"Abjection" by Lily Kearney

Abjection

Lily Kearney, Montclair State University

Artist Statement:

Inspired by Agnès Varda's The Gleaners and I, Abjection is a short story that follows a gifted young detective who struggles with depression and a lack of purpose. Throughout the course of his investigations, he encounters an assembly artist devoted to repurposing discarded objects and providing resources to an underprivileged community. Through their repeated interactions, the detective learns to find beauty in the discarded and perhaps even in himself.  

In relation to the theme “Honors as a Haven,” the work presents compassion and service as forms of refuge. The assembly artist creates a haven for others through acts of restoration, while the detective gradually discovers a haven within human connection. Abjection inspires quiet responsibility to care for what others neglect. 

Here, I composed a series of fictional letters that a person with Alzheimer’s sends to their loved one after being diagnosed. This fictional piece, inspired by real individuals, aims to show the love, compassion, and decision-making that people face throughout the progression of Alzheimer’s disease. I hope to show the audience that this condition is not simply a memory deficit but a much more complex and devastating disease. With these letters, I try to reflect some of the examples of the hardships and cognitive changes that people with Alzheimer’s disease will experience, as well as the physical and emotional toll it has on the caregiver.

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Main Submission

At the center of one of the many long-winded, narrow roads of Kotobuki, a young man stood tall while situated across from a heap of discarded trash. In his line of sight were rusted metal, glass shards, and lost screws.

To most, these objects would be considered garbage—all bits of greater items that had been used past their prime and lost purpose.

Nakamura Kento only saw opportunity in discarded objects.

To him, that pile was treasure.

***

“Okada-san,” Inoue breathed excitedly. “Have you seen the news? Someone put up an unsanctioned sculpture near the bay. A ram, from what I’ve been told!”

“Is that so?” Okada’s response was brisk and unconcerned.

How kind of his coworker to share her enthusiasm. Inoue was the agency’s latest intern, and Okada had reluctantly taken on a mentor role in regard to the young woman.

As for this sculpture… Okada couldn’t care less, truly. 

He had indeed heard of it. There were, in fact, several strewn-together “art” pieces that had been scattered across Yokohama over the past six months, all made entirely from street trash. The most recent ram depiction had earned the anonymous sculptor the title “Zookeeper” by media coverage.

As a full-time investigator for one of Yokohama’s private detective agencies, Okada was discreetly familiar with the city’s inner workings. But right now? He had bigger problems, like dismissing Inoue quickly so that he could get back to slacking off around the office.

“Inoue-kun, this ‘art’ nonsense will pass by the end of the week. Satisfy yourself with images for now," Okada responded simply. Perhaps if he had a greater capacity for emotion, he would have chuckled posthumously at the innuendo.

Frankly, Okada didn’t want to converse with anyone who’d praise a Kusama Yayoi knock-off.

Inoue’s lip curved downward. “One of us will be expected to investigate it sooner or later. You're really not curious?”

The agency was in fact already in negotiations with a client, but Okada wasn’t about to tell her that. 

“Talk it through with Katagiri-kun.” Okada waved her off with a sigh. He was sure the office’s renowned stickler would have a field day penciling that into his schedule. 

Okada could not understand the appeal of assembly sculptures in the first place. If objects had maintained their value and function, they would not have been discarded. Trashed items resulted from manufacturing or functional failures.

What beauty was there in detritus?

 ***

Fate was a cruel mistress.

Two days prior, a new statue was erected in Yokohama’s Chinatown district near the Minato Mirai harbor. This one was of a lion boasting used cans and scraps of tin for a mane. How tasteful.

By some stroke of immense misfortune, Okada was the unlucky bachelor assigned to investigate the sculptor. He silently cursed his supervisors, as Chihara had likely predicted this outcome months ago. Though many employees were currently assigned elsewhere, Okada could not understand how he had been the agency's next choice. 

Why not let the sweet, cherubic Inoue, whose excitement was unbridled, observe the case? It surely would have served as good training. Why not deploy Inugai, the part-timer who boasted a sincere love for animals and would have delighted at depictions of such? Even Katagiri was likely to be thorough with a case of this nature, whether or not he held an interest in the repurposing of material goods.

Okada’s only unrivaled skill was his apathy. Starving to death sounded like a painful, miserable way to go, and detective work provided Okada with the money to prevent such, so he reluctantly accepted the case.

Fortunately, the agency’s headquarters was near the harbor, and Okada soon found himself strolling through Yokohama's Chinatown for clues. Within twenty minutes, he arrived at his first destination—Mazu Miao, an elaborate Taoist temple located in a quieter section of the district.

Chihara Rihito, the head investigator of his division, had suggested that the lion sculpture resembled those of Chinese mythology. He recommended pressing shrine attendants and nearby employees for details. If it were anyone else, Okada would have scoffed and immediately refused at the mere idea, but Chihara’s esoteric knowledge could outwit the world’s grandmasters even on his worst days.

Upon approaching the shrine, Okada bowed and politely paid for a handful of joss sticks. He supposed that there was some irony in being surrounded by such vibrant architecture despite not having a spiritual bone in his body. Here he stood, in a building carved out by the exorbitant wealth of previous generations, all the while investigating a trash artist who may as well have no more than a dollar to their name.

Okada lit and placed the incense sticks in their respective ash trays, mindful of the order in which he did so. Once inside the main worship room, he was courteously given instructions by a man with a Chinese accent on proper praying etiquette. He swiftly nodded and proceeded to look around. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Okada tapped the man on his shoulder. “Have you recently had any unusual visitors, perhaps pertaining to the lion sculpture near the Minato Mirai?” he prompted cheerfully. He hoped that the jaunty lilt in his voice would encourage honesty from the attendant, though it would likely be a long stretch before he found what he was looking for.

The attendant first looked confused, then shook his head. Okada stared at the ground. Hmm… why was he even doing this, again?

Okada hastily prayed and exited the shrine with a newfound headache, feeling considerably gloomier than when he’d first arrived half an hour prior.

Ah, Chihara-san. Ever the vague miscreant.

Perhaps a call for more guidance would suffice, given that Okada could hardly muster the energy to think critically about a case so boring. Opening his phone and dialing Chihara’s number from memory was a nimble task, after which the other speedily picked up.

“O’ great Chihara-san, grant me wisdom on how I can achieve a quick, painless death!”

“So needy with this case. You owe me!" Chihara sighed dramatically, then paused for a second, and Okada could hear the adjusting of his glasses through the phone speaker. 

“The sculptor will be there eventually,” he continued. “Just stay in the area between that shrine and the harbor. Talk to people to pass the time. Oh, and while you're there… I want Chinese hard candies tomorrow before lunch! Bye.”

What a beautiful metaphor for ‘Screw you, I have other shit to do, so you’re going to talk to strangers until you figure this one out yourself.’

In that case… Okada supposed that drowning in the harbor would be a good way to kill time until this so-called “sculptor” magically appeared. 

Chihara was never wrong, after all.

Night fell three hours later, and Okada found himself trudging aimlessly with nothing new in his hands but a pork bun and a small bag of sweets. He was defeated not by the case but by his own impersonality. Surely, his boss could be persuaded into handing this one over to someone else. 

Having made so little progress, Okada didn’t feel like returning to his dorm just yet. There were multiple trains within a reasonable trudging range. Perhaps he could board one just to feel the motion of it. 

Okada’s eyes cut across Minato Mirai’s scenic port. Numerous ships were docked at the edge of the water, illuminated sparsely by streetlamps. There was a sense of bewitching tranquility emanating from each visible particle. 

Okada silently compared the merits of descending the steps of a train station to that of the harbor’s fair waves. Ending up too far from his dorm at this hour sounded like a hassle, so he strolled until he eventually reached the edge of a pier. He peered down at where shallow waves lapped against the corners of the concrete. 

For months, Okada’s life had lacked meaning or feeling of any kind. Where one might search for their reflection in the water, Okada imagined only the reflection of the moonlight over his dead body. Would the lucidity of the water allow someone to rescue him, or would he be able to pass peacefully? Was he destined for eternal judgment in Purgatory, or a direct highway to the underworld?

Would drowning allow him to experience human sentiment for but a moment?

Possessed, Okada stepped forward, a rough breeze ruffling his hair as he leaned against the fence, edging closer, closer…

A lone figure brushed against his shoulder, startling him out of hypnosis. Perturbed, Okada turned to face them abruptly, and a stranger stared back.

Across from him was a young man with startlingly bright, slate eyes, curly red hair, freckles, and if Okada were being candid, a laughable stature. His physical appearance suggested a foreigner, but to be out this late at night by oneself contradicted that assumption, unless this man was stupid. His gaze did not insinuate stupidity.

If Okada recalled correctly, the lion sculpture was only tens of meters away from here.

“The hell are you doing?” the stranger asked gruffly in perfectly irritated Japanese. Well, that answered that question.

“Nothing that a leprechaun should be interrogating me about.” Okada returned his gaze to the sea. How unfortunate for his peace to have been disturbed by a fairy-tale hallucination. 

The stranger scowled. “Were you trying to drown? Fucking freak. Get away from there.” Fingers tugged at Okada’s sleeve.

“Says the garden gnome," Okada sighed. "Tell me, dear stranger, what use is there in living?” 

"Oh, please. Friends, nature, food—you can find a purpose in anything if you…” As the stranger distractedly spoke, Okada tried vehemently to dislodge his sleeve from the man’s grip, but to no avail. He wondered how a vertically challenged individual could have such incredible grip strength. 

The stranger only gripped Okada’s sleeve harder, pulling him away from the fence while scoffing. “Hey, you asked me, asshole. In any case, if you jump in and you can’t swim, the hell am I supposed to do? Watch with a smile? I don’t want anyone dyin’ on me tonight.”

Okada's face lit up bright with fake sincerity. “Ah, and here I was hoping you’d be a certified lifeguard!” The stranger’s hair flickered golden under the moonlight. Gross. “Too bite-sized to get hired for a real job, shorty?”

“God, you’re a dickhead. Maybe the world would be better off without you.” The stranger turned away from him, finally releasing his grip. “Kill yourself, then. Just don’t do it in front of me.” He waved a hand nonchalantly, turning away, and began walking in the direction of Chinatown.

Okada wondered if he had dealt with situations like this often. Not once had the hand on his sleeve trembled. Rather, if Okada were to liken the weight of it to anything, it had been… grounding.

Pouting, Okada spun on his heels and traipsed his way back to his dorm. It wasn’t worth drowning himself if someone told him to do it. That took all the fun out of it.

Another night, then.

 ***

“You found him,” Chihara stated the next day at the office. “So,” he pleaded with his best puppy-dog eye impression, “did you buy me candy, Okada-kun?”

Ah.

In his dismay at not drowning, Okada had ignored the fact that barely within arm’s reach at the harbor that night had been none other than the Zookeeper.

By unspoken agreement, the two met again on the piers of the Minato Mirai the following night. 

“To think that a shorty like you would collect junk for a living," Okada cheerfully berated, “how revolting!” The insult was intended as a pleasant opener to a fruitful conversation. Hopefully.

Surprise filled the Zookeeper's eyes. “How…? I didn’t tell…" He shook his head. "Actually, I don’t want to hear it. I’m just here to make sure no one ends up fish food for at least another week,” he spat.

Okada suppressed an amused smirk behind his sleeve. He opened his mouth to respond, but was immediately interrupted.

“Shut up. And don’t call my art ‘junk,’ dipshit,” the man responded, teeth gritted. “Plenty of people like my work.” He shrugged, rage dissipating briefly. “Not my fault you can’t find beauty in it,” he sighed with something akin to pity.

Okada was quick to retort. “Please. There’s no such beauty in trash. Discarded objects are manufacturing failures, a byproduct of a materialistic society.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re just too busy trying to drown to appreciate it, fish face.”

Okada groaned. He did not enjoy the company of this man. His brain could form few responses but petty retorts. 

All Okada desired was a peaceful way out of this mess, but his brain settled on, “I don’t like you. Talking with you makes things feel less miserable than usual.”

The sculptor's mouth quirked upward. “Roger that,” he said. Light bounced off the freckles on the bridge of his nose as he spoke, highlighting the curve of his cupid’s bow, his high cheekbones, the strong edges of his chin.

He gazed at Okada so piercingly that Okada had to suppress an urge to step back. 

If Okada had said that the only reason he came back was the water, he would have been lying.

***

Okada delayed reporting to his boss. His nightly meetings with the Zookeeper had since become something of a routine, and he reveled in how it had made his life minimally less mundane.

The Zookeeper's views made him uncomfortable. How could one appreciate the unwanted to such a degree? It was called “trash” for a reason. Okada could not wrap his head around it. Garbage was but a reflection of his own unwanted self. But at the same time, Okada was finally feeling something, playing this strange game with a sculptor.

Yesterday, Inoue had asked Okada how the case was going. She wanted to know if he had discovered the face behind the art, or had clues on what the sculptor's next piece would be. She was personally hoping for a tiger.

"If I had to imagine the face of someone who touches trash on the regular, he would be quite ugly, Inoue-kun," Okada had replied without skipping a beat. 

She frowned in response. "Okada-san! Please be respectful." 

Okada shrugged. He was a flawless liar with a silver tongue, as always.

Chihara was easily silenced with a promise of Chinese candies on the daily.

 ***

On one particular night, the Zookeeper turned to Okada without prompting. “You’re a detective, right?”

Okada felt a vine curl around his intestines. “Is this relevant?”

“Well, someone’s searching for me, aren’t they?” Squeeze. “God knows why. I was abandoned by my parents as a kid,” he said. “I’d be surprised if any of my blood relatives gave a damn.”

Okada blinked. He hadn’t expected this so soon—he had selfishly desired for their time together to last longer, far past this accursed investigation.

“I grew up nearby in Kotobuki, fixing up random appliances and clothing that people left out. I mostly ate out of the trash. I still can’t believe there’s anyone out there for me.”

“Oh, how it enlightens me to hear of your youth! Do continue,” Okada responded with the most bored look he could possibly manage. His emotions internally betrayed him, but this was not of any importance.

The redhead’s eye twitched. "There were others like me. Welfare wasn’t enough for us." He looked up at the sky wistfully. "Japan's homeless statistics have to stay low, yeah? The government despises people living in the slums.”

Okada couldn’t care less. Truly.

“I don’t suppose you’re telling me this for any particular reason?”

The Zookeeper looked back at Okada, boring into his eyes, and then past him. “I thought that maybe, if I could show Yokohama how much beauty can be found in the ‘undesired’ through my art… I could raise awareness. There are so many of us living out on the streets.”

Okada feigned an appropriate nod. A noble pursuit, if not naïve. 

“Hell, I think there’s love and value to be found in anything discarded, if ya give it a chance.”

“I see.” Okada stared at the top of the Zookeeper’s head, his own expression betraying little.

“How did you figure out that I’m investigating you?” He did not like that his intelligence was matched—outwitted, even.

“Please. No other suicidal idiot is stupid enough to go to the same place twice,” the Zookeeper affirmed. The man turned to Okada and extended a proper bow. “Nakamura Kento, but I prefer my given name. Also, I caught you victimizing people last week at that shrine in Chinatown. You’re not slick.”

And there he was. Nakamura Kento, an assembly artist. Sculptures too intentional to be discarded, but not quite beautiful enough to be displayed in one’s home.

Marred wrists prickled beneath the edges of Okada’s bandages. The decay of objects mirrors only the ravages of flesh, he thought. 

Okada returned the bow, albeit slightly shallower. “Okada Daiki. I was appointed here by my agency at the request of an affluent Charlotte DuBois.” 

Kento did not seem to recognize the name. “Although, perhaps you could be repurposed as a lapdog for me instead?”

Kento’s scornful expression, brows upturned, was nearly enough to make Okada chuckle.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Do the scars on your wrists impact the blood flow to your brain? I just gave you my life story, dammit!” Truthfully, though, Kento was thankful that Okada made light work of the heavy topic of his upbringing. 

“Kento has big thoughts for someone so small and slimy!” Okada barely avoided the punch thrown his way.

“Bastard,” Kento said, but he couldn’t hide the way his lips twitched upward. “Okada,” he expressed seriously. “I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m installing a new sculpture up North.

Gotta stay relevant to those media fuckers.” He handed Okada a white slip of paper with a phone number messily scribbled onto it. 

Okada wondered if he would have received it anyway, had he not been a detective. “Kento!”

Okada applauded in fake excitement. “I must apologize, I cannot accept this.” He waved his hands frantically. “I don’t date kobolds!”

“The fuck? You are an absolute clown.” Kento shook his head, glaring. “No, dumbass. Have your agency contact me. I could use some money.”

“How kind! How compassionate! Do you happen to have any attractive friends with a heart as big as yours? Only if it matches their stature, of course.”

Kento kicked his shin, hard. “Get outta my sight, ya wretch,” he barked.

Okada hoped it would bruise.

  ***

The agency coming to an agreement with Kento was not a particularly complicated ordeal. In exchange for him speaking with Charlotte DuBois privately, Kento would be granted the money for a press interview, both completing the case and earning him media coverage.

When Inoue screened it on the office television, Okada unfortunately caught himself putting an ear out for the interview.

“I wanted to convey traditional associations of beauty and power in an untraditional medium,” Kento explained to the interviewer.

“Do you discard any trash in your personal life, or do you use it all?” the interviewer asked.

“I try to use everything I’ve personally bought. There are some things ya just can’t donate, but… to hell if I don’t try to do something with it.”

Okada sighed and covered his head with his hands, leaning forward until his breath misted against the desk in front of him.

“Okada, you were assigned to his case, weren’t you?” Inoue prodded. Her eyes lit up as he continued to watch. “I can’t believe he’s part foreigner! Was he this cool in real life?”

“He was a dirty, slimy snail,” Okada replied dismissively.

Inoue squinted at Okada, eyebrows raised. “Okay…” He returned her gaze, unable to bring himself to look at the television again.

Fiery copper hair was all Okada had seen in his dreams for weeks now, and he desired nothing more than to be rid of this affliction. He hated how much he desired anything at all, the feeling so unfamiliar. 

Okada lay awake that night, sprawled out perpetually above his futon like a starfish. Insomnia got the best of him at the worst of times.

If Okada jumped in the harbor right now, would he drown? Perhaps these feelings would fade away with his corpse. 

Would he be there?

Okada slowly rose to his feet. He barely spared Chinatown a glance before walking until the water was right in front of him.

Less than fifteen minutes later, a deep, raspy voice greeted him from behind. “I was wondering when you’d be back. Suicidal tendencies, eh?” The man extended a hand. “Been a while, Okada.”

Okada could do nothing but gawk openly at him. “Kento.” His lips stayed immobile on the final syllable, mouth indefinitely stuck in the shape of an ‘O.’ 

Okada was still in his work button-up and slacks. Kento was wearing casual sweats, his hair tied up in a messy ponytail. He was panting heavily as if he’d been jogging. Okada could only imagine how out of place they looked to the rest of the world. 

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Okada blinked twice. Kento broke.

“Things have been crazy,” he gasped. “I’ve been,” breath, “trying to work through it, but nothing’s fucking helping,” he confessed.

Okada stifled a giggle at Kento’s general lack of composure. It was almost endearing. “What happened with DuBois, little fairy?”

“Some absolute bullshit,” Kento returned his grin. “Turns out I had a sister all along,” he said. His face hardened. “That woman, Charlotte… She’s my biological sister, ten years older, born in Yamaguchi. We were the product of a business marriage between a Japanese man and a Scottish woman.”

Okada raised an eyebrow as Kento picked at a strand of red hair that had made its way into his mouth.

“When Charlotte was six, our mother’s business fell flat, and she lost her job. Without the extra money coming in, the marriage began to fall apart. Our parents kept living together to save face. Charlotte was adopted by a Japanese family in France and given a French name.”

“I was born four years later, the product of a drunken night our parents spent together. A fucking accident,” he sighed. “Our mother gave birth to me while on a trip to Yokohama. She couldn't stand the thought of raising another child with a man she didn’t love, so I was dropped off at an orphanage in Kotobuki, one of the few in the area willing to accept a mixed-race newborn.”

Okada offered a grim hum. He didn’t like where this was going. 

“Kotobuki’s a slum. The orphanage lost all funding when I turned seven. I only have memories of living on the streets from that point onward.” Kento shook his head. “Seriously, it’s fucking crazy. All of it’s hard to believe.”

“But,” Kento looked out across the dark shroud of the harbor, “Charlotte looks like me. We talk the same. Shit, do you know how weird it is to have things like that in common with someone you’ve never met before?” he laughed uncomfortably. “She didn’t even know she had a goddamn sibling.”

Kento turned back to Okada. “Well, a few months ago, Charlotte saw one of my sculptures on international television. It was ‘coincidentally’ just like some art she’d made in college, so she put in a request at your agency to put a name to the sculptor. She’d never expected to discover me of all people, but after contacting our birth parents, here we are.”

Kento gave Okada a weak smile. “You know, it’s bittersweet. I feel less ostracized now. I always stood out like a motherfucker for my hair and eyes, so hearing that there was someone else like me born here… I almost feel more human.”

Okada could not fathom that. If Kento doubted his sense of self for nothing more than his physical appearance, what did that make Okada, who was completely and utterly incapable of proper human emotions? A true monstrosity?

“I could’ve had a completely different life if I’d grown up in France with her.” 

This simply would not do. 

“Kento, you’re more human than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m certain of it,” Okada finally spoke. 

Kento’s gaze wavered. He stared down past his boots, vision tracing the ocean’s murky waves. Okada ignored the way the moonlight danced over his figure.

“Charlotte wants to bring me to France to live with her and her wife, but… I already have a life here.” Kento returned his gaze to Okada with renewed resolve. “I have a home here in Yokohama.”

In this moment, Kento was no different to Okada than the stars illuminating the night sky. He was so vividly full of honesty, loyalty, and hope, a fascinating combination of concepts to Okada, who rarely felt anything at all. If Kento believed that something had worth, then even Okada could pretend it had merit, if only a byproduct of his faith in the other.

Okada stepped forward, hand coming up to tightly grip Kento’s wrist, a sharp reversal of their first meeting. He had to know. If Kento believed in Yokohama, if he could believe in Okada…

“What about me?” he pleaded. His voice quavered on the edge of desperation. This sudden need for approval was accompanied by something more immeasurable, an entirely new burning in his gut.

There is no beauty in trash.

“What do you mean?” Kento tilted his head as he mirrored Okada’s step forward.

There is no merit in the discarded.

Okada gestured to his marred arms, his neck; he thought of the dead look in his eyes in every reflective sheet of glass. “If you were to turn something abominable into something beautiful, how would you do it?” 

Apathy was a manufacturing failure. Aversion to human experience was a design flaw. 

“Okada,” Kento exhaled, mere inches away. For a second, his gaze appeared to focus on the other’s lips. Okada could feel Kento’s warm breath against his neck. His skin tingled where his wrists were scarred. His body ached all over.

He was better off at the bottom of the sea.

“I wouldn’t change anything about you. I’m already looking at something beautiful.”

Okada couldn't swallow. He would choke if he tried. A vulnerable, piercing crack simultaneously split through his mask and his nervous system. 

“We both have a lot of shit to work through,” Kento admitted. “Not alone, though.”

Okada averted his eyes. Kento gently directed his chin with his fingertips, forcing a stare. His pupils were dilated, irises nearly black.

“Do you still have my number?” Kento asked, almost a whisper. 

“I memorized it the second you handed me the paper, Snail.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Okada leaned down, and Kento went up, closing the gap between their lips, their hearts, and their souls.

  ***

Clarifications: 

• All Japanese names were written Lastname Firstname, as this is how people introduce themselves in Japan (i.e. Okada Daiki). Characters were thus referred to by their surname, with the exception of Kento in reference to his foreign heritage. 

• On the contrary, all European names were written Firstname Lastname, in accordance with Western greeting customs (i.e., Charlotte DuBois). 

• Honorifics were used (-san, -kun) in dialogue to show character relationships. For instance, Okada referred to Chihara as “Chihara-san” because Chihara is his superior in the office. Honorifics were not used outside of dialogue because the narration is detached from interpersonal relations. 

• All locations mentioned (excluding Okada’s place of employment) are real establishments in Yokohama. Kotobuki, where Kento grew up, is considered one of the big three doyamachi (“slums”) in Japan, wherein the majority of the area’s population is either homeless or on welfare.  

• Inspiration regarding the subject of assembly art was drawn from the following sources: 

○ Fischer, Lucy. “Generic Gleaning: Agnès Varda, Documentary, and the Art of Salvage.” Film Quarterly, vol. 54, no. 2, 2000, pp. 2–13. 

○ The Gleaners and I [Les glaneurs et la glaneuse]. Directed by Agnès Varda, Ciné Tamaris, 2000.