Pico Iyer
Writer at Freelance
Born in Oxford, England in 1957, resident since 1992 in suburban Japan and a Benedictine hermitage in Big Sur, California.
Articles
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2 weeks ago |
airmail.news | Pico Iyer
It’s close to midnight, and I’m wandering around a world-class museum I have almost entirely to myself when I stop to admire a David Hockney painting on the walls. The Jennifer Bartlett not far away echoes, perfectly, a real boat on a real beach through the windows. Round another corner, 100 neon signs in rainbow colors—“Try and Live,” “Live and Live”—flash injunctions from Bruce Nauman. The Rauschenberg and Basquiat and George Segal are so close, they feel like neighbors, or private possessions.
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3 weeks ago |
flipboard.com | Pico Iyer
NowA look at Japan’s love of packaging, from impeccably crafted cardboard to lacquered works of art. In the story of Urashima Taro, a Japanese folk tale dating to the eighth century, a young angler is invited to an underwater kingdom as a reward for rescuing a sea turtle from cruel children. At the end …
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3 weeks ago |
nytimes.com | Pico Iyer |Ilya Milstein
Throughout its history, the country has taken imports and changed them into something else entirely. Credit Credit... Illustration by Ilya Milstein. Animation by Jonathan Eden A Japanese sentence is often as mongrel as a Japanese street. While walking through a shopping arcade in Osaka - here a tatami tearoom, there a French cafe, in between a McDonald's - you'll notice Chinese characters, known as kanji, on many storefront signs.
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3 weeks ago |
nytimes.com | Pico Iyer
In Japan, the simple act of walking has long been connected to working toward enlightenment. Japan's most celebrated poet, writing in the 17th century under the name of Matsuo Basho, found his truest home on the road. Sleeping on a grass pillow, seeking out auspicious places from which to watch the full moon rise, living not quite as a Zen priest and not quite as a layman, he is best remembered for the monthslong travels he took on foot.
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3 weeks ago |
cntraveler.com | Pico Iyer
Hours passed with scarcely a sound. Three fin whales were breaching by the prow of our small ship; a black-browed albatross circled overhead. On a brilliant midsummer morning, my wife and I stepped into a black Zodiac raft and drifted noiselessly among icebergs five stories high, their emerald and aquamarine walls gleaming above sapphire waters. Later we wandered onshore among thousands of penguins that busily waddled along their way as leopard seals eyed them from the rocks.
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