Art and memory are deeply intertwined. Beautiful works bring new ideas to mind when I look at them, and also help me remember long-dormant places, objects, people, and experiences that have affected my life. Monet’s paintings of the Rouen Cathedral facade remind me of my time studying abroad in Seville, Spain, a centuries-old city with a beautiful gothic cathedral in its center. Seeing Gustave Caillebotte’s Man at His Bath (1884) always prompts a strange mental cycle about how I bathe myself, turning that frequent activity into one of wonder and wistfulness. Both the routine and the extraordinary reside in memory.

I knew the MFA exhibition “Songs for Modern Japan: Popular Music and Graphic Design, 1900–1950” would stir up plenty of memories for me. My dear friend Vanessa was deeply invested in Japanese language and culture. I loved when she spoke Japanese or wrote it out in those beautiful characters, sometimes accompanied by doodles and self-portraits that were wholly expressive of her personality. Vanessa was also gut-bustingly funny. She died two years ago, so I knew this exhibition exploring elements of Japanese culture would help me remember her. I wasn’t expecting some of the other memories it conjured—even older memories, of myself as a child.

One of the first things I saw in “Songs for Modern Japan” was the Hohner Echo Elite harmonica, on display in a glass case. As I read about the instrument’s popularity in Japan during the first half of the 20th century, I was transported back to 2006 or 2007, when I was a second grader in New York City. For a class assignment, I had to write about one of the city’s many neighborhoods: the Lower East Side. As a descendent of immigrant Jews, including many who came to America through Castle Island or Ellis Island from far-flung Ukraine and Hungary in the late 19th century, I had a connection to this neighborhood, though I’ve only recently begun to appreciate it. Back then I was just excited to explore a part of the city I’d never been to before.

My mom accompanied me during my romp through the Lower East Side. We visited Katz’s Delicatessen (when it was much less expensive), Economy Candy (where I learned I hate Pixy Stix), and elsewhere as we gathered the information I would turn into my school project. It’s funny: nearly 20 years later I can clearly recall so much of what we did on that trip, but I can’t remember where my mom bought me a harmonica.

I’ve always been musical. I used to belt along to the Wicked and Shrek CDs that played on my blue-and-gray boombox, performed musical theatre a cappella in college, and in high school started learning guitar, which has been integral to my life as an adult. But the harmonica my mom got for me that day on the Lower East Side was my first real instrument. I was so excited to have this funky little thing that I could take out and play any time I wanted—not that I was any good at it. I can remember the metallic taste; the off-key notes I blew out as I messed around with it; the red, white, and blue box it came in. I cannot remember where on the Lower East Side I got it, or where it is now.

Seeing the Hohner harmonica in “Songs for Modern Japan” brought all this back to me. Some details are lost, deposited deep in the recesses of memory. Hopefully one day I see another work of art in a museum that knocks what’s missing back into view. Right now, I relish recalling what I can of that harmonica, my first instrument, especially since I had gone into the exhibition knowing I would remember something—someone—totally different. “Songs for Modern Japan” helped me reconnect with Vanessa, and with myself. Memories that were both buried deep inside and inescapably present as of late came rushing to my mind as I walked through the space. I’m glad that, through this art, I can hold on to both.

See “Songs for Modern Japan” in Gallery 155 through September 2, 2024.