a few important logistical challenges; like how to operate the shower and the microwave for instance, but their primary concern was making sure everyone was comfortable. We talked through some of the challenges of translating Japanese to English, not just linguistically but culturally, and eventually found ourselves laughing in the way friends that have known each other for years do.

Art Space Yosuga had two guest rooms, a shared bath and shower room, and a small kitchenette. There was also a small bar with a separate entrance where we would meet a wildly entertaining group of now life-long friends; some artists, some local characters from the neighborhood. This included Mrs. Hiromi, the Yosuga okā-san who owned the building. The Yosuga Family, as it would come to be known.

The first year we stayed there, Colleen and I popped into the Yosuga bar for a nightcap after our gig and ended up having an absolutely lovely time with our new Yosuga Family, playing music, chatting and carrying on. Yuki played her shamisen for us, and gave Colleen an impromptu lesson. They asked if I would play shakuhachi for them—something I’m not always comfortable doing—but I was so at ease with these people, confident that even if they didn’t like what I did, they’d respect it.

*There may have been drink involved; Colleen, learning shamisen; with our dearest friends Kathrin and Jun*

The next year, Numa-san and Yuki reconfigured the entry to create a stage for a house concert, which became a regular part of our Japan tour right up until the pandemic.

One night after the gig, we learned a bit of Numa-san’s story and how he came to Kyoto. It turned out, originally from Fukushima, he had been a police officer in Ibaraki for nearly 30 years.

In the days immediately following the devastating Tohoku quake and tsunami, Numa-san, as a member of the police force, was on hand for search, rescue and recovery. One day, he watched as a small, kindergarten-aged girl, amidst the monochrome grey destruction, found a bright red rubber ball. She was so excited to show everyone, bringing smiles to the faces of all the adults, careful to make sure she offered everyone a turn to play with it. Despite her situation—her home destroyed and all the earthly possessions lost for her and everyone in her neighborhood—she found happiness in this simple, brightly colored toy.

This image of the little girl with her bright red ball was forever seared into Numa-san’s memory. He became acutely aware of the impact a small bit of beauty can have, even in the worst of times. He decided in that moment he would retire from the police force and do whatever he could to encourage and nurture the arts. He was still committed to public service, but wanted to shift his role to helping people experience beauty in the world. His story was so unexpected, it very nearly moved me to tears.

A man like Numa-san comes along once in a lifetime, only if you’re very lucky. He was a natural facilitator, someone who loved people, and people loved being around. He was engaging and hugely charismatic — at the same time, he was not one of those people who sucked all the air out of a room. He was an excellent conversationalist with a broad spectrum of knowledge. Much like my father, he had a deep love of poetry; he was also a gifted painter and photographer. He had a natural curiosity about the world, generous, in both thought and spirit.

Once, during my Japan tour, I contracted a terrible upper respiratory infection. Numa-san sat beside me with his hand on my chest, breathing with me and doing his best to make me feel better. In many ways, my Yosuga Family felt more like family than my actual family.

Last year, after a painfully long five-year hiatus, we made our way back to Kyoto. The Yosuga as it was pre-COVID was no longer, but we played at a lovely temple in the same neighborhood. We knew Numa-san had been unwell of late, but he still made it out to see us.

He had been undergoing immunotherapy for some time. In March, his struggle ended and he passed away.

I’ve lost friends before. I’m foolish and naive enough to wish I could have had a chance to say goodbye, every time. We’re so rarely granted that kind bit of closure to let the people closest to us, the people we most admire, know how much we loved them, how much they meant to us. The last time you see a friend is never the last time you’ll see them. Until it is.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Four Minutes, Fifty-One Seconds