On a late winter morning, after two wet days in Tokyo, the sun is out; it¡¯s as if Kanako Nishi¡¯s energy has lifted the gray right out of the concrete. Even when perfectly still, her face seems to be laughing, and when she does smile, her crimson lipstick stretches ear to ear. It¡¯s not a grin; it¡¯s wattage.
Like the author, Nishi¡¯s studio is full of vibrant accents: Tibetan prayer flags, a kilim rug that matches her lipstick, a mustard yellow wall. With her asymmetrical pixie cut, rows of gold jewelry and black tattoos, the petite 48-year-old projects vim and vigor, but her vulnerability and naivete are also essential to her power.
I think of the Hasegawas in Nishi¡¯s novel ¡°Sakura,¡± a family that ¡°used to shine bright and was always laughing¡± ¡ª whose strength it turns out is woven with a fragility hard to detect.
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