Look at the picture of an old man standing in what is probably the one street of a tiny English village.

Are you so young that you have no memory of a place like that?  You never had grandparents who lingered on, in the place where they'd always lived, long after everyone else had moved to the city?

Now take out a book of Japanese woodprints.  Here's one by Hiroshige. The dyers have hung out their colorful cloth to dry in the sun and the breeze. Is this also so unfamiliar?  It doesn't stir up memories of the world the way it used to be?  Weren't you here, too?

Hatsune Riding Grounds

OK, perhaps you were never in Cornwall or Edo.  But can art no longer teach you to see?  To remember?  To recognize?  To cherish?