Shigeru Ban

In a previous post, I talked about a Japanese architect and recent winner of the Pritzker prize. I learned today, that another Japanese architect has just been awarded the same prize. His name: Shigeru Ban. He is well known for his use of low-cost, recycled materials, especially for the use in constructing emergency housing. He explains in this TED talk.

Kenji Mizoguchi's Ugetsu Monogatari

Ugetsu Monogatari theatrical poster

Ugetsu Monogatari (雨月物語) or Tales of Moonlight and Rain by Ueda Akinari (上田 秋成) was first published as a collection of short stories in 1776. Set in the Sangoku period, it combines elements from Japanese and Chinese folk mythology, creating an atmosphere of the paranormal across nine distinct tales. It is a great example of Edo period literature, and is a worthwhile read; a copy of the  text can be found here. In 1953, a film loosely based on the stories was released by director Kenji Mizoguchi (溝口 健二).

The film (Link contains spoilers) borrows from several of the stories in Akinari's collection, but recombines them into a cohesive plot that follows four main characters. It retains the setting of the Sangoku period, as it explores the conflict between high ambition and a more humble desire for happiness.

A particularly apparent motif is the exchange of money. One sees this earliest in the film in the character of Ganjuro. He is a peasant with the ambition of becoming a wealthy merchant. He sincerely believes that money holds the key to luxury and desire; and at first, some might be inclined to agree with his seemingly practical approach to the matter—but I won't spoil the details, you'll have to watch the film for yourself. Perhaps this is a commentary on post-war Japanese society. The Japan of the film and in Mizoguchi's time were torn apart by war. Especially in the post-war period, there has been a perceived increase in materialism and consumerism. It is easy to see why Mizoguchi might be critical of the pursuit of wealth above all else.

As an aside, however, Ugetsu was never quite as popular in Japan as it was in the west. Many critics, such as Donald Richie, consider it one of the preeminent Japanese films, of the same caliber as Rashomon or Tokyo Story. As it happens, the cinematographer for Ugetsu—Kazuo Miyagawa (宮川 一夫)—was also the cinematographer for Rashomon, lending them similar visual styles.

Also, the film is now in the public domain, and can be viewed here. However, if you can find it (or want to order it), the Criterion Collection has released a DVD set that contains additional commentary on the film and documentary about the film maker.

読んで、ありがとう。

Haruki Murakami's Underground

On March 20, 1995—19 years ago today—members of Aum Shinrikiyo released sarin gas into the subways of Tokyo. This was the first major attack on Japan since World War II. The attack came as a great shock, as it was the first major attack in Japan since the end of World War II. It was followed by a great deal of media sensationalism, focusing mainly on Aum, and largely ignoring the victims of the attack. For this reason, author Haruki Murakami decided to embark on writing a book to correct this imbalance. In Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche, he conducts interviews with the numerous survivors, telling their story, and how the attacks have gone to affect them in the following year.

Mute Beat

When you think of Japanese music, reggae is not likely the first thing that pops into your head—at least I don't think it is. Given the large market share of J-pop, influenced heavily by American popular music, it can be easy to ignore other aspects of Japanese music, stemming from different cultural influences. Indeed, reggae music in Japan has gained quite a following, with a fairly active community of musicians. The story begins in the 1970s, during the heyday of Japanese rock music, when the Pioneers  were the first reggae band to tour in Japan. In 1979, the genre hit a tipping point, when Bob Marley toured Japan, inviting several native Japanese musicians to record with him. Throughout the 1980s, Japan would produce new reggae groups, and one of the first was Mute Beat.

As a genre, reggae began in the 1960s, originating from traditional Jamaican music, such as ska. Similar to the Japanese genre of enka, reggae was frequently used as vehicle for political messages. Rastafari, then disenfranchised as part of Jamaican counterculture, used reggae to express their views, which would slowly help them gain more mainstream acceptance. Parallels exist in Japanese society, as with controversies over the treatment of native Ainu or Ryukyuan people or Zainichi Koreans. Examples of later Japanese reggae musicians, such as  U-dou and Platy or Nanjaman, come from such backgrounds.

Before them, however, came Mute Beat, founded by trumpet player Kazufumi "Echo" Kodama (小玉和文) in 1981—incidentally, the year of Bob Marley's death. Kodama had an interest in music since he was a child, stemming from an eclectic combination of Christian hymns and marching band music, among other things. Of course, upon learning of reggae, he was immediately enamored, deeming it "the music of musics." He continued to perform with Mute Beat through the mid 90s, but has since gone on to a solo career, continuing to produce works in the genre.

Among the other members of Mute Beat is Gota Yashiki (屋敷 豪太), who would also find a great deal of success as a drummer and bass player performing with acid-jazz group Simply Red. He has also busied himself with appearing with other acts such as Sinéad O'Connor, Seal, and Bryan Adams. Some of Mute Beat's music has been made available on iTunes; however, albums such as IN DUB can be found elsewhere (as on YouTube). Mute Beat maintains an official website—though it is in Japanese.

読んで、ありがとう。

Goyou Hashiguchi

Hot Spring Hotel, 1921.

A philosophical question: what is beauty? Maybe, I should be less philosophical—what I mean to ask is what is feminine beauty? A great deal of western art—for better or for worse—has been created with beautiful female subjects: the Venus de Milo or the Mona Lisa, for example. The art of Japan is no different. Such paintings (and ukiyo-e) are grouped together in a genre called bijinga (美人画)—literally, beautiful-person paintings. However, ukiyo-e has never been an art form of the wealthy and the privileged. They are woodblock prints, designed as to be affordable to the average Japanese family, and therefore much more representative of the aesthetic tastes of the Japanese people. This brings us to Goyou Hashiguchi (橋口 五葉).

Daughter in Summer Kimono, 1920

Hashiguchi is considered to be one of the masters of 20th century ukiyo-e, and is particularly well known for his bijinga prints. Two styles of print making were popular in the early 1900s: shin-hanga (新版画) and sousaku-hanga (創作版画). Sousaku-hanga simply refers to prints made completely by a single artist. That is, the image, the woodblock, and the final print are made by the same individual. This was a departure from the traditional print making process, known as the hanmoto system, which involved many artisans, at each stage of the print's creation. Shin-hanga was the style that preserved this tradition in the 20th century, and is the style that Hashiguchi worked in. Shin-hanga is the more conservative style. In some sense, this makes Hashiguchi a conservative artist.

Indeed, Hashiguchi was very interested in traditional Ukiyo-e, and was a student of the classic Edo period artists such as Utagawa Hiroshige (歌川 広重) and Kitagawa Utamaro (多川 歌麿). He began painting at the age of 19, and graduated at the top of his class from the Tokyo School

Woman Applying Powder, 1918

of Fine Arts at the age of 25. Afterward, he was commissioned to illustrate the works of various authors, including Natsume Souseki. He would steadily gain a reputation extremely high quality in the prints he created, which has continued to earn merit among collectors in the present time.

As for his portrayal of beauty, he conforms to the traditional imagery of ukiyo-e and traditional standards of beauty: women wear floral-pattern kimono, shown with whitened skin, hair pulled into a bun, etc. In keeping with the bijinga style, Hashiguchi portrays his subjects in a domestic setting. This contrasts with style of paintings meant for the gentry—seen very prominently in western art—where the subjects are artificially posed for aesthetic effect. The Japanese term for this aesthetic is iki (粋), meaning chic or stylish. It carries the connotation of not only elegance and sophistication, but also the kind of spontaneity that could be captured by snap-shot. Certainly, Hashiguchi portrays intimate situations. While these images are very

Woman Combing Her Hair, 1920

thoughtfully arranged and detailed, they have a natural appearance as if they were taken as photographs.

Hashiguchi died at the relatively young age of 41, in 1921, having supervised the completion of his final work Hot Spring Hotel (shown at the top) from his death bed. It was not printed until after his death. Just two years later, the most destructive earthquake in Japan's history destroyed most of the woodblocks used to produce his prints. In all, his works were created in a period of less than 10 years—indeed, had he lived longer, he may be remembered as one of the most prolific 20th century ukiyo-e artists. More of Hashiguchi's prints may be viewed at ukiyo-e.org—note that some of these contain nudity. However, it's artistic nudity, and not pornographic, as some ukiyo-e are (this link is decidedly NOT work safe).

 読んで、ありがとう。

Seibei Kashima

Mount Fuji from Kashiwabara, 1890.

View of Miyajima, 1890.

Before I started thinking about this piece, I started getting the feeling that I was out of good ideas as to what I could write about. I've written about music, and art, and film. I started asking myself: what else is there? And for a while, I found myself unable to answer that question! Until it hit me: photography. In the present (as in the past) photography has occupied a strange place in peoples minds. It's certainly got artistic aspects, but it also has very technical aspects. Photography is used to capture moments in a way our memories cannot, but there are also those who compose photographs for artistic reasons. At any rate, I decided to look into the history of photography in Japan, and it is certainly an interesting story. However, to keep this concise, I decided to write about Seibei Kashima—an amateur photographer who rose to prominence during the Meiji era.

Kashima was born in 1866—only a few years before emperor Meiji ascended to the throne—in Osaka, but was adopted at an early age by a family of sake brewers in Tokyo. It wouldn't be long before he took a great interest in photography. It was only in 1848 that the first

Torii at Itsukashima, 1890.

camera arrived in Japan, brought to Nagasaki by Dutch traders. However, during the Meiji era, Japan was opened to trade with the west, which brought new opportunities. When Kashima reached the age of about 19, he requested private lessons from renowned photographer Reiji Esaki. For the next year and a half he served as Esaki's assistant, during which he developed a great sense of enthusiasm for the craft. Several years later, he would work with yet Ogawa Kazumasa, who helped introduce the dry plate process to Japan, and W.K. Burton, an English engineer, who became founders of the Japan Photographic Society (日本写真会, Nihon Shashinkai)—Kashima would also become a member.

Kashima is well remembered because he was one of the first amateur photographers to rise to prominence—after all, this was still a time in which photography required equipment beyond the means of most individuals. Kashima was a member of a wealthy family, and used his wealth to pursue this particular avocation. However, he was instrumental in popularizing photographic studios in Japan, as well as the manufacturing of photographic materials in Japan, which would otherwise need to be imported at high expense.

Wetsu Kashima, 1890s.

 One particular episode in his life, for which he has become remembered, was an affair with a geisha named Ponta (ぽん太). He was married at the time, resulting in something of a scandal. The two later married, after Kashima divorced his current wife, and she took the name Wetsu Kashima (鹿嶋ゑつ). She would also go on to support the family, as Seibei was injured later in life during a photography accident—I'm afraid details are scarce as to what may have actually gone wrong.


Similar to another figure I've written about, his eccentric lifestyle earned him enough notoriety to be the subject of a short story by Mori Ougai called "Hyaku Monogatari" (百物語, A Roung of Ghost Stories). A Kindle version is available for free, if you are able to read Japanese. Unfortunately, I've been unable to track down many more photographs than are presented here, though they can be found here.

読んで、ありがとう。

Spotify Playlist, Hougaku

It should come as no surprise by now that I am a fan of Japanese music-- of music in general, for that matter. This presents me with something of a dilemma, because I feel that I could dedicate an entire blog to Japanese music, but then I won't have time to write about art and literature and other topics. So, I've gone to the trouble of creating a playlist on Spotify: Hougaku. This will allow me to share Japanese music, while keeping up my efforts on other topics. Not that I'll stop writing about music here-- this playlist consists of more mainstream types of music. Every now and then I'll write about folk or experimental/avant-garde groups and singers.

Kazuki Tomokawa

Kazuki Tomokawa, c.a. 1975

The appeal of folk music isn't difficult to understand. Music, starting in the 1950s, has been dominated by popular forms of music, such as rock and roll. At first, these new popular styles were influenced by traditional sounds and styles, but as time went on it pop has grown into what we know today. For this reason, people have sought out more substantial forms of music, and folk music is one such avenue. In light of the westernization of Japanese culture in post-war Japan, it's no wonder that there was also a resurgence of Japanese folk music. The height of folk music in Japan was in the 1970s, and in the midst of it was Kazuki Tomokawa (友川 かずき).

(Presumably) a work of Tomokawa's art

I specifically waited until today to write this particular piece, because it 64 years ago today that Tomokawa was born under the name of Tenji Nozoki (及位典司), later adopting Kazuki Tomokawa as his gou or art name. The use of such pseudonyms is is a common practice among artists from East Asia. While his music is the most accessible form of media to western audiences, Tomokawa has been active as a poet, painter, essayist, and bicycle race commentator—this fact reminds me a bit of how author Haruki Murakami is an avid runner.

His distinctive vocal style has earned him the moniker of "the screaming philosopher." During his high school days, he discovered poetry—particularly the poetry of Chuuya Nakahara (中原 中也)—becoming an avid reader. It wasn't until the 1970s that he began to set his poetry to music. That being said, he continues to produce music, even today.

Hanabana no kashitsu, cover

As has been the case with a lot of these pieces, there is a dearth of information available in English about Tomokawa. However, a documentary called La Faute des Fluers—named for his 1993 album Hanabana no kashitsu—was produced in 2010, and can be found in three installments on youtube.



Many of Tomokawa's albums can be purchased from the Amazon—albeit, in Japanese. For those curious about his art work, he produced a book of his visual art in the 1990s called Aozora (青空) available for 3,049 ¥—about 30 USD.


読んで、ありがとう。

Yume wa Yoru Hiraku

Just listen.

Yume wa Yoru Hiraku (夢は夜ひらく, Dreams Bloom at Night) is an example of enka, a style that combines traditional Japanese music with influences from jazz and rock and roll. Keiko Fuji's version of the song (the third from the video), was released in the 1970s, helping to maintain the popularity of the genre during the 1970s.

Running in Tokyo

When I began this project, I thought that an update schedule of once a week was appropriate. That would give me enough time, from week to week, to get ideas about what to write about, and then to research them enough so that I can at least appear a little knowledgeable about the subject. But, I've always had it in mind to write more frequently, but not on such long topics as I do on the weekends. Now that I've been doing this for about a month, I've started to find little bits of information that, while interesting, don't necessarily lend themselves to long stories, so I've decided to start posting smaller pieces, during the week, while I work on the longer ones.

Map of common running routes in Tokyo.

Last Saturday, I found myself walking in Federal Hill—on the way to what has become my favorite sushi bar—and decided to stop into a small bookstore that I've walked by a few times. I really just wanted to look, but when I go into bookstore, an impulse buy is never far behind, and this time I found they had a copy of Haruki Murakami's What I Talk about When I Talk about Running. Clearly, I had to buy it. Later that evening, I al --so came across this study, which takes composites of data about where people run in different cities in the world.

"As long as I can run a certain distance, that's all I care about... This is the same sort of tack I find necessary when writing a novel. I stop every day right at the point where I feel I can write more. Do that, and the next day's work goes surprisingly smoothly... To keep on going, you have to keep up a rhythm. This is the important thing for long-term projects." — Haruki Murakami

Takashi Murakami and superflat

First Day of Summer, June 21, 2011

First, I have to apologize for not writing for a while-- I've been in the process of moving to a new city, and I've just about finished setting up things in my new apartment (including an internet connection), and have been quite busy. At any rate, I wanted to jump back in with yet another form of media altogether. After some thinking, I thought maybe it's about time to do something that is related to anime and manga, so I did a little reading, and came across Takashi Murakami (村上 隆).

Sunrise at Futamigaura, Kunisada

When I started out my research on this topic, I had one question really in mind: where did the visual style of anime and manga come from? Part of the answer came in the form of the term superflat. This term was coined by Murakami to describe the general aesthetics of Japanese art. Whereas as western art had developed a tradition of trying to convey depth and a sense of three dimensions, Japanese art has been characterized by compositions of 2-dimensional shapes and large fields of color. This can be seen, for example, woodblock prints called ukiyo-e (浮世絵).


Murakami took this analysis a step further, applying the term superflat to Japanese society after the end of the second World War, when social stratification became less pronounced, and there has been a perceived lessening/shallowing of emotion, and an increase in consumerism.

Self-Portrait of the Manifold Worries
of a Manifoldly Distressed Artist

Murakami has taken the aesthetic principle and social ethos of superflat, and used this as an opportunity to create art. The imagery Murakami employs is as visually striking as it is labor intensive, relying on the creation of many layers of simple, 2-dimensional figures, such as the field of flowers seen to the left. Murakami also relies on a blurring of lines between high art and low art, as he incorporates stylings from anime and manga and borrows from otaku subculture to provide a wider social commentary.

Murakami has written extensively about Japanese art including Superflat, where he discusses the history behind contemporary Japanese visual art, and Little Boy: The Arts of Japan's Exploding Subculture, which explores the artistic and social history of anime an manga.

読んで、ありがとう。

Yasujirou Ozu, Tokyo Story

Theatrical Poster for Tokyo Story

The phrase, "art imitates life," at first struck me as just another cliché. However, after I found myself in my new apartment, without an internet connection (or furniture, or lights), and a copy of Yasujirou Ozu's Tokyo Monogatari (東京物語, Tokyo Story), I decided that perhaps I should go ahead and write about this film. Ozu often appears on lists of the greatest film makers, and has a strong following among cinephiles—those familiar with me know that I'm not a cinephile—however, outside of such circles, it seems that his reputation is Overshadowed by Akira Kurosawa.

For many—I assume—Akira Kurosawa stands out as the creator of some of the most memorable Japanese films to western audiences. However, according to film critic Donald Richie, Ozu is the most Japanese director. Kurosawa is known for making jidaigeki (時代劇) or period dramas. Even though they aren't action oriented in the sense of some western movies, they are driven by greater conflicts, mostly wars. Ozu's films are mostly concerned with the lives of ordinary Japanese families, and his films are almost always set within the homes of these families.

An example of a scene from the film.

Tokyo Story is considered to be Ozu's masterpiece, and in all the details of the storytelling, this shows. Perhaps, he is best known for his use of low, wide-angle shots to depict the subjects of the story in their home. Most scenes feature sitting subjects, so this positioning of the camera gives the sense that the viewer is seated in the same room as the characters-- indeed, it is also a practical constraint from filming inside the confines of a typical Japanese home, which provided relatively little space.

The genre of the film is best described as social realism—Ozu, throughout his career was keenly interested in portraying the dissolution of the Japanese family. In this story, an elderly couple travels to Tokyo to visit their children, only to find them busy with their own lives. The story moves along at it's own pace, but the plot isn't driven so much by action or dramatic tension as much as it is by the attitudes of the characters involved. That isn't to say, however, that the story isn't well written. Quite the contrary, the plot is engrossing—I felt myself absorbed almost immediately—and elegant.

Robert McKee wrote that "the archetypal story unearths a universally human experience, then wraps itself inside a unique, culture-specific expression." Tokyo Story takes something archetypal, as the family, but places them into the cultural atmosphere of post-war Japan. This is a theme that he would revisit throughout his career, often incorporating experiences from his own life into his films.

To anyone new to this film— or viewing it again— I suggest tracking down a copy of the Criterion collection's DVD, as it is accompanied by two documentaries on Ozu's films. Admittedly, a great deal of the information here comes from these sources, but it is important to see and hear this from the actors who worked closely with him.

読んで、ありがとう。

Hyakken Uchida, Realm of the Dead

Photograph of Hyakken Uchida.

Hyakken Uchida (内田 百閒) was a prolific Japanese author of both fiction and non-fiction, who is considered by many to be a literary genius. However, this reputation has not extended far outside of Japan, where he remains relatively obscure—as a matter of fact, I had difficulty gathering any information at all. He was born in 1889, and would later study Germanics (language, literature, history, etc.) at the Univeristy of Tokyo, graduating in 1914. Here he met with the pre-eminent Japanese author Natsume Souseki (夏目 漱石). After his studies, he worked as a professor of German, first at the Imperial Japanese Army Academy and then at Hosei University, until the age of 54. He then retired, so that he could focus on his writing.

Only two of his works have been translated into English: Meido (冥途, The Realm of the Dead) and Ryojun Nyujōshiki (旅順入城式, Triumphant March into Port Arthur). Both are found in a single volume, translated by Rachel DiNitto. Realm of the Dead is his first work, and is really a collection of sketch stories, that are heavily influenced by Japanese folklore, and the stories tend to be characterized by a dark and supernatural atmosphere, and how individuals respond to strange happenings. The story "Kudan" is considered one of the most famous from the collection, dealing with a man who suddenly finds himself transformed into the titular legendary creature, with the body of a cow and the face of a man. Other such stories typically feature such supernatural occurrences, which has lead some to criticize the collection as repetitive; however, the stories vary greatly in tone as far as being suspenseful, humorous, and sometimes just strange, which in the end negates any repetitiousness.

Classical Painting of a Kudan.

Triumphant March into Port Arthur is also a collection of short stories and sketches, but is more variable in the length of stories, and in many of the stories takes on an autobiographical tone, giving more insight into the "earlier" life of the author as a professor of German, where little biographical information (at least in English) exists. In the preface, Uchida addresses the difficulties he faced in getting the book published:

After ten long years, I finally finished Realm of the Dead. The book was ready to be published, but in that year Tokyo was struck by terrible misfortune. The great earthquake and accompanying fires completely destroyed the foundry plates, causing the book to suffer the unfortunate fate of going out of print. For the next ten years, I gnawed at my pen and ripped through paper, and somehow after piecing together this mere collection, I was lucky enough to receive the favor of a publisher. When the book was finally about to be printed, I reflected back on the path of writing and found it to be far to long and precipitous.

Poster for Madadayo.

I can't resist the urge to interject yet another history lesson, as Realm of the Dead was published in 1922 and Triumphant March into Port Arthur in 1934, which was a time of increasing Japanese nationalism and militarism, leading up to the Second Sino-Japanese war. Also, the earthquake alludes (most likely) to the Great Kantou earthquake of 1923, which remains the deadliest earthquake in Japan's history, with nearly 150,000 deaths, and resulting in a fair amount of political turmoil.

Most of Uchida's works were written during the years preceding World War II—a time of increasing nationalism and imperialism in Japan—and following Japan's defeat. Unfortunately, these works are still only accessible to those who can read Japanese. However, many of Uchida's essays and journals were adapted into the film Madadayo, Akira Kurosawa's final film, in 1993.

Concept art of Uchida viewing the moon and ruins
 with his students.

Madadayo is quite unlike many of the films that Kurosawa is better known for, such as Seven Samurai or Ran. It does not, for example, feature a cohesive plot, but rather focuses on several episodic periods of Uchida's life, such as the time spent in a small hut after the destruction of Tokyo in the war, or the search for his lost cat Nora. For those interested in the life of Hyakken Uchida, this film offers a lot of insight. For those interested in reading his non-fiction works, it still serves as a great substitute, being crafted by Akira Kurosawa, one of the greatest film makers of the 20th century.

 

Uchida distributes flyers to children describing his lost cat.

Hopefully, within the following years translations of more works will appear. Until then, what we have will have to do—though, I might mention that one more work may be available in the west. Uchida's Sarasāte no ban (サラサーテの盤) was made into a film entitled Zigeunerweisen. The film, an independent film, is also somewhat obscure, but again, there is very little available to the western audience.

読んで、ありがとう。

Sendai Mediatheque, designed by Toyo Ito

Exterior of the Sendai Mediatheque

Architecture, I have the feeling, is largely a mystery to a lot of people—at the very least, it is to me. People mostly connect to architecture through the physical buildings, once they are completed, but don't have as much familiarity with the history of or the conceptual/design aspect of architecture. Japanese architecture is no exception, as the term is likely to be most associated with the traditional design of Japanese buildings, before the Meiji restoration. However, in the late 19th century, Japan experienced its first period of westernization, and along with this came the western tradition of architecture. At first, many western architects designed building in Japan. But in 1877 the University of Tokyo was established with its own school of engineering and architectural program, and by the early 20th century Japan was producing architects who would design a modernized Japan. Indeed, there is a large body of history here, but it will have to wait. Instead, we'll skip ahead to the year 2000, marking the completion of the Sendai Mediatheque, designed by Toyo Ito (伊東 豊雄).

A schematic diagram of the structure.

Ito graduated from the University of Tokyo in 1965, and after his graduation worked with metabolist architect Kiyonori Kikutake—metabolism was itself an influential movement in Japanese architecture associated with Kenzo Tange and Fumihiko Maki. Ito is, however, not associated with metabolism, but rather with conceptual architecture, in which he attempts to unify concepts from the real, material world and the virtual world. Ito did not come into prominence until the mid 1980s, during the height of Japan's economic boom, when he designed such buildings as Silver Hut in 1984 and Yokohama's Tower of Winds in 1986. During these years, he would work with both  Kazuyo Seijima and Ryue Nishizawa, both influential architects in their own right, which places him very much in the center of post-occupation Japanese architecture. Ito continues to design buildings, and was recently named the 2013 winner of the Pritzker Prize, considered by some as the "Nobel Prize of Architecture" for his lifetime of contributions to the field.

The stairs of the building ascend through the tube.

A central theme in the design of the building are its 13 supporting tubes. Ito describes himself as a "neo-tubist," a term playing off the cubist movement, as it places emphasis on cylindrical structures as natural and allowing for the flow of people, water, light, etc. The building truly takes this to heart in every aspect of its design. First, the tubes provide the primary mechanical support for each level, rather than relying on a post-and-beam system as seen in other buildings. However, the (larger) tubes also provide transportation inside the building, housing stair cases and elevators. The tubes are integrated into the buildings air-conditioning system, allowing airflow between levels, and are even designed to allow light to filter down through the building.

Interior shot of the building.

As structurally innovating as the building is, the function of the Sendai Mediatheque is also meant to innovate on the traditional concept of a library, which have the sole function of housing a collection of books. Each floor of the mediatheque is dedicated to a different purpose, which includes a library for new forms of media (at least new in 2000), as well as providing spaces for citizens to hold public exhibitions, as well as a second gallery space for exhibitions sponsored by the library. Bringing all of these forms of media together is an aspect of Ito's conceptual architecture. In an interview, he said:

Architecture in [the] electronic age is [a] figuration of [the] vortex of information from the primitive age. The human body has been linked with nature as a member in which water and air circulate. People today are equipped with an electronic body in which information circulates, and are thus linked to the world through network of information by means of this other body. This virtual body of electron flow is drastically changing the mode of communication in family and community, while the primitive body in which water and air flow still craves for beautiful light and wind. The biggest challenge for us is how we can integrate these two types of body.

A short documentary was made about the building, including more information on it's construction and function, along with commentary by Ito himself.

A book on the Sendai Mediatheque was published in 2002, and Ito released a book on his broader works in 2009, for those interested.

読んで、ありがとう 。

Les Rallizes Dénudés

Since this is the first post, I should probably explain what this is about. The title, pronounced "koujou", is written in Japanese (though for various reasons I had to resort to using an outdated form of transliteration). It means, "improvement" or "advancement." I would describe myself as Japanophile, but I also consider myself to be a Japanophile who is a bit out of touch with other such individuals of my generation. Since the late 90s, Japanese pop culture has saturated a certain sub-culture in the US (and elsewhere), attracting a great deal of attention to Japan—however, I always considered myself to have a mostly secondary interest in such forms of media, as compared to an interest in the history and language of Japan. More recently, this has translated to interests in other cultural artifacts, such as literature, cinema, and the game of go. My goal with this project is dive more deeply myself into the culture of Japan and to bring some others along with me—that being said, let's get started.

Les Rallizes Dénudés also written as 裸のラリーズ (Hadaka no Rariizu) has an interesting place in the history of Japan during the post-occupation period, but has since occupied a small niche among a small group of enthusiasts. The group was founded as a quartet, but the style and operation of the group has been heavily controlled by it's founder, Takashi Mizutani. The group was founded in 1967, when Mizutani entered Doshisha University—note, that given his entrance to university in this year implies that while he would be too young to remember the early parts of World War II, he would likely remember, as a child, American occupation, and perhaps the more destructive conclusion of the war—during a period of both economic prosperity and increasing Americanization of Japanese culture. While there was a popular acceptance of American culture, for various reasons, there was also a notable critical reaction to American culture, primarily coming from the political left (e.g. Communists), who viewed this is part of a larger imperialism on the part of the United States.

Takashi Mizutani was one such of these individuals, but that is not to say that he did not sympathize with a (former) western power. He was, in fact, a student of French literature, and was an avowed Francophile, as the name of his group reflects. Wheres, the United States Emerged from World War II as a superpower in an economic boom, countries like Japan and France were destroyed, and had lost colonial/imperial territories from their days as world powers. In the years following the war, France would also be home to political battles between the communists (representing the left) and conservative Gaullists (representing the right) as well as the next wave of existential philosophers. These factors, among others, would appeal to individuals such as Mizutani as well as other members of Japanese counterculture.

Musically, Mizutani was influenced by the Velvet Underground—Julian Cope, musician and music writer, argues that their style can be traced specifically to the sound achieved in their song I Hear Her Call My Name and Sister Ray—as well as the music of Blue Cheer, and the image of Japanese rock group, the Jacks. The sound of Les Rallizes Dénudés lies somewhere among the stylings of noise rock and psychedelic rock, and is dominated by the heavy use of feedback, with an otherwise progressive flavor. The group established themselves as avante-garde, as it would not be until a decade later that Mizutani would find a musical atmosphere in which he could find a significant audience; however, by this time, Les Rallizes Dénudés would have fallen into relative obscurity. Part of the mystery and appeal of the group has come from their seclusion. Since the early 1970, Mizutani has lived mostly as a recluse from Japanese society, and the entire discography of Les Rallizes Dénudés is composed of live recordings, most of which exist only as bootlegs. Many tellings of how this group was discovered revolve around obscure Japanese record shops, with labels written by hand. The advent of digital distribution has now made many of these recordings more accessible, and in the early 2000s many such recording surfaced, of widely varying quality.

Much of this obscurity was not entirely by choice, which leads to the telling of what is probably the most infamous part of this story. On March 31, 1970, Japan Airlines Flight 351 was hijacked by members of a terrorist group that would become the Japanese Red Army. Among the hijackers was Moriaki Wakabayashi, the original bassist of Les Rallizes Dénudés. Rumor has it, Mizutani was also asked to participate, but refused. Before this day, the group enjoyed moderate success, and were considered to be visionaries within the counterculture of the time—but this event eclipsed that, and has become much of the reason the group is now remembered today.

At any rate, if you took the time to listen to Romance of Black Grief—which has a more mainstream sound to it—then perhaps you are interested in something that is more characteristic of Les Rallizes Dénudés.

Mizutani, in a flyer for an early performance, was attempting to attract a particular demographic, and to exude a certain image: “For those young people - including you - who live  this modern agonising adolescence and who are wanting the true radical music,  I sincerely wish the dialogue accompanied by piercing pain will be born and fill this  recital hall.” He also adopted the shorter mantra of total sensory assault, as performances were accompanied by the use of strobe lights and mirror balls.

For those interested in this group (or similar Japanese music in general), I suggest finding a copy of Julian Cope's Japrocksampler, which deals mainly with experimental Japanese rock in the post-war period. A blog, entitled The Last One, is also maintained, as a source for recordings, but is only available in Japanese.

読んで、ありがとう。