Why kitsch is cool in Japan

My Japanese mother-in-law's apartment is a wonder to behold, each room a gallery of knickknacks, trinkets and mass-produced souvenirs -- a veritable emporium to unintended kitsch. You might call her a collector. Among the accumulated treasures are luminescent fridge magnets, Hawaiian hulu dancer figurines, assorted doilies and antimacassars, a maneki-neko beckoning cat and a ceramic Cinderella cookie jar.

There is no escape from the sensory overload; even the toilet sink is encircled by a group of green china frogs and a crystalline rose quartz model of a choirboy. A diamond-encrusted gold mask from the Venice Carnivale -- a spooky evocation of a jeweled skull made by the British artist Damien Hirst -- peers down while you are doing your business. None of the objects in the apartment appear to have anything in common, aligning kitsch as a visually dislocating experience with surrealism, arguably its closest modern art form.