It kind of takes me by surprise (although I obviously, already, know it) when I get to the International Peace Park in the centre of Hiroshima, as I remember that a little over 50 years ago this place was raised to the ground by one of the atomic bombs dropped by the Americans during the second world war. In the city that now exists there is nothing of that which was destroyed remaining except for one. The skelital cone of the top of the INSERT PROPER NAME HERE building, set amongst the great block monstrosities of the surrounding buildings brings it all eerily back. The memorial itself an artisticic encasement of the memory. Individually everything looks like your run of the mill arty-parky things; the eternal flame, a wishy-washy water feature. But as you come to the end you see that everything, viewed from the right perspective, focuses attention directly at the remains of the BLAH. And the contrasting modernity of the art and decrepness of the subject really humbles.

I love how they line the chairs in the park with pillows for people to sit on.

A man, sketching the remains from a perch across the street.

Later I go to the Hiroshima art museum and manage to take a few photos before someone politely informs me that I can’t (in fairness, the sign didn’t say cameras, it said flashes)

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