I was walking along a nearby river lined with large-scale apartments the other day, when a conspicuously grand building on the other side caught my eye. It had three stories and a glass facade, through which you could see a library and lounge up on the second floor. The library had comfortable-looking sofas and a high ceiling with a cluster of Isamu Noguchi-esque lamps hanging from it.
I could also make out a cafe-like space with tables and chairs which, like the adjacent library, overlooked the river and the walkway along it. Could it be a new spot, still under the radar, I thought in excitement. It was oddly deserted.
I later found out the facility was part of the huge apartment complex surrounding it—a space reserved for residents. A strictly private space, very visible from the public walkway right in front of it.
When I strolled past it during a walk with my husband and daughter on a later day, we saw a young boy, probably in the third or fourth grade, sitting on one of the couches with a book. A Yonex racket bag was propped up next to him. In the cafe, two women were chatting at one of the tables. It seemed like they had the space to themselves.
Walking further and turning a corner, a small public park came into view. It was complete with a slide, swings, and a sandbox. A few children were running around and having a good time while their parents watched on. I wondered how the children, both the boy in the library and the kids in the park, viewed each other. I wondered how young children who don’t live in the apartment complex, upon passing the riverside walkway and therefore past the library building, would feel.
Still another apartment nearby comes to mind. It has a courtyard—only it sits across the street from the apartment rather than enclosed within. The grassy private lot, surrounded by fancy-looking iron fences, sits quietly on the corner of the street.
Coming across these spaces made me uneasy. I soon realized this was probably due to the fact that they were both highly visible and yet inaccessible. They seem open to the public at first sight, but are in fact for the few (newly built apartment prices are rising to ridiculous highs in Tokyo).
This reminded me of “the skyboxification of American life,” a concept introduced by Michael Sandel and of which I learned through Thomas Friedman’s book Thank You For Being Late several years ago. It refers to the decline of “class-mixing” experiences as symbolized in the increasing number of skyboxes at baseball stadiums. According to Sandel, people including his younger self used to sit on the same hard benches and eat the same soggy hotdogs at baseball matches, regardless of income or social status. They would equally get wet when it rained. Now, the affluent enjoy the games from the comfort of skyboxes, without bumping into people of more modest means. They live, work, shop, learn, and play in exclusive spaces. Sandel laments this as undermining a sense of community and imagination for others, which is a prerequisite for a healthy democracy.
I’ve come to think that another important feature of the skybox is that people can catch a glimpse inside. Luxury is on display, rather than being hidden for its original purpose of serving the user. Precisely because the glass wall lets people on both sides see each other, it reinforces the dividing line and erodes common ground. The effect on our psyche is subtle but profound.
That such a skybox was visible in downtown Tokyo took me off guard. I couldn’t recall seeing such a blatant display of exclusivity in a residential area during my childhood in both the US and Japan. It seems the skybox is now embedded in our daily lives.
So, in an age of increased social divide, as shown in poll results and elsewhere, what can I do for my child’s generation?
One way forward, as Friedman argues, is to revive and maintain our communal spaces. But at a more immediate level, I’m left with a smaller, harder question: what do I say to my daughter if she ever wants to use the riverside library? I’m still without an answer.
Ai Tomiki 