In October 2023, Hibiya was hot like summer, and the city teemed with foreign tourists. Tokyo International Film Festival opened with Perfect Days, which was on everyone’s lips due to Koji Yakusho winning Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival. Once I sat in my seat and the movie theater became dark, I watched Hirayama, played by Koji Yakusho, waking up in a small, old apartment room. I was drawn into it the second he awoke in his wooden six-tatami mat room. The film is set in Japan and is in Japanese, but there’s no doubt it’s Wenders’ film. I knew it would be an essential work even before the end credits played, especially for creators that go back and forth between Japan and abroad. No other film had succeeded in translating the image of Tokyo in the 2020s into a visual language. This visualization of the city will become a common language for those who live in Japan and those from abroad to communicate with. We’ll be able to say, “That Tokyo.” The new year has rolled in, and several months have passed, yet the reverberations of Perfect Days remain. 

The Tokyo portrayed in Perfect Days is unmistakably the reflection of Tokyo today. Hirayama, played by Koji Yakusho, is a bathroom cleaner who lives in a small residence on the east side of Tokyo with a view of Sky Tree. The area he works in is on the west side of Tokyo, and the public bathrooms he works at are part of The Tokyo Toilet project in Shibuya. On weekdays, Hirayama always wakes up early in the morning without an alarm because someone sweeping outside wakes him up. He brushes his teeth, waters his plants, changes into his cleaner uniform, and leaves the house after fetching his belongings like a watch and some cash. He’s a cash-only person; he doesn’t use QR code payment. He rides a Daihatsu Hijet Cargo, commonly used as a delivery van. It’s a car for laborers. Hirayama goes from the east to the west of Tokyo with a canned coffee for breakfast and music playing from a cassette tape. Here, Wenders illustrates a realistic rhythm of people living on the outskirts of Tokyo, heading from downtown to uptown. This scene, which realistically shows the stark economic differences between the east and west, is handled with perfect balance precisely because Wenders is the master of road movies. The view of the road, lit by the morning sun, will feel familiar to those who know his work. It also appears in Notebook on Cities and Clothes, Wenders’ 1989 film on Yohji Yamamoto. 

In pursuit of the image of Tokyo

The days when foreign tourists couldn’t be seen in the city have disappeared. In 2003, there were 5.21 million foreign visitors and 25 million by 2023. The number multiplied by 5 in two decades. After overcoming a period marked by a slump due to the pandemic, the number of monthly visitors entering the country at the end of 2023 surpassed the number in pre-covid 2019. Sightseeing destinations like Kyoto and Niseko are full of tourists from abroad, but Tokyo is the same. There are moments when it feels like over half of the people in Ginza and Omotesando are visiting from abroad. With the help of Japan’s weak yen, the number of people drawn to Tokyo has increased. What sort of idea of Tokyo are the foreign visitors chasing after? 

A famous example of a film that successfully visualized Tokyo in the past is Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation (2003). The film, which continues to enchant audiences abroad, offers a glimpse of Tokyo culture from an outside perspective. Conflicting cultures, such as technology, karaoke, cosplay, clubs, fetish culture, fashion, music, TV programs, and traditional culture, are mixed and woven within the city. She creates an unidentifiable image of Tokyo that “economic animals” reside in. Figures such as Hiroshi Fujiwara, the late chief editor of DUNE, Fumihiro Hayashi, Kunichi Nomura, who was involved in the location scouting process, and HIROMIX make cameos. The 2003 film captured the hearts of audiences, especially in Europe and America, who were searching for a city where novelty and exoticism coexisted. If you ask the hotel staff, you can actually listen to the tracks that Nigo selected at the Park Hyatt Tokyo, the backdrop for Lost in Translation. Even today, two decades after the film’s release, people visit the city and the Park Hyatt Tokyo to chase after the elusive idea of Tokyo in the film, and they haven’t ceased. I should point out that the film illustrates life in the west side of Tokyo, such as Shibuya and Shinjuku. 

On the contrary, in the sense that anyone can access it, the Tokyo depicted in Perfect Days is approachable. It’s not the kind of Tokyo you can’t tap into if you don’t know anyone; it’s not a best-kept secret. It comprises parks, izakaya bars, old bookstores, laundromats, apartments made from wood, bathrooms in west Tokyo, the landscape of a city where its urban development never seems to end, and streets that connect the east to the west. For many Tokyoites, such everyday views aren’t rare, as they’ve encountered them at least once. 

A film that was born because it didn’t start out as one

According to the producer and co-screenwriter of Perfect Days, Takuma Takasaki, and co-producer and financer, Koji Yanai, this film was born from various coincidences. The film’s setting, The Tokyo Toilet, is a set of public bathrooms in the Shibuya ward. In terms of toilets, in In Praise of Shadows by Junichiro Tanizaki, he asserts that the mystique and distinct beauty of toilets lie in their gloominess, but what do you, dear reader, think? The Tokyo Toilet is a project in which legendary architects and designers shed light on the shadows of bathrooms. The 17 bathrooms, made by world-renowned architects and designers like Shigeru Ban, Tadao Ando, Nigo, and Mark Newson, were born from Fast Retailing’s Koji Yanai’s curation. Perfect Days 
emerged from Koji Yanai and Takuma Takasaki casually brainstorming how to get people to use The Tokyo Toilet bathrooms cleanly. A conversation between Takasaki and Yanai detailing the film’s genesis is in the December 2023 issue, the Perfect Days issue, of SWITCH in Japanese, so I’d recommend you read it*1.

A film made from the opposite end of Hollywood

Wenders is undeniably the master of road movies. The trilogy of Alice in the Cities (1974), Wrong Move (1975), Kings of the Road (1976), and Paris, Texas (1984), a film set in Texas, USA, that cemented his icon status, are all road movies. Perfect Days, going back and forth between the east and the west side of Tokyo is also a road movie. Wenders is also known as a director with a rebellious spirit against Hollywood films*2. One of his inspirations is the films of Yasujiro Ozu, stemming from the opposite end of Hollywood. About the director, Wenders passionately says, “I still think his cinema is truly world cinema…by not being part of the empire of the American census… but by being its own empire.” 

When I think about Ozu’s body of work, I’m reminded of a debate between Ryunosuke Akutagawa and Junichiro Tanizaki in Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s Bungeiteki Na Amari Ni Bungeiteki Na (1927). Tanizaki posits that the most crucial factors for a novel are an exciting plot and narrative structure, while Akutagawa argues that there’s also a lot of value in a book that doesn’t have much of a story. Ozu’s films are made from elements that Akutagawa approved of. His works are quiet and have an atmosphere developed from movie sets with meticulous details and beautiful camerawork. There are no bizarre scenes or synopses, but what does exist is this richness born from the continuous changes in the subtle textures. That itself is a work of art. Wenders has been making films with the influence of Ozu, and Perfect Days is a perfect projection of the director’s experience of Japanese cinema. 

Ozu’s Hirayama, Wenders and Takasaki’s Hirayama

Takuma Takasaki gave the protagonist of Perfect Days the name Hirayama, which often appears in Ozu’s films, but according to Takasaki, it was a total coincidence*3. In Ozu’s films, the best-known Hirayamas are Shukichi Hirayama (Chishu Ryu), the protagonist in Tokyo Story (1953), and Shuhei Hirayama (Chishu Ryu) in An Autumn Afternoon (1962). The everyday lives of the Hirayamas in Ozu’s films seem like they were the norm for Japanese people at the time, but that wasn’t the case. Japan was still poor in the 60s. Akira Kurosawa’s Dodes’ka-den (1970) was made after An Autumn Afternoon, but it’s set in a poor and rough city. Nagisa Oshima’s Night and Fog in Japan (1959) was created in the 50s, like Tokyo Story, but again, the setting is a rough Tokyo, and the protagonist is a poor child. Even though these films existed in the same Showa era, the worlds Ozu built were rich. 

In Tokyo Story, among Hirayama’s children are a private physician and a teacher, respectively, and in An Autumn Afternoon, the protagonist Hirayama holds an important role at a corporation in the Marunouchi area, and many of the characters are white-collar workers*4.

*1 An interview with the people involved in the making of Perfect Days is on the official account of Bitters End, the distribution company for the film. It’s interesting to watch it paired with the film. 

*2 Hollywood films are known for gun fights, war, heroic tales, love stories, the bottom pit of capitalism, and the American Dream. Many of them have scenes that could actually happen in American society. It can be said that the reality of American culture has given Hollywood films a sense of reality, but it can’t be said the same films seem realistic in other countries. 

*3 This anecdote is mentioned in a short interview with the co-screenwriter and producer of Perfect Days, Takuma Takasaki, in POSTGENDAI, an online magazine. 
https://postgendai.com/blogs/postgendai_dictionary/takuma_takasaki

*4 In An Autumn Afternoon, the marriage arrangement of Hirayama’s daughter, Michiko Hirayama (Shima Iwashita), comes up, and one can tell that Hirayama leads an affluent life from the fashion in the film. Hanae Mori designed the costumes for Shima Iwashita. Hirayama’s furniture and the Japanese restaurant in the film all look like they could be in Katei Gaho. 

In Perfect Days, in a scene where Hirayama’s sister appears in a Lexus with a personal driver, we discover that Hirayama comes from a wealthy family but left them of his own volition and lives quietly on the east side of Tokyo. It made me wonder if Hirayama from Perfect Days could be a relative of the Hirayamas from Ozu’s films. 

In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy opens with, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Many films made in the same period as Ozu’s are set in a world rife with social issues. Perhaps Ozu, who was drafted into the military in World War II and led a turbulent life, chose happy worlds of their own kind as the settings of his films because he felt his aesthetic could stand out precisely because the settings are alike. 

Hirayama from Perfect Days was given the role of cleaning bathrooms. Unlike the one in Ozu’s and Kurosawa’s era, the Tokyo he lives in is one after Japan’s rapid economic growth. Tokyo, which overcame the “lost 20 years” after the economic bubble burst, isn’t a place where Hollywood-esque stories could shine. Through Hirayama’s life, we’re reminded of the richness of everyday life in Tokyo, which we’re prone to forget. Watching him spritz water on his plants, taking photos of komorebi (sunlight through the trees)*5, falling asleep while reading, and dreaming, I can see that he understands the fulfillment of such a life. It makes me want to agree with him quietly*6.

Opposing the gaze of Orientalism

In 2023, Japan ranked first worldwide on the Nation Brands Index (NBI) for the first time*7. I believe rankings have little meaning, but I didn’t expect Japan to be number one worldwide in the same year a prominent film from Japan was released. 

Perfect Days is captivating audiences across the globe, not just in Japan. At the Cannes Film Festival last year, Koji Yakusho, who plays Hirayama, won Best Actor, and the film was nominated for the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film this year. In January, it was number one at the box office in Italy, and the other day, an event held at the Chinese Theater the night before the American release was a success. 

Other countries will inevitably view Japanese films made with an international audience in mind through an Orientalist gaze. What they seek is the essence of the East. Many films have managed to meet such expectations. Akira Kurosawa, mentioned above, and Takeshi Kitano, who makes films about human relationships in the underbelly of society, could be examples. The same could be said about films that extracted social issues that became topical in Japan and illustrated them in a way foreign audiences can understand. The same gaze is probably on Perfect Days, but the Tokyo that Wenders, a foreign director, captured manages to neutralize such extreme expectations. 

The notion that imported things are supreme is ingrained in Japanese people. This is to be expected because people have been borderline overdosing on music, literature, and fashion from the West, and especially American culture. As a result, aside from the reverse import of Japanese content, a strange phenomenon in which Japanese people, living on the opposite end of Western society, don’t appreciate Japanese content tends to occur*8. It becomes clear that Hirayama is also strongly influenced by Western culture, as he prefers American music and novels. The production team, like Takuma Takasaki and Koji Yanai, is probably the same. They met Wenders, someone who has been following Japanese films for around five decades, and portrayed the contemporary image of Tokyo; that’s one significant story in itself. 

Perfect Days’ idea of Tokyo has given new meaning to Tokyo. The landscape of Tokyo that we know was spread to the world; one of the film’s successes lies in how we can talk about it regardless of where we’re from. The last scene where Nina Simone‘s ‘Feeling Good’ plays is inside Hirayama’s van as he drives it. The inside of a car is a small space that can exist anywhere in the world, not just in Tokyo. The scene stirs something within us; our own memories of life flicker in our minds. Much like Hirayama feeling the sound of the car engine in the driver’s seat as he goes from east to west of Tokyo, we, too, feel the hum of contemporary Tokyo in our seats in the movie theater. 

*5 Donata Wenders took some of the images of the komorebi in the film, which were exhibited at 104 Gallery from December 22nd, 2023, to January 20th, 2024, under the title KOMOREBI DREAMS: supported by THE TOKYO TOILET Art Project/MASTERMIND. 

*6 In an essay in Murakami Asahido, Haruki Murakami uses the term “simple pleasure” to mean small but certain happiness. This can also be applied to Hirayama’s daily life. It signifies the fulfilling feeling of mundane yet certain pleasures in everyday life, such as drinking a cold beer after working out. 

*7 Anholt-GfK Nation Brands Index uses six criteria to evaluate certain countries: culture, people, tourism, exports, governance, and immigration and investment. Japan was ranked first for the first time in 2023. 
You can look at the past rankings on Wikipedia. Until Trump got elected in 2016, the US was almost always at the top. 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nation_branding 

*8 The dancing of Min Tanaka, who appears as a houseless person in the film, can be seen in Somebody Comes into the Light (music by Jun Miyake), a short film. Speaking on dancing, he touches on Ame-no-Uzume’s dancing, which appears in the Kojiki. Today, dance in the West is predominantly founded on ballet. Initially, different dances existed everywhere among indigenous groups, but they became extinct because of colonialism and the changing times. He mentioned that thinking within a Western framework can be limiting if we were to return to the idea of dance. It speaks to Wenders’ ideas regarding Hollywood films.

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post Notebook on Fashion and Society Part 3: A New Vision of Tokyo in “Perfect Days”—A Quiet Beauty Born from an Imperfect City and Its People appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

（Left to Right)
Yuriko Mori
Yuriko is a journalist and essayist specializing in Nordic countries. She has written guidebooks, travel essays, and articles about interior design and lifestyle covering five Scandinavian countries. She is the author of『3日でまわる北欧』,『北欧のおもてなし』,『日本で楽しむ わたしの北欧365日』and many other books. She also runs Sticka, a store that sells vintage Scandinavian tableware and textiles.

Junko Aoki
Junko teaches the Norwegian language and also works as a translator, interpreter, and lecturer. She studied at the Volda National College and the University of Oslo in Norway. Since 2000, she has been running the community website Norway Yumenet to provide information about Norway. Junko authored many books including,『テーマで学ぶノルウェー語』,『ノルウェー語のしくみ＜新版＞』,『ニューエクスプレスプラスノルウェー語』,『「その他の外国文学」の翻訳者』. She is a translator of Me and My Moulton and Threads among many other works.
https://www.norway-yumenet.com/

Goedele and Simon
They founded the design studio SAK design and publishing company trykkSAK. As graphic designers, they are involved in the production of books related to art and design. Their goal is to provide opportunities for people to think about current social and political issues through books. Their office is located in the suburbs of Stavanger, Norway, which is also known for its ceramics.
https://trykksakforlag.no/

Turi Gramstad Oliver is a prominent Norwegian artist who has been active since the mid-20th century. Last summer in Norway, a design book Turi was released, chronicling Turi’s lifetime of creative work. The book includes over 500 illustrations and photographs, along with archival images, anecdotes, and insights into her personal life shared with fellow creative collaborators. It was written by Torunn Larsen, a writer and art historian.

In November, Goedele and Simon, the head of the Norwegian design studio and publishing house trykkSAK, which handled the design of the book, visited Japan. Yuriko Mori, a journalist who specializes in Nordic countries, hosted an event titled “Welcome to Cute Norway: The World of Turi and the Enchanting Nordic Design” at her store Sticka, known for carrying Nordic merchandise. Junko Aoki, a translator specializing in Norwegian, joined the event as the interpreter and moderator.

Hugely successful work and the untold agony behind the scenes

The book turi is the result of five years of work by Goedele and Simon, who curated the content from a massive collection of Turi’s works and photographs. They compiled the book while listening to stories from that time, including untold struggles that Turi experienced. With a wealth of life experiences, she still has so many stories to share that there are plans to publish several more books.

At the event, the speakers discussed the history of Turi from the time she was an in-house designer for a traditional ceramics manufacturer Figgjo, which is located in a town with the same name in southwestern Norway. Turi designed the Lotte collection, which became a long-standing bestseller all over the world after it was launched in 1962. They say the popularity lies in the designs featuring charming girls and plants, which evoke scenes from a novel. However, Turi didn’t intend to create a story out of her design work. After the product line was launched, an enthusiastic fan wrote a letter asking, “What kind of story exists in Lotte?” Turi replied, “I am not trying to tell a story. I just want people to imagine dreamy places filled with birds and flowers and relax.”

After the full-scale overseas export of the Lotte collection began, the Figgjo brand quickly gained recognition in Japan, Canada, and other countries. While the brand became known worldwide, Turi left Figgjo in 1975 due to conflicts with branding strategy that prioritized sales. She created the prototype of the Elvira collection, which gained popularity over the objections of the sales department, and although sales were strong, it was not well received within the company.

Although crafts were not highly regarded as fine art in Norway at the time, Turi continued to produce handicrafts. After leaving Figgjo, she worked with local artists and produced a number of works in an effort to improve the value of handicrafts. As a result, the textiles she produced in her atelier were recognized as crafts.

Turi also worked energetically as a feminist, along with potters and teachers. According to the book, Sandnes, located in southwestern Norway, is known as where many feminists in this movement emerged. The Sandnes chapter of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF), the oldest women’s peace organization in the world, founded in 1915, displays a sign by Turi, “Release a Peace.”

Discovering Mingei in Japan

On her first visit to Japan in 1978, Turi, along with 23 other Norwegian artists, participated in the World Crafts Council General Assembly and International Conference in Kyoto. The conference featured 25,400 crafts exhibits, seminars, and workshops with 2,400 experts from around the world. In her diary, Turi wrote about a garden party attended by 2,000 people and her visit to the Shigaraki Pottery Village in Shiga Prefecture, where she was welcomed with two tons of clay.

The most exciting part of her trip to Japan was a visit to the Mashiko kiln of Shoji Hamada, one of the most important figures in the Mingei movement. Although permission to visit the kiln had not been granted, Hamada’s son allowed Turi to see the kiln because he saw that Turi and her group had the hands of a potter. Turi was not only inspired by pottery, but also traditional Japanese craftsmanship and artisanal techniques, showcasing their respect for nature yet maintaining practicality.

Inspiration from this trip led to the tapestry work My Japanese Garden (Minejapans Bager), and she also designed textiles with a Japanese theme. Furthermore, when she visited the home of artist Kanjiro Kawai, she was inspired by his poetic view of life in the English-language book We Do Not Work Alone and wrote a short poem: “What is beauty But joy found In all of life.” This is included in the turi book.

Reminiscing about the turi book production and Turi’s reputation in Japan

Goedele and Simon from trykkSAK said, “Through the creation of turi, we felt a high level of professionalism. Despite the many trials Turi went through as a woman and as a designer, the designs she created did not show the difficult part and depicted a joyful world.” Turi’s creative spirit has not waned to this day, and she has never stopped painting. They mentioned that she was planning to go to Oslo for the major exhibition of Louise Bourgeois’ work at the Norwegian National Museum. There is a telling episode about her life. While producing work, Turi always had a constant flow of visitors at her house to the point that the chimes never stopped ringing. Perhaps her love of meeting people and her gregarious nature, which entertained and brightened up people no matter how hard things were, is reflected in her designs.

A Norwegian student whom the pair from trykkSAK met in Tokyo a few days before the event had never heard of Turi. However, when the student saw the design of the tableware, he remembered seeing them at her grandmother’s house. Junko noted that tableware designed by Turi is often used as wedding gifts in Norway, but many people do not even know the designer’s name. Junko was also surprised that this was the first time that a design book about Turi’s work was published. She expressed her admiration that Turi continued her activities in the suburb of Sandnes away from the capital Oslo, and still her achievements were recognized globally even before the Internet. Junko, who has translated many Norwegian picture books, mentioned the difficulty in conveying the appeal of picture books to Japanese readers due to the aesthetic difference between what is considered cute in Norway and Japan and praised the high quality of Turi’s designs, which are loved in Japan.

Yuriko, who contributed to the book turi, is a big fan of Turi’s works. She also has customers, who often visit her store Sticka, and tell her that they have been using tableware from the Lotte series since the time of their grandmother or mother, confirming that Turi’s works have long been loved in Japan. According to Yuriko, who has been visiting Nordic countries for many years as a journalist and buyer of vintage items, Turi is a special presence. While Norwegian design is still not well known in Japan, many customers are interested in Turi’s work. Some people have become interested in Nordic design and vintage products because of her. She concluded that while many people generally associate Nordic design with modern furniture and simple interiors, the free, lovely world surrounded by nature created by Turi may also overlap with the image of Nordic countries that Japanese people have in their minds.

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Leiko Ikemura
Painter, sculptor. Served as a professor at UDK (the Berlin University of the Arts) from 1991 to 2015. Awarded the August Macke Prize in 2009. Since 2014, she has been a visiting professor at the Joshibi University of Art and Design Graduate School. She also received an Art Encouragement Prize in 2020. Some recent notable solo exhibitions include “Toward New Seas” at the Basel Art Museum, Switzerland, in 2019, and “Our Planet – Earth & Stars” at the National Art Center, Tokyo, in the same year.

Based in Berlin and Cologne, Japanese artist Leiko Ikemura hosted a solo exhibition “When Animals Become Art” at the Feuerle Collection gallery in Berlin. What is the message behind the exhibition that uses animals as a medium for artistic expression, featuring elements such as glass sculptures of rabbits and vintage Steiff plush toys?

Review the exhibition “When Animals Become Art: Leiko IKEMURA” in Berlin.

Upon entering, one is enveloped in a sacred ambiance, experiencing an enigmatic feeling akin to a soulful cleanse. Situated in Berlin’s Kreuzberg district, the Feuerle Collection gallery holds a distinctive allure for me, resembling a unique and almost sacred space.

With an expansive land area comparable to that of a museum, this gallery has been skillfully converted by the British architect John Pawson from the remains of an air-raid shelter utilized for information and communication during World War II. Darkness shrouded the bare concrete and the perfect use of minimal light skillfully highlights the Art pieces.

Within a setting radiating a minimal yet reverent ambiance, the displays feature Khmer sculptures spanning the 7th to the 13th centuries, furniture utilized by Chinese emperors from 200 BC to the 17th century, photographs by Araki Nobuyoshi, and artworks by Cristina Iglesias. This creates a compelling contrast between classical and contemporary art.

At The Feuerle Collection, alongside the permanent exhibition, there is an irregularly presented special exhibition known as “SILK ROOM.” The current guest artist for this exhibition is Ikemura, a globally recognized and influential contemporary Japanese artist. The ongoing exhibition titled “When Animals Become Art” is curated by the founder, Désiré Feuerle. In the 1970s, Ikemura, a leading Japanese contemporary artist, boldly ventured to Spain when the presence of female artists on the international stage was still limited. Subsequently, she relocated to Switzerland and organized her inaugural group exhibition in Bonn and Nuremberg in Germany in 1983. Serving as a professor at UDK (Berlin University of the Arts) from 1990 to 2016, she has continued to impart knowledge since 2014 at Joshibi University of Art and Design in Tokyo. Over the years, Ikemura has conducted over 700 solo and group exhibitions in more than 29 countries worldwide. Her artworks grace the collections of esteemed institutions such as the State Museums of Berlin and the National Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo.

The second edition of the “SILK ROOM” series, titled “When Animals Become Art,” presents a carefully chosen collection of artworks from Ikemura’s archive spanning from 1990 to 2022. Spread across a 400-square-meter exhibition space, the showcase adopts a distinctive presentation approach, highlighting a unique arrangement of rare and precious vintage Steiff plush toys (crafted by the renowned German teddy bear manufacturer) personally collected by Ikemura.

What is the message behind the title “When Animals Become Art”?. Ikemura stated as follows:

“While recognizing the presence of animalistic qualities in humans, I contemplate the idea that animals also exhibit human behaviors and strive to convey this notion. Fundamentally, humans and animals coexist. I hold the belief that animals, far from being mere entities, are inherently more interconnected with us despite the disparities. Take the ‘fox’ as an example. While the conventional notion of a fox may seem straightforward, in narratives, a fox can undergo transformations, at times assuming the guise of a woman. The enigmatic tales of foxes and their appearances trace back to mythology. The ‘rabbit’ serves as another instance of an animal carrying profound significance. I have a fondness for the Japanese pronunciation of rabbit (Usagi,) and its elegance is mirrored in sculptural form. The rabbit’s prominent ears function akin to antennas, and its zigzagging movements signify unpredictable skills, embodying a refined form of self-defense.”

Displayed in parallel with her original creations are the rare vintage animals from Steiff. Ikemura has received these as gifts, found them at antique markets or in store windows over the years, and has been collecting them. She is fascinated by the trademark button, the “Button in Ear,” attached to their left ears. However, some of these plush toys have a sad story – once cherished and loved as someone’s precious possession, they were eventually abandoned. As time passed, these vintage toys exude a sense of luxury yet carry a somewhat melancholic appearance, perhaps due to the poignant narratives behind them.

Désiré Feuerle, a long-time friend of Ikemura, revealed the background that led to the exhibition: “While sharing a dinner at Leiko’s home, I noticed that the Steiff animals she had been collecting over the years possessed a childlike playfulness and soul, mirroring her own artworks. The distinction lies in their visually twisted, somewhat erotic, and sensual nature. Capturing this essence, I conceived the idea of curating this exhibition at the Feuerle Collection. Through a deliberate exploration of the sensuality inherent in both animals and women, the significance of unfiltered joy in animals became apparent. By observing animals, sensing their souls, and concurrently emphasizing eros, we can uncover the connection with our own primal, animalistic aspects as humans.”

The long-running exhibition “When Animals Become Art,” which began in July, concluded on January 7, 2024. With every visit to The Feuerle Collection, one can expect to encounter new discoveries and evoke emotions previously unfelt. We also ensure distinctive experiences for both special exhibitions and permanent collections. Moreover, the special exhibition “SILK ROOM” not only showcases curated exhibits by guest artists but also hosts diverse programs, including performances, artist talks, screenings, and concerts, serving as a platform for the endeavors of Japanese artists and creators.           

Translation Takahiro Kanazawa

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“Trump’s Wall” separates the U.S. and Mexico.

We tried to negotiate at the border, but knew it was a game we had almost zero chance of winning. The one we were talking to was not an immigration officer, but a gangster. We were standing on the border drawn just on the hillside of a mountain, and there was nothing like a fence or landmark but sparse cacti and bushes. Even if we get murdered here, we would probably end up being left behind a rock. What went through my mind then was the phrase I had heard several times, “The price of life is cheaper in Mexico.”

Speaking of the U.S.-Mexico border, the immigration issue has long been discussed. Headlines such as “Surge in Prospective Immigrants,” “Escape from Violence and Poverty,” and “Focus of Presidential Election” no longer seem fresh to many people. In fact, the “wall” separating the U.S. and Mexico (the so-called Trump Wall) does not cover all parts of the border lying east and west. We learned that there are some areas where there is not even a fence, let alone a wall. One such area is the mountains outside of Ciudad Juarez in northern Mexico. The mountain straddles the border, but no wall is built because it is private property. When we actually visited the foot of the mountain, we discovered a gap in the steel wall extending from the western horizon.

What lies beyond that point? I went on the mountain path with Maruo, the editor who was accompanying me. Soon after, we saw about 10 people walking in the hollows while trying to conceal themselves. They might possibly be migrants trying to cross the border. One of them approached me and asked, “Are you a police officer?” The man who asked me this turned out to be a gangster. He was a member of a smuggling agent called coyote that had this territory in hand. It is said that immigrant smuggling started as a side business for the drug cartels. Those who wish to cross the border need to pay them a lot of money. When we explained how we ended up here to him, the man picked up a wire at his feet and struck a pose as if he were going to strangle us. We backed away and said, “I get it, I get it,” and walked down the mountain with drawn faces.

Two days later, we climbed the mountain again, this time from the American side. And we ran into the gang again. The story below follows the beginning of this column. Not only did we not learn from what we had experienced a few days back, but we were indeed ridiculous. What did we mean by “I get it, I get it”? In the first place, repeating the same words twice would be a sign of untrustworthiness. The guys we faced this time differed from those we met last time. They yelled at us, “Leave all of your U.S. dollars and Mexican pesos, plus your phones and cameras!” They were saying that if we did not comply, they would take us to the Mexican side. I wanted to buy time through negotiation, but I had only $25 in my wallet. This can never be the bargaining chip. I had no pesos on hand (my card was not accepted at the ATM) and explained I desperately needed a few dollars for the bus fare home, and they took $15 from me. When I showed them the dollars, albeit a small amount, the men forgot about the phones and cameras, and we were released.　Well, how little the price of my life was. The money I had was stingy, but the amount I paid was even more stingy. Maruo, who had been quietly witnessing how things went and whom the gangster hadn’t demanded dollars from, said, “Shall we split the bill?” I appreciated the offer, but I declined because that would have cut the price of my life in half. I went down to the foot of the mountain and spent $5 on the bus to the border. There was only one $5 bill left. We had no choice but to return to Mexico.

Locals were passing by on the border bridge. They cross the border to go to work or school. The city behind the wall is also a part of their sphere of life. Ciudad Juarez, which was once described as the most dangerous city in the world due to the drug war, now seems to be at peace. We returned to the Mexican side and walked along the border. Unlike the mountains we had seen earlier, iron walls and barbed wire were running across our view, and we could see border guards and armored vehicles watching us. Looking at them, I felt as if I were in prison. Scattered around the perimeter were rags of torn clothing, toothbrushes, and other household items. Following the trail, I found about 20 people hanging out under a bridge at the border. They were prospective immigrants, mostly young people from Central and South America. I had not noticed them when I crossed the bridge earlier, but it seems that they are camping out here.

The reality of prospective immigrants at the US-Mexico border

A man named Tony spoke to me in fluent English. He is a well-dressed 54-year-old from Honduras. He has been living here for almost three months. Tony said, “There are no bosses or gangs here. Everyone is like family.” He seems to be a big-brother type of person as he is spoken to in a friendly manner by his peers and shares his fruits with them. “The Mexican people have been very supportive in providing food and clothing, but the Mexican police are no good. They always try to kick us out of here. We’re not monkeys or dogs,” Tony said, shaking his head. Because of their positions, the police make it seem like they are serious about getting rid of them, but it is not easy for them to go along with their empty posturing. As soon as the police leave, he said, they will come back here. “In Honduras, cops kill people easily,” he said, “because gangsters ask them to do it, and they want to make some money out of it. Compared to the situation there, this city is good. America would be even better,” he said, laughing.

What is the purpose of their migration to the U.S.? When I ask them, the answer comes back as lightly as if I had thrown a ball at a wall. In the first place, we impose something undeniably heavy in the word “immigrant.” But in most cases, there is no reason to be surprised. They simply want to live a little better than they do now, and that’s what we hope for, too. The difference is their determination to take a chance, if there is a chance at all. Poverty, violence, and economic collapse. These circumstances probably make their will even stronger.

As the sun began to set, the young people hanging around started to run, shouting loudly. They looked up to see a passerby crossing the border bridge. “Give us a dollar, a peso, whatever! Give us money to eat!” After a few moments, the passerby stopped and dropped a bill through a gap in the railing. The bill drifted in the wind. A group of young people ran toward it. One of them jumped high and tried to grab it but failed. They struggled with each other, scattering a cloud of dust. The one who finally caught the bill just above the ground said to a passerby above him, “Gracias!”. Then another dropped another bill, which then flew in the wind.

The people who drop the money seem to be Americans going back to their country after spending some time playing in Mexico, where prices are lower, or people from Mexico who have returned to their hometowns and are going back to the U.S. again. Quite a few dollar bills are mixed in with the bills that fall. I wonder if they do it out of guilt or altruism. Unfortunately, those who fail to catch on show their frustration, but maybe because how they bite their lips looks funny, the group sometimes burst into laughter. So I didn’t sense despair among them. Looking back at Tony, I see him perched and chilled out on the folding outdoor chair that he has brought out from somewhere. I don’t know whether it was an elder’s composure or a middle-aged man’s reserve, but I was impressed by how he was leisurely watching the young people.

The next day, we went under the bridge again. I noticed a group of people we had not seen yesterday, watching us from a distance. “They must be newcomers,” Tony said with interest. I raised my hand in greeting, and one of them started talking to me. “We’re from Venezuela, and we finally arrived here today,” the fearless-looking man said happily as he smoked a cigarette. I tried to picture in my mind where in South America Venezuela was located. Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. There are seven countries they had to pass through to cross into the United States. Although that was beyond my imagination, I understood why they did not seem to have a sense of urgency about them. They had finally arrived here. Maruo, who was talking with the young people, said, “They have already succeeded 90% of the time, haven’t they?” All that was left was the wall. But how would they get through the wall? I talked about the mountain where we found the gap in the barrier, but no one knew anything about it. When I asked them how they would get through, they unhesitatingly answered, “We will jump over it.”

Tony took off his shoes and made himself at home. He has been here for three months even though he arrived all the way from Honduras. I wondered if he had already become comfortable in this city, so I asked, “When will you jump over the wall?” He instantly choked on his words. I was skeptical, but he halfheartedly said, “Look at that pipe! I may not be young, but I can move like a rat, crawl through holes, crawl up walls, and do anything else I want!” He pointed hurriedly to a drain that poured into the river, but from a distance, it was no more than 30 cm in diameter. I thought about his slumbering reaction. Given the long road they had traveled, it was only natural that they would be cautious. They cannot fail in this very last process. If I were him, I would be too frightened to do anything. Tony continued, as if to divert the conversation. “Just two days ago, a young Chinese man jumped over the wall. He made it!” He sounded as happy as if it were him. I’m not sure why Chinese people come here to smuggle themselves in. I thought it must be a misunderstanding since some people in Latin America look like people from the East with Indian heritage, and I didn’t listen to him seriously.

The man standing by me pointed to a passerby on the bridge, nodding in that person’s direction. He was like, “You do it too.” Unable to speak Spanish well, I waved my hands exaggeratedly and tried to appeal to the passerby for a while, but no money fell. The man snickered at my helplessness. The other man, who had grown tired of standing and raising his voice, began to lie down on the ground. He remained on his back and called out loudly to the people on the bridge above me. I lay down as well. It was uncomfortable, but the bridge offered the shade and a cool breeze blew. The smell of marijuana wafted through the air. As it began to get dark, more and more people started to “go home” under the bridge.

When I was leaving, I gave Tony the remaining $5.00 I had on hand as I shook his hand in farewell. It was an embarrassing amount for a farewell gift. He just said, “Thank you,” and didn’t even seem happy about it. It was no use giving him the money he could not use in Mexico, but hopefully, I wanted him to use it in the U.S.. Even if they could get over the wall, there are many checkpoints in the city center. It is just like a gamble as they have no idea whether their immigration application will be approved or whether they will be able to find work. Even if “the price of life is low,” it will be worth many times more if they continue to win the game. The young people running to grab the money are engraved in my mind’s eye.

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※Please be aware that the following text contains spoilers.

Commentaries Increase

The Boy and the Heron is an animation consisting of “increases” and “collapses.”

As soon as this Japanese master animater’s long-awaited work was released, many authors commented on it. It is common for such a high-profile movie to have a lot of words on it circulated on the Internet after its release. However, particularly with this work, there has been a flood of texts, which is becoming even more extensive. Much of the discussion focused either on the “mother” in the story or on the idea of “inheritance,” applying the relationships around Studio Ghibli and the history of Japanese animation to the characters and story in the film. In the former case, Tsunehiro Uno, for example, describes the film as “a self-commentary of Miyazaki himself on what is at the core of him, which is typical post-World-War-II-version of mama’s boy mentality, as if it were written by a critic” (*1), and Kaho Miyake writes that “a world where father is absent, mother and her child are in close contact, eggs cannot be born, and the voices of screaming parakeets echo virtually” is a “nauseatingly accurate metaphor” for our times (*2). For the latter, hiko1985, author of the blog “青春ゾンビ (Youth Zombie),” points out that the character “Kiriko” is a metaphor for Isao Takahata and Michiyo Yasuda, Miyazaki’s sworn allies from days in Toei Animation (*3), and Seiji Kano sees in this movie a “return to a manga movie” that inherits the “legacy of those who have worked closely with Miyazaki, such as Isao Takahata and Yasuo Otsuka” (*4). Perhaps it is a blessing in itself to be able to extract multiple narratives from a piece of work because it is a testament to the fact that Miyazaki and the rest of the Studio Ghibli staff have been making movies for decades and that so many viewers have been receiving them for so long. However, the storyline plays only a secondary role in feature-length animation. The primary stimulus to the audience’s senses, and what the filmmakers pursue above all else, is the movement within the sequence of pictures. Without this, the story around the mother and the references to the real persons are nothing more than easy manipulation of symbols, and brings no excitement.

(*1) Tsunehiro Uno. ” The Boy and the Heron and the Problem with the ‘King’”.2023-07-20.
https://note.com/wakusei2nduno/n/nc1c94c0793fe, (referred to on 2023-07-27)

(*2) Kaho Miyake.” #What was Hayao Miyazaki ultimately trying to portray in The Boy and the Heron [Fastest review with spoilers]”2023-07-15.
 https://note.com/nyake/n/nc74f29fccca2, (referred to on 2023-07-27)

(*3) hiko1985. “Hayao Miyazaki, The Boy and the Heron, ” 青春ゾンビポップカルチャーととんかつ. 2023-07-17.
https://hiko1985.hatenablog.com/entry/2023/07/17/135024. (referred to on 2023-07-27)

(*4) Seiji Kano, “The Boy and the Heron: A Return to ‘Manga Movie’ with Adjusted Logic.”. Cinema Cafe.2023-07-21.https://www.cinemacafe.net/article/2023/07/21/86462.html, (referred to on 2023-07-27)

“Increase” Overflows

In the middle of the movie, the jam increases. In this scene, Himi, one of the heroines of the movie and an incarnation of the protagonist Mahito’s mother in the other world, serves Mahito a piece of toasted bread with jam in a Western-style kitchen. Himi spreads a thick layer of butter on the toast, puts red jam on top, and gives it to Mahito. Mahito takes a bite of the toast. The jam spills out, ending up being around his mouth. “It’s tasty. My mother used to make it for me,” he says to himself. He bites into the toast again. Then, that red jam overflows from the toast and spreads out in front of his face, which is drawn in a medium close-up shot. The amount of jam clearly exceeds the amount that Himi had applied to the toast in the first place. The jam increases. It overflows. It proliferates.

The way the jam increases and the color of red remind us of a scene in which Mahito bleeds, placed in the first half of the movie. On the way back home from school to which he has just transferred. After a fight with classmates, Mahito suddenly strikes his right temple by himself with a stone he picked up. Against the blue sky and the green forest, a dark red stream flows out from his temple. The blood doesn’t stop right away. Instead, it gushes out in the next cut. If it really happened to a flesh-and-blood human being, the amount of blood would be enough to cause death in some cases. It even looks as if the blood itself is growing. The blood increases. It overflows. It proliferates.

The movement of ” increase ” links the jam and red blood. What at first glance does not appear to be a significant quantity overflows and spreads in the next cut. The movie is overfilled with this kind of proliferation and movement of increase. 

For example, in the scene where Mahito and the blue heron confront each other for the first time at the pond behind the mansion and exchange words. When the heron belligerently says, “I’ve been waiting for you, sir,” catfish-like fishes appear from the pond, and in the next cut, a large number of frogs appear, crawl up from under Mahito’s feet, and surround his body. The catfishes and frogs suddenly multiply.

Or the scene in which Mahito is guided by a blue heron into another world. A golden gate stands in a windy field. As Mahito gazes up at the gate, a flock of pelicans suddenly swarms over him. The weight of the pelicans pushes the gate open. The gate’s opening leads to Mahito’s encounter with the sailor Kiriko (one of the elderly ladies in the real world), and here, too, the sense of proliferation is depicted through the flood of pelicans.

In the two scenes I just mentioned, a large herd of animals appears, but the sense of proliferation is not brought about only by the animals. In both scenes, the wind is blowing before the herd appears. The strong wind causes Mahito’s grayish shirt to flap and sway. At this time, the shirt’s contours bulge out in an unnaturally rounded form. After Kiriko and Mahito meet, the sea begins to swell. As the two proceed in their wooden boat, a huge wave appears before them, covering the horizon. The wave rises high and covers the boat, which is shown from the left side. Both wind and water are depicted in this movie as part of the phenomenon of increase and overflow.　

In this light, it seems that the group of elderly women working at the mansion in the real world also has something to do with the “increase” movement. The appearance of the old women who gather like ants around the luggage that Mahito’s father brings back to the mansion is accompanied by an unusual sense of proliferation from the start, and their wriggling in groups of five or six is reminiscent of the elderly ladies in the nursing home in Ponyo (what both groups share are one woman with a wart on the side of her nose and another who acts independently from the group). However, the reason why the group in The Boy and the Heron leaves us with a creepy impression becomes apparent when these women are depicted from the side. Their eyes are weirdly popping out of their heads. Their eyeballs are so enlarged that they look as if they are about to spill out. The combination of the large roundness of their eyes and their collective wriggling and chattering forms the impression of an eerie proliferation. 

In addition, the “Warawara,” a group of white creatures that live with Kiriko and are said to be the form of pre-human, are also part of the “increase” movement, as are the swarm of parakeets that develop a hostile relationship with Mahito, Blue Heron, and Himi in the latter half of the movie. In this work, the movement of “increase and overflow” abound all the way through the story.

This “increase” movement has appeared frequently in Hayao Miyazaki’s previous movies, as exemplified by the seeds planted by Satsuki and Mei being rapidly transformed into a large tree by Totoro’s mysterious power in My Neighbor Totoro, the swarm of Ohmus in Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, the swarm of fish and the proliferation of the anthropomorphic sea in Ponyo. In the early part of it, Mahito’s father, Shoichi, and his company’s employees line up the windshields of the fighter jets’ cockpits they are building at their company one after another at their mansion, and this “increase” movement links to the way the windshields of the swarm of flying Zero fighters were highlighted at the end of The Wind Rises (Even from the perspective of the period setting, the movie, The Wind Rises is followed by The Boy and the Heron) Therefore, this work can be said to be the newest version of the “increase” movie directed by Hayao Miyazaki.

“Increase” is Accompanied by “Collapse.”  

The “collapse” movement reveals itself accompanying the depiction of “increase.” In the middle of the movie, Mahito, while being taught by Kiriko how to do it, cuts a huge fish (looks like an anglerfish) that Kiriko has caught. Following her instructions, he plunges the blade into the belly of the giant fish, and blood gushes out. Once again, Mahito thrusts the blade. Immediately afterward, the fish’s pinkish viscera begin to overflow and spill out of its belly. On the screen, the viscera are increasing in volume toward the outside of the belly, but the fish’s body is collapsing. An increase is sometimes accompanied by collapse. Another “collapse” awaits after this scene. According to Kiriko, the guts of the fish are the fodder for the Warawara to float. She explains that at night, the Warawaras rise into the air and the group of them gradually form double spirals, reminiscent of a double-helix structure of DNA, eventually reaching the “upper world,” where Mahito came from, to be born as human beings. Pelicans, which feed on the rising Warawaras, appear and try to devour them, but Himi, the fire girl, appears and releases a firework-shaped flame to save them from the pelicans. That night, Mahito meets a dying pelican beside an outdoor toilet. The pelican falls to the ground and collapses, complaining about the dire situation of the pelicans, who have nothing to eat but Warawaras. Again, we can see the contrast between the movement of the pelican, who collapses in solitude while the flock of Warawaras rises into the air.

As with the case of “increase,” “collapse” is another key movement that has underpinned Hayao Miyazaki’s animations. In Laputa: Castle in the Sky, Princess Mononoke, as well as Spirited Away, the collapse of a world occurs in the final stages. Both the Giant God Soldier and Shishigami crumble as if they were melting. In The Boy and the Heron as well, the world created by the “great-uncle” with a contract with “stones” finally collapses with a heavy thud. This movie can also be said to be the newest version of the “collapse” movie. 

If “collapse” is one of the common gravities in the world of Hayao Miyazaki’s animations, then we could accept some of the puzzling scenes in this work with no hesitation. In one scene, a heron invites Mahito to a stone tower. Inside the tower lies Mahito’s mother, who is supposed to be dead, but when Mano touches her, her figure dissolves into the water. This scene does not foreshadow anything that happens in the later part of the story, leaving the audience with a puzzling impression. However, if we are to believe the collapse of the mother’s figure is a movement depicted in accordance with the gravitational force of “collapse,” there is no room for doubt about the scene’s necessity. How about the scene just before the great parrot king meets Mathito’s great-uncle on the tower? The King climbs up the wooden staircase, and when he reaches the top step, he carefully destroys the stairs. This must have been done to prevent his pursuers, Mahito and the blue heron, from reaching the top. But looking at him smashing them four times, one would think he is overdoing it. In addition, it turns out that his attempt was ineffective because the two pursuers eventually met his great-uncle through a different route. So here again, the movements in the animated pictures do not ensure the story’s coherence but can be said to rest on the gravity of the “collapsing” movement.

Movements Precede Metaphors

Meanwhile, it should be added here that there have been criticisms about “movements” in this work. In an article by Kazeto Shimonishi, which deserves attention for pointing out the fact that the opening scene is a “subjective image” of Mahito and that the entire depiction of the work is “exaggeratedly grotesque,” he points to the technical limitations of the work, stating that “the expression of ‘movements’ is far inferior to what it was in Miayazaki’s prime,” and that “perhaps due to physical decline, Hayao Miyazaki is no longer able to draw.” (*5) It is true that this movie does not have the dynamism of, for example, Porco Rosso. The swarm of ships and the plants in the garden of Himi’s house, both in another world, seem less elaborate and vivid than the swarm of airplanes Porco saw in his visionary experience and the beautiful garden of Gina’s house. The light shining through the clouds also lacks the variation of shading expressions compared to those in Porco Rosso, of which I couldn’t help but feel the monotonousness and uniformity. We cannot find meticulous depictions of forests seen in My Neighbor Totoro or crowds in The Wind Rises, let alone the appeal of the flexible pencil lines in Ponyo. While I would refrain from simplistically attributing these differences to Miyazaki’s “old age” or “decline,” it would be unreasonable
not to acknowledge the differences themselves. (*6)

(*5) Kazeto Shimonishi, “Hayao Miyazaki’s Sorrow and Question — The Boy and the Heron“. 2023-07-21. https://note.com/kazeto/n/nca1be7cd479c, (referred to on 2023-07-27)

(*6) In an interview by Yoichi Shibuya for “Sequel: Where the Wind Returns,” Miyazaki frequently bemoans the lack of skill among young animators. If we are to believe him, the reason for the reduced sense of dynamism in his newest movie should be attributed less to the director’s age and more to the lack of skill of the animators in an age when working with a PC has become the norm. Of course, a writer who has never worked in animation does not have the ability to pursue the cause or responsibility. See Hayao Miyazaki (2013), Sequel: Where the Wind Returns: How the Filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki Began and Ended His Career, Rocking On.

However, this movie surpasses all of Hayao Miyazaki’s previous works in its relentless repetition of the same movements. The proliferation of the trees in My Neighbor Totoro is only seen in a single scene. In Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, the increase of Ohmus and the Sea of Corruption is not exempt from narrative inevitability. In both Princess Mononoke and Laputa: Castle in the Sky, “collapse” is an integral part of the story. Ponyo is an exception in that the seawater, fish, and Ponyo’s limbs “increase” in an uncontrolled manner, but the city hit by the tsunami does not “collapse.” No other movie has been as repetitive as this newest one in that increases and collapses occur everywhere repeatedly, including in scenes not directly related to the storyline. What arises from this repetition is a sense of rhythm that only this work is allowed to live with.

What we receive far more directly from this work than from its story is a series of movements that fall into two categories: “increase” and “collapse”. It is not the construction of a story that the animators devote themselves to, but the generation of movements. We feel “creepy,” “scary,” “nerve-fraying,” or “thrilling” when we sense the increase or collapse of things or creatures. Such sensory reactions precede the idea of tracing the story with the structure of Japanese society and applying the relationships in the work to those of real people.

Therefore, there is an inevitability in the scene in the final part of the work where the characters escape from the other world of “stones.” When Mahito, his stepmother Natsuko, and the old woman Kiriko return to their original world, pelicans and parakeets pour forth from the tower. Behind them, the stone tower collapses completely. This work can be completed by the simultaneous occurrence of “increase” and “collapse” all at once. Mahito and Natsuko, smiling and covered in birds’ droppings, resemble us, the audience, who were exposed to “increase” and “collapse” simultaneously. 

It is easy to consider “increase” and “collapse” as metaphors for “life” and “death,” respectively. It would not be wrong to think so. However, we must not get the order wrong. The beauty of this work does not lie in the fact that it depicts “life” and “death” symbolically through the representations of “increase” and “collapse,” but in the fact that the symbols of “life” and “death” can be felt in front of our eyes as wriggling of movements. Without “increase” and “collapse,” the metaphors of “life” and “death” would be nothing more than a mundane theory of life.

Increase, Collapse, and Closure

Now that we have reached this point, it would finally make sense to think about “mother” and “inheritance.” The world that the great-uncle has protected and tried to entrust to Mahito is not inherited, but collapses. Instead, the number of people who have a relationship with Mahito increases. Not only does Mahito call his birth mother “mother,” but he also starts to call his stepmother Natsuko “mother” in the middle of the story. This is not a choice between mothers, but rather an increase in the number of mothers. The conflict between mother and son is overcome through the “increase”. In a cut before the final one, Mathito’s father, Shoichi, and Natsuko wait for him at the entrance with their new child. This cut is depicted from the same perspective as when Mahito once peeked into his father and stepmother sharing an embrace. This repetition reinforces the impression of the “increase” in the number of children. Both “mother” and “child” are increasing in this movie.

But it is not only “mother and child” that increase. In a conversation with his great-uncle, Mahito describes the scar on his temple as “a proof of my malice.” Kiriko, a sailor, had a scar in the same spot. “Malice” is also amplified. At the same time, in his conversation with his great-uncle, Mahito said that Himi, Kiriko, and blue heron were “friends.” And when they parted, the heron bluntly said to Mahito, “Bye, my boy.” In the first place, the blue heron has an “increased” face: a face of middle-aged man emerges from beneath his face as a bird. It is mentioned several times in the dialogue that he is a “liar” with two faces, but the “liar” blue heron and Mahito become “friends” in the end. Furthermore, since Himi is an incarnation of his dead mother, Mahito also becomes friends with “death.” That is to say, Mahito is saying that “malice,” “lies,” as well as “death” are his friends. “Friends” are portrayed as something that will only increase.

A kingdom that has been protected for many years collapses without being passed on. Mothers, children, malice, lies, and friends increase. We never know what is truly in the minds of the creators of this work. Even if we did know it, it is not necessarily reflected in their work. However, the sequence of pictures and sounds in the movie titled The Boy and the Heron whispers at our ear as follows: “You and I are creatures who are irresistibly attracted to ‘increase’ and ‘collapse’ rather than ‘protect’ and ‘inherit.’ Everything that ‘increases’ is free from moral judgement, and they all become your ‘friends.'” Whether this is right or wrong is, of course, not mentioned anywhere in this movie. The door closes without telling us anything, even with no words like “The End” or “Fin” to mark its end.

The post “Increase” and “Collapse”: Two Key Movements of the Movie “The Boy and the Heron” appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

In Soho during the pandemic, I was one of those who were addicted to video games. First, the country life RPG Stardew Valley and then Animal Crossing drew me into a video game world for the first time in decades. With so many things suddenly disappearing before my eyes during the lockdown, I started thinking it would be nice to be self-sufficient, so I scraped together what I had at home and made planters to plant seeds and to grow basil, shiso, and other herbs. I also got some mushroom beds to raise oyster mushrooms and lion’s mane mushrooms. By extension, I was expanding my pumpkin farm in Animal Crossing, and every time I logged in, I would grow pumpkins, sell them, and upgrade my house with the money from the sales. In the game world, I was making a steady income out of the field (laughs).

When I moved to Connecticut, an essential condition for choosing a house was that I could do the gardening. Jim, my landlord, had said he would build a space for it, but I hadn’t heard anything even until around the spring equinox when winter was slowly coming to an end. However, I had zero knowledge about garden building, so while curbing my enthusiasm, I watched YouTube videos about soil, seed germination, and other gardening processes and learned the schedule from the “Old Farmer’s Almanac,” an agricultural calendar that you go through once if you are serious about it. Unfortunately, once I started delving into it, there turned out to be tons of things that I didn’t know.

In New York, I used to frequent Union Square Green Market. At the time, I often pondered which one to choose and take home from a pile of the $6-a-pound heirloom tomatoes (about $6 for one medium-sized tomato) freshly picked from Upstate (laugh), but now I can see how much work the farmers put into them and why they were high-priced. So I definitely wanted to grow heirloom tomatoes. I also wanted to grow a lot of Japanese cucumbers, shiso, and manganji peppers because I wanted to grill them with dried bonito flakes and a little soy sauce. I ordered Japanese vegetable seeds from Kitazawa Seed Company in Utah, whose packages for seeds have lovely illustrations on them. I started growing them in small planters in late March until they grew into seedlings indoors after the last frost (which varies from region to region) at the end of May. It is said that one should sow one seed per hole, but I sowed three or four seeds in one hole, thinking some seeds would germinate, but some won’t because they are so small. Surprisingly, however, they all sprouted, and by the time they became seedlings, the roots were too tangled, and it wasn’t easy to untangle them.

So, the one-seed-per-hole theory turned out to be correct. It may sound extreme, but I experienced firsthand that we live in a world of “microcosm and macrocosm” and the mystery of nature that such a tiny seed can grow into a lush vegetable. I raised enough seedlings to fill the sunroom of my house, but in May, I saw a variety of seedlings for sale at a local supermarket and thought to myself, “Why didn’t I just buy these seedlings?” Anyway, although it took more work, growing vegetables from seed was definitely more cost-effective, and it was great to grow organic Japanese vegetables that are not available in the supermarket. Watering the seedlings, replanting them in larger planters along the way to make them bigger, and seeing the growth process while caring for them was very much in sync with the game. In the meantime, as if Tom Nook, the mayor of the village, approached me in Animal Crossing, Jim, the landlord, told me he had something to show me. I took a short walk around the massive lot behind the house, and to my surprise, I was told that I could use a garden space there that hadn’t been used for decades. He said he would also build a new fence and bring in a machine to till the soil for me, which was an incredible turn of events. What an upgrade!

From that day on, we started picking up rocks and removing old roots, pieces of plastic, and other impurities from the soil. I am so grateful to my friends Glave, Nika, Nathan, and Maria, who stayed with me then for their help with the endless stone picking. Jim also renewed all the posts, and the “Kudo Garden” was completed just before the last frost after his solid, well-balanced, and beautifully done job, which was precisely what you would expect from a farmer. The seedlings were too numerous for the space available, so I planted them without measuring the distance between each of them and ended up redoing it the next day. But it helped that Magwart, a former farmer, DJ, graphic designer, and Georgia music fan from Portland, OR, stayed with me for a week in the summer to help us with the garden. He was a supervisor who helped me numerous times, from making cucumber poles to telling us that oyster fertilizer is suitable for Manganji peppers.

Fortunately, the garden was not destroyed by insects or animals, and the plants grew well. As a result, as for those heirloom tomatoes, I was able to harvest so many that I could pick one to take a bite and toss it away (although I never throw them away!), and I could even share them with my friends. Brian’s favorite summer breakfast was freshly picked cucumbers dipped in miso. The crispy Japanese cucumbers are totally different from the American ones, and I can’t wait for summer to arrive. So I hope to harvest more this year, and I also want to make some game music!

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This is the third year of the pandemic, now that we’re in 2023. Compared to the beginning of lockdown, the city has almost returned to how things were pre-covid; it seems like it was all a bad dream. Yet, some places still reflect the pain of that period, and we’ve lost some things along the way. This series is about recalling the near past and chronicling the strange flow of time, and my first year of living in Connecticut was vastly different from my life in the States before then. That year was filled with events I want to document, like learning to light a fire in a fireplace without any firelighters as a city mouse who lived in New York for a decade, falling in love with sunrises and sunsets, and discovering how to live off-the-grid in nature.

What I missed the most once the city changed because of lockdown in 2020 were the things that made each day a bit special. It was shocking to see the little sweets I treated myself to, such as orange potato cakes and baklavas from Pi Bakerie, a Greek café in our former neighborhood, and almond croissants from Lafayette, a French restaurant, vanish. The only stores deemed essential enough to be open were just about supermarket chains. Freshly baked bread had disappeared from such stores, and many bakeries were closed too. On Instagram, it seemed like one person after another started baking sourdough bread at home, and supermarkets were constantly low on flour and yeast. I tried baking bread several times but couldn’t do it well. Instead, I asked Mariko, a neon artist who had often helped me out with catering, to bake bread many times because she made delicious homemade sourdough and focaccia for her friends. Mari-chan, thank you for sharing that joy with me back then! I didn’t succeed at baking bread, but I got into making sweets out of necessity under the guidance of Brian, who has a strong opinion on sweets. As a result of trying to make various kinds, I can now make financiers, lemon bars made out of mochi flour, and different types of cookies, which I wasn’t interested in previously, to my liking. I want to give myself a pat on the back for that. With that said, buying the perfect croissant in New York in 2020 was close to impossible. 

Amid all that, I unexpectedly came across a stylish-looking café called Arethusa Amano in the small town of Richfield in Connecticut, a 13-minute car drive from home. The café, run by a dairy farm called Arethusa Farm, came to me as a shock because it sold everything that faded away in New York in 2020. Starting with beautiful, crispy croissants, I never knew fresh donuts, French-style lemon cream, and crullers could taste as good as they were. For their egg and cheese sandwich, an American breakfast staple, Arethusa Amano uses their own English muffins and eggs and cheese from the farm. Their cuban sandwich that uses brioche that would make you melt(even I, as a vegetarian, thought was good), cruffins (a hybrid of a croissant and muffin) with mascarpone, and cookies that change monthly are a bit more reasonably priced compared to New York. This is another good thing about the place. Across the café is Arethusa al tavolo, an American fine dining restaurant and a daily store that sells Arethusa’s ice cream, milk, cheese, yogurt, butter, and vegetables in the spring and summer. 

The owners are, low and behold, the executives of the shoe brand Manolo Blahnik. After the brand rose in popularity as Sex and the City’s Carrie’s favorite shoes, the executives purchased the dairy farm of their dreams in 1999. With “Milk like it used to taste” as their tagline, they take care of and pamper more than 300 cows; they shampoo and treat the cows’ tails every day. Of course, if you go upstate, you’ll find many organic farms and farmer’s markets where the local vendors sell food that uses high-quality ingredients, but the majority of them are homemade and hippie-like (which is also something I love, don’t get me wrong). It’s pretty cool to have a food culture derived from a luxury brand just as well-known in New York in a small town in the northern part of Connecticut. Plus, it’s so close to where I live. When I miss the city a bit, I’m going to visit Arethusa instead of making my own cakes, which tend to be less on the sweet side.

Edit Nana Takeuchi

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Obon Shokudo
Obon Shokudo is a vegan restaurant serving Japanese home-style cuisine in Portland, Oregon. The restaurant is owned and operated by a husband and wife team Humiko Hozumi and Jason Duffany. All menu items are plant-based, using farm-to-table, organic, and sustainable ingredients. The restaurant has developed environmentally friendly recipes that reduce food waste and, for example, use every bit of the edible parts of vegetables. They also ensure that organic food is affordable to anyone regardless of their income level and set their prices accordingly.
https://www.obonpdx.com/

Japanese vegan food that makes non-vegans content 

As we entered the restaurant, Jason Duffany, the owner of Obon Shokudo, smiled and greeted his friends, the husband and wife team who owns Jorinji Miso. In the kitchen, Jason’s wife Humiko Hozumi was busy experimenting with flours to fry some items. “I’m trying different flours, but the batter for kakiage does not become consistent,” she noted. Since gluten-free flours don’t become sticky, it’s difficult to fry vegetables as each vegetable has a different moisture content and condition.

Humiko continued to look for a wheat flour substitute for her health-conscious gluten-free customers, but she could not find any she was satisfied with. In November, she decided to use wheat flour. She was not sure how her customers were going to respond to it. However, their reaction was not bad. Since then, her principle is to abide by veganism, but she uses ingredients with gluten for certain dishes when it’s the best option for a better outcome.

The Portlanders say that Obon Shokudo offers dishes that are not available at other Japanese restaurants in the area. Their menu is actually filled with elaborate dishes. Their signature sprouted brown rice onigiri is served with fillings such as miso marinated tofu, ginger and pistachio miso, or yuzu and pumpkin seed miso. Unique flavors are added to home-style Japanese dishes.

Humiko started the vegan restaurant to offer food that is pleasing to the body and mind. It was not just about offering vegetarian food. She hopes that her customers lead a comfortable life eating food from her kitchen. In reflection of this, the restaurant offers a wide variety of succulent dishes such as “croquettes using soy pulp” and “tofu cutlets” that are comparable to meat dishes, which are popular among non-vegan customers. For customers concerned about the calories and nutritional value of fried foods, she thoroughly explains the benefits of vegetable protein and the cooking method that uses minimal oil, which lessens any negative impact on their health. They keep their prices reasonable while the portions are generous. Humiko said, “Organic food has become a luxury item, but we want to offer our dishes to as many people as possible, regardless of their income level.”

The three principles behind the “feel good” concept

The main concept of Obon Shokudo is to offer Japanese food that makes people feel good. The concept is reflected in how they source their ingredients as well as how they treat their customers from the moment they walk into the restaurant until they leave. Humiko stated the three principles that they practice. First, they try best to only buy seasonal food from the local farmers and stores in the vicinity. Second, they make sure to minimize food loss and waste. All kitchen staff need to go through Humiko’s check before discarding food scraps. “I ask them not to waste food. I tell my staff repeatedly that our restaurant is different from others and we minimize waste. Even so, I had many chefs who came to me with a heap of food scraps asking if they could throw them away. There was so much food that could still be eaten.” This is a reminder of how difficult it is to run a restaurant while reducing food waste. The third is to help build a healthy digestive cycle. “I want to create eating habits where even if you eat until you are full, your stomach doesn’t feel upset and you wake up the next day feeling hungry yet comfortable.” Humiko also added, “If there is a tasty product that has already been perfected over a long period, we would rather offer it at our restaurant than make it ourselves from scratch.” While they focus on making everything in-house, they also pay their respect to fine products made by others. For example, they carry amazake made by Jorinji Miso. Since they make their own miso and koji at Obon Shokudo, Humiko can make amazake. However, she raves about the amazake made by Jorinji Miso.

The other noteworthy aspect of their menu is the daily special. Humiko and Jason usually go to the mountains to forage mushrooms on their days off. The mushrooms they foraged are often incorporated into their daily special. Recently they made gyoza from mushrooms that had flavors similar to that of maitake mushroom. Last year, they had a good matsutake season and ended up offering rice cooked with matsutake and bamboo shoots, and sautéed matsutake.

Make a difference through small activities and co-create with local producers

The two originally moved from San Francisco, attracted by the diverse mix of food cultures and the city’s slogan “Keep Portland Weird,” a community that respects individuality.

Obon Shokudo first opened as a catering restaurant. Later, when a local vegan and gluten-free distributor suggested selling their food in farmers’ markets, they began selling kenchin-jiru, rice balls, croquettes, and other items in 2014. At the time, sushi and ramen were the only well-known Japanese food in Portland, and they gradually increased their customer base by offering tastings regularly. To make it easier for those unfamiliar with Japanese food to understand what the food was like, they could have described kenchin-jiru as “miso soup with lots of vegetables” and croquettes as “Japanese-style falafel.” However, they stuck to the original names of each dish and explained their origins and ingredients. Initially, it took a while for the customers to accept their dishes. It was important to stick to the original practice until the local residents become familiar with the food from other countries. Humiko said, “I wanted to make Japanese home cooking that made me feel at home. It’s food that my mother and grandmother in Saitama Prefecture used to make for me at home.” Reflecting on the past several years, Humiko smiled and said, “Jason has always been the one who inspires me and says, ‘It will work out.’ His energy and thoughtfulness are truly amazing.” The concept of family is also incorporated into the store’s name and logo. The restaurant’s name “Obon” is a homonym and refers to a period in which people honor the spirits of ancestors in Japan, as well as a lacquered wooden tray used for serving food. The black-and-white logo was inspired by the Hozumi family crest.

An important criterion in choosing a business partner for Humiko and Jason is not only the quality of the food but also whether or not the company shares the same values on food loss, environmental issues, and contribution to community revitalization. In addition to operating a restaurant, they recently launched a new brand “Obon kojo,” and sell kanzuri in stores, and miso and koji for retail and wholesale. The driving force behind their creativity is the desire to share food that makes people feel good. Humiko concluded, “The impact of our activities on society is still small, but we hope to reduce food loss and increase the number of people who are health-conscious in their eating habits.”

Translation Fumiko.M

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We found our house on Zillow, an online real estate marketplace. It was a major adventure moving from the metropolitan city of New York to the American countryside. Thanks to the pandemic, the BLM movement, a demand for societal change in the prolonged mistreatment of the Black community in the country, erupted nationwide. Amid all this, something I imagined would happen in the Midwest took place in the big city of New York: White Supremacy rallies. I started to see news of hate crimes against Asian people too. I had lived in the city for a decade, yet I didn’t know anything about the distorted social structure of America. I didn’t know anything about Connecticut, either. 

Our top conditions for our new home were: within two hours from New York by car, far away from neighbors, thus ensuring the protection of privacy, and equipped with a fireplace and some gardening space. Another essential condition was distance. That is, being able to see friends within an hour’s drive. I looked for houses close to my good friends because I knew I would want company. With that said, there weren’t a lot of houses for rent to begin with, and we didn’t have much leeway to choose. On Zillow, you send a request to go on a house tour once a listing catches your eye. You then connect to an AI broker called Alex and exchange inorganic-sounding messages. It introduces a local broker who would set up a house tour. But when I found our current home, I got connected to Jim and Julie instead of Alex. When I saw a normal message starting with a hello, I almost screamed to Brian that there was a human being on the other side of the screen.   

The house was a 40-minute drive from Evan and Liutas, our friends living in upstate New York, and an hour away from Dimes Deli’s Zach and Sophie’s upstate home, whom I’ve known since I founded Chiso, my food project. Coincidentally, journalist Yumiko Sakuma’s “house on a mountain” was across from Zach and Sophie. And it was 20 minutes away from our life-hack boss and New York neighbor, Ross’s cabin.   

We went to see the house at the beginning of January 2021. We wore masks the first time we met Jim and Julie since the pandemic was still in full swing, but they were so welcoming it blew my mind. They also knew about Chiso because they looked at my website after our first exchange and told us we could move in immediately if we liked the house. The renovated two-story farmhouse from the 1800s was where Julie grew up. The 2,000-square-foot house was on a 36-acre plot of farmland with two fireplaces and six bedrooms. Jim told us he’d make sure we could use the classic-styled fireplaces, which the previous tenant didn’t, and that he’d make space for a garden. The walls had been painted in brown and cream colors, and they had many windows from which you could see a beautiful landscape. One of the reasons I felt comfortable was simply because the house was built in a similar way to Evan and Liutas’ place. Moving away from my New York life, which had become dreary because of covid, felt refreshing since I had never lived in the countryside. I felt excited to start a new life surrounded by nature. It was winter then, so the trees were bare, making the house in the distance visible. But we were told we would have privacy once spring brought its abundance of greenery.   

Moving during winter was more challenging than expected, but I got it done thanks to Nathan and Brian’s hard work. The two fell asleep because they were exhausted, but I began unpacking at midnight to at least clean the kitchen because Jim was planning on visiting the following day. Then, something suddenly flew over my head: a bat! The room was boiling because I didn’t know how to use the heater, so I kept the windows with no screens open. The bat probably flew in by accident. I woke Brian up, and we somehow shooed it away with a broomstick. I was shocked, however, after discovering that some bats carry rabies. 

A year has passed since we moved into our home, but my feelings haven’t changed. I get to experience the beauty of nature through the intricate colors of each season—yellow, blue, purple, pink, red, green, and so on. The sunsets in winter are so gorgeous that they made me discover the existence of the wonderful time of just gazing at the sunset. I feel grateful to live among nature’s epic rhythms: birds chirping, strong winds from over the hills, the sound of the many wind chimes around our home. The house does require some maintenance, though, since it’s old. Jim is thankful we’ve taken that role on.   

Our house is in a farming region where you can’t get your food delivered, but there are excellent supermarkets and bakeries—possibly better than those in New York—15 minutes away by car. Let me tell you all about it next time.   

Translation Lena Grace Suda
Edit Nana Takeuchi

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The covid pandemic triggered another wave of interest in fermentation. These days, fermented foods are evolving on their own in Japan and abroad respectively. Machiko Tateno, a Japanese culinary researcher, worked to connect the dots between the two countries. Tateno published books on miso, shio koji, amazake, and other fermented foods in Japan. She also made appearances on a cooking show that has been airing for more than 60 years. Her efforts to educate people about fermented foods as home cooking that anyone can prepare had already circulated in Japan, but have now also reached Portland and New York. The English edition of Japanese Pickled Vegetables, published in 2019, was so popular that it had to be reprinted. Her way of cooking, which pursues the simple and delicious, was appreciated beyond borders. At a lecture event on pickles held in New York a few years ago, Tateno said, “I realized the potential of fermented foods as I met people from Portland who enjoy fermented food with unique ideas that the Japanese people do not have, and I want to now spread amazake.” The Fermentation Festival in Portland, which began in 2009, is one gateway to understanding the fermented food scene in Portland. Tateno attended the event twice with her friends, the Migakis, the owners of Jorinji Miso, who are known for making miso in Portland using traditional Japanese methods. The festival helped deepen her relationship with the residents, who loved fermented foods.

Jorinji Miso
Soy Beam Jozo’s miso brand is run by Earnest Migaki, a third-generation Japanese American born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and Yuri Migaki, a Japanese native who moved to Portland in 2015. They focus on natural fermentation and small-batch production. In addition to wholesaling to supermarkets and restaurants in the Portland area, they conduct direct sales through monthly events, as well as shipping directly within the U.S., except during summer months. The duo believes that miso is a way to make people healthy and happy.
https://www.jorinjimiso.com/

Founded in Portland 27 years ago, Jorinji Miso has been in business thanks to connections formed over time

Jorinji Miso was founded in 1995 by Earnest Migaki, a third-generation Japanese American born and raised in Portland, and his first wife, Sumiko, who was born in Japan. Earnest originally moved to Japan to find a job, where he met Sumiko. The couple returned to Portland in 1994. At the time, homemade miso was not available in Portland, so they decided to make miso that would meet their own standards. Using an instruction manual and tools brought from Japan, they went through several attempts, and the final miso was a success among their friends. This experience led to the birth of Jorinji Miso. Just as the miso was proving popular enough to be sold at local organic supermarkets, however, Sumiko suddenly passed away. Earnest was overwhelmed with a sense of loss and anxiety. But with the encouragement of his business friend Mio Asaka, who sold pastries using his miso at a local farmer’s market, Earnest waded through his loss and continued to make miso.

Yuri Oe, a Tokyo native, learned about Jorinji Miso through Mio in 2015 when she was studying abroad in Portland. She met Earnest and began helping him at his workplace. The following year, they married. Yuri Migaki recalls of her first encounter with Jorinji Miso, “It was a pleasant surprise to find such delicious miso in Portland.”

In their miso storeroom, a local newspaper clipping that featured the company when it was founded is taped to the wall. Yuri says, “There is a feeling that the three of us are working together, Sumiko-san watching over us so that we can make delicious miso.” After graduating from a junior college in Japan, Yuri worked as a system engineer for 20 years. Then she worked as a manager for Roppongi Nouen, a farm-to-table restaurant where Tateno worked as a chef. During her first 5 years at Jorinji Miso, Yuri redesigned the packaging, brand logo, and manufacturing space, also improving the environmental conditions of manufacturing. Of all the changes she made, changing the label, which had been used since the company was founded, was the biggest decision, as it was created by her predecessor. Yuri says with a smile, “I am having a very enjoyable time now.” The miso-making and tasting demonstrations in Portland, and the recipes featured on the website, seem to be a culmination of all the experience and knowledge she has accumulated over the years. It’s not all about miso soup— she offers recipes that combine the miso with fusion-style dishes. One featured recipe is tortilla pizza with colorful vegetables and mushrooms with a miso mayonnaise sauce.

Making Miso in Portland with Japanese aesthetics and sensibilities

Since Jorinji Miso adheres to making raw miso, its distribution channels are naturally restricted. They sell their products through a limited number of supermarkets in the Portland area and their official website. The company does not distribute its products to large intermediary companies in bulk, instead relying on small local delivery companies or carrying out deliveries directly to minimize the time from order to purchase. To avoid waste as much as possible, Jorinji Miso does their best to fully pack the miso into containers after receiving each order. They carefully remove mold from the surface of the miso barrels as they check the level of maturity. Through this process, they say that no matter how meticulous the preparation, there is an inevitable amount of loss which is always painful to see. They talk to their miso as it ferments, telling it to “become tasty,”  as the bacteria are living creatures—— it’s moving to see how they spare no efforts to make their miso.

The commitment is not only seen in the miso-making process, but also in the containers and labels. While miso sold in supermarkets primarily relies on plastic, for direct sales they use only glass jars and paper containers. The labels are easy to peel off, making it easy for buyers to reuse the glass containers. The uncompromising attention to detail, which one might not notice unless told, reflects sensibilities and characteristics of Japanese products.

When chefs from local restaurants ask them how to make miso, they generously teach how to do it. Yuri says, “I hope everyone will make miso. It would be fun if Portland became the next miso-making capital after Japan.” Yuri gladly shares her knowledge about authentic miso and fermented food culture. Koji from Jorinji Miso is also used in miso-making events at local schools and around the community. They have encountered many interesting and unique Portlanders, including some customers who enjoy miso dissolved in hot water, and others who find fermented foods “mystifying” and call Yuri and Earnest wizards. Indeed, the more one learns about the miso-making process, the more interesting and magical it becomes. Even if the same ingredients are used in the same place and same quantity, there are differences in the finished product depending on the producer. A Japanese miso craftsman once told me, “The bacteria choose the right person, and miso cannot be made unless the person making it has the right spirit.

In New York, people are already familiar with the unique Japanese taste: dashi, umami, and other flavors characteristic of the cuisine. It’s not all about sushi and ramen. Earnest, whose father is a second-generation Japanese American and mother is from Aomori, grew up with homemade miso soup and pickles. During his college days, when there were far fewer Japanese restaurants or places stocking Japanese ingredients than there are now, he grew sick of the dry pizzas and hamburgers at hand. When he moved to Yokohama for work at the age of 25 and came across gyudon, yakitori, soba stalls, and Japanese sweets, he realized that the Japanese food he had been eating in Portland was very limited. When asked about the current awareness of Japanese food and miso in Portland, he replied, “There is a mix of authentic American fermented foods and Japanese food. Consumer tastes are changing in line with diverse food cultures, such as gluten-free and vegan, but things have calmed down a bit now. We wonder what the next trend will be, but all we can do is continue to produce miso that we are satisfied with.”

Cooperation Kazumasa Kobayashi
Translation Fumiko.M

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