“It was as though my dark mood was turning into something clear, transparent and light, just like that lemon.”
Welcome to a space inspired by Lemon by Motojiro Kajii. Just as the weight of a dark mood can be lifted by the brightness of a lemon, design can give way to lightness, transforming the ordinary into something vivid and alive.
Through playful and lighthearted graphics, I explored a whimsical yet grounded experience that reflects the power of a single moment to ignite joy and delight in everything.
Here, lemons aren't just fruit. They're symbols of lightness, playfulness, and the joy found in small, unexpected moments.
An unknown, ominous lump constantly weighed down my heart.
I didn’t know whether to call it anxiety or disgust. Just as a hangover follows after drinking, a similar state arrives when one drinks every day.
That time had come for me.
It wasn’t the resulting lung disease or nervous breakdown that was the issue. Nor was it the nagging debt weighing on me like a burning burden on my back. No, it was that ominous lump. Even the beautiful music or poetry that had once delighted me was now unbearable. Whenever I went out to listen to the gramophone, I’d get the urge to leave within just two or three measures. Something inside me made it impossible to stay still, and so, I wandered aimlessly from street to street.
During that time, I remember being strongly drawn to shabby yet beautiful things. In terms of scenery, I preferred crumbling streets over clean, neat ones. Instead of the distant, unfriendly main roads, I liked the backstreets where laundry hung to dry, junk lay scattered around, and shabby rooms peeked out. These streets had an atmosphere as if they would eventually crumble into the earth, with walls collapsing, and rows of houses tilting. Only the plants seemed lively, with sunflowers or cannas blooming unexpectedly here and there.
Sometimes, while walking along such roads, I’d suddenly try to imagine that I was not in Kyoto, but in a distant city like Sendai or Nagasaki. I desperately wanted to escape from Kyoto and go somewhere far away, to a city where no one knew me.
What I longed for most was peace.
A quiet room in an empty inn. Clean futons. Fresh-smelling mosquito nets and a well-starched yukata. I wished I could lie there for a month without thinking of anything. If only this place could transform into such a city without my noticing. As my illusion began to take shape, I painted over it with imagination, losing myself in the blur between reality and fantasy.
I enjoyed the feeling of becoming lost in this world I created.
Around that time, I also grew fond of fireworks. Not the fireworks themselves, but the cheap sets—bundles of red, purple, yellow, and blue-striped fireworks, the “Falling Star of Nakayama Temple,” “Firework Battles,” and “Withered Susuki Grass.” There were also fireworks called “mouse fireworks,” which were packed individually into a box, each shaped like a small ring. Something about these cheap, colorful things excited me.
I also became enamored with bidoro, the delicate glass marbles shaped like fish or flowers. I especially enjoyed tasting them. There was nothing quite like the faint, cool taste of glass. When I was a child, I would often put these marbles in my mouth, only to be scolded by my parents. Perhaps it was the sweet nostalgia of those childhood memories that drew me back to it. The taste was light and cool, carrying with it a delicate sense of poetic beauty.
As you might have guessed, I didn’t have any money. Yet, to soothe the brief stirrings of my heart when I encountered such things, I needed a little indulgence. Just two or three sen’s worth —something small and luxurious. Something beautiful, though it appealed to my worn-out, listless self. Those were the things that comforted me.
Before my life had been consumed by decay, I used to enjoy places like Maruzen—a store that sold red and yellow eau de cologne, finely crafted glassware, and elegant perfume bottles in amber and jade hues with intricate Rococo patterns. I’d also spend time looking at pipes, pocketknives, soaps, and tobacco. I could easily spend an hour in such a place, and in the end, I’d allow myself the luxury of buying just one fine pencil. But by that time, even Maruzen felt oppressive to me. The books, the students, the cashier—all of it reminded me of debt collectors’ ghostly presences.
One morning, I found myself alone in an empty, airless room after my friend had left for school. At that time, I was drifting from one friend’s place to another, staying wherever I could. Left alone, I was once again driven to wander the streets. Something was always pushing me forward. So I walked, passing through backstreets, pausing in front of a candy store, staring at dried shrimp and strips of cod in a dried goods shop, until I found myself heading toward Nijō, walking down Teramachi Street. I came to a halt in front of a fruit shop.
I should take a moment to describe that fruit shop. It was my favorite shop among the ones I knew. Though it wasn’t a grand establishment, it had a raw, beautiful simplicity that appealed to me. The fruits were displayed on a steeply slanted black lacquered board, as if frozen in place by the gaze of Medusa. The greens were piled higher and higher toward the back—gorgeous carrots, beans soaking in water, or exquisite water chestnuts.
At night, the shop looked even more beautiful. While Teramachi was usually lively and bustling, especially compared to streets in Tokyo or Osaka, the area around the fruit shop was strangely dark. Though its corner location at the intersection with Nijō Street might have accounted for some of the darkness, it was still unusual for a shop on a busy street. This only added to its allure. The shop’s eaves were deep, almost like a hat pulled low over one’s eyes, casting everything in shadow.
It was on this day that I finally bought something from the shop. To my surprise, they had lemons on display. Lemons weren’t particularly rare, but I hadn’t noticed them at this shop before.
I liked lemons—the simple lemon-yellow color, like paint squeezed from a tube, and the compact, spindle-like shape.
I decided to buy just one.
I wandered through the streets for quite a while after that, clutching the lemon in my hand.
From the moment I held it, the ominous lump in my heart loosened its grip a little, and I felt truly happy. It was strange how something so small and insignificant could ease the persistent gloom that had haunted me for so long. The coldness of the lemon in my palm felt so good, especially since I had been running a fever from my lung condition. In fact, I would sometimes grip my friends’ hands just to show them how hot mine were. The lemon's coldness seemed to seep into my body, offering a strange, welcome comfort.
I kept bringing the lemon up to my nose, inhaling its scent deeply. Images of California, the place where the lemon was grown, floated in my mind. I also remembered the phrase “to hit the nose” from an old Chinese text I had studied. Breathing in the fragrant air made me feel warm blood rising through my body, as if it were reawakening parts of me that had long been dormant.
I found it remarkable how such simple sensations of touch, smell, and sight could satisfy me so deeply. It was as though I had been searching for these feelings all along without realizing it.
My spirits lightened, I wandered with a sense of pride, imagining myself as a poet dressed in elegant attire, striding through the city streets. I tested how the lemon’s color reflected off different surfaces, placing it on a dirty towel or against my coat. I even began to think,
“This weight—this is it.”
It felt as though this weight was the very thing I had been seeking all along, the measure of everything good and beautiful in life.
And I was happy.
Before I knew it, I had arrived in front of Maruzen. Normally, I would have avoided the place, but on that day, I felt like I could easily walk in.
“Why not? Let’s go in today”
I thought, and I strode into the store.
But something strange happened.
The happiness that had filled my heart began to fade away.
I no longer felt drawn to the perfume bottles or pipes. A heavy sense of gloom began to settle over me again. I thought perhaps it was the fatigue from walking. I wandered over to the art book section and started pulling out heavy books, but even the act of turning the pages felt more burdensome than usual. I pulled out one book after another, unable to stop myself, but I couldn’t concentrate. I piled the books up, flipped through them, but felt no desire to keep going. Eventually, I even put back the heavy, orange-covered book by Ingres that I used to love so much.
What a cursed feeling it was! My arms felt tired and weak. I stared at the pile of books I had taken out.
Why didn’t these art books captivate me the way they used to?
I used to savor that strange feeling of disconnect, where after absorbing each page, I would look around at the ordinary surroundings and feel out of place.
At that moment, I remembered the lemon in my sleeve.
“That’s it!” I thought.
“I should try this out with the lemon.”
Excitement returned as I began piling up the books chaotically, building them up into a strange, fantastical tower. I added some, took others away, and rebuilt it. Every time I did, the tower turned red, blue, or some other color.
Finally, it was complete.
With a light, excited heart, I carefully placed the lemon at the top of the tower.
It was perfect.
Looking around, I noticed that the color of the lemon quietly absorbed the jarring hues of its surroundings into its spindle-shaped body, shining brightly. I felt that the air inside the dusty Maruzen was strangely tense only around that lemon.
I stared at it for a while.
Suddenly, a second idea struck me.
This peculiar plot startled me instead.
—What if I just left it as it was and went outside with a nonchalant expression?—
I felt that strange ticklish sensation again.
"Maybe I should leave. Yes, I'll leave."
And so, I quickly walked out.
That strange ticklish feeling made me smile as I walked down the street.
I imagined myself as a bizarre villain who had just planted a terrifying, golden bomb on the shelf of Maruzen.
How amusing would it be if, in just ten minutes, that entire store erupted in a massive explosion centered around the art section?
I eagerly pursued this thought.
"If that happened, even that suffocating Maruzen would be blown to smithereens."
And so, I continued down the street, past Kyōgoku, where movie posters adorned the area with a peculiar charm.