An open letter to the women of Japan Dear women of Japan, walking around the streets of your delightful capital, Tokyo, and catching your eye on trains, on escalators, on the street and in stores, I can't help noticing your perplexed reactions to me, Momo. "What the fuck is that?" you seem to be saying to yourselves. "Is it a clown? Will it produce some balls and start juggling? Or is it just an old, ugly, ridiculously-dressed gaijin who thinks he'll score points with us by trying to look 'interesting' in a totally weird way?"
I, Momo, have seen these thoughts passing all-too-obviously through your head, and been slightly saddened, I must confess. Yes, I'm old, and foreign, and a bit eccentric. Sure, I could pass for Momo the Clown, or some kind of walking black flower. But there's something you should know. I am, more or less, Nino.
Nino. Ninomiya from boy band Arashi. He's your favourite current man, isn't he? He's everywhere, with his child-monkey charm and delicate, intelligent, feminine features. Look, there, in the Wii SuperMario Brothers poster! And here in the au by KDDI commercial!
What a fun boyfriend Nino would be! What good children he'd make, and how well he'd help you raise them! You dream of Arashi, you keep them under your pillow and take them out at night, and when anyone asks your favourite you say "Nino!" If you saw him on the street you'd scream. But if you saw Momo on the street... well, you'd scream!
And that's what I'm writing to tell you today. There's actually a lot less difference than you think between Momo and Nino! We both make you scream, that's a start! But it goes so much deeper than that! Let me prove to you that Momo equals Nino, more or less!
Up to 60% of the human body is water, which means that me and Nino are already 60% the same thing. Water! It's not like Nino's water is sexy and Momo's is weird. No, that 60% majority component of Nino and Momo is identical. Water!
It doesn't stop there, either. Nino and Momo both have two eyes, a nose, a mouth on the front of our heads. Okay, Momo has one eye that's shriveled like a grape, so let's give him 75% eyes compared with Nino's 100% eyes, but, you know, 75% ain't bad, girls! Momo has less hair than Nino, but, you know, it's hair!
And look at their jobs! Momo and Nino are both singers! Okay, Arashi might perform at the Yokohama Arena while Momo just sings karaoke over an iPod at a Tokyo art gallery, but what's an audience gap of tens of thousands when the profession is the same?
There are some other striking similarities. Momo's middle name is John, and Nino is managed by Johnny's Entertainment. Nino is hot, Momo is not, but there's only one letter difference between those words, which makes them 66% the same. Nino's sperm is young and healthy, whereas Momo produces slightly damaged old man sperm, but even old man sperm can make a perfectly good baby, if you don't mind the fact that it wouldn't be racially 100% pure (it would, though, be racially 50% pure, which is good enough for anyone except sticklers).
I want to conclude this open letter to you, dear Women of Japan, by saying, in your delightful language, yoroshiku; be nice to me. Next time you see me on the street, say to yourself "There -- but for a few insignificant details and my own blind Darwinian prejudices -- walks Nino from Arashi!" And allow yourself a small scream. A nice, excited scream, not the terrified one you normally do.
Yesterday I had a nice meeting with the charming Hiroshi Eguchi, who runs Utrecht. The art bookstore began as a by-appointment-only operation in his Nakameguro apartment, then opened at Utrecht Reading Room, an understated upstairs hideaway featuring a bookstore, cafe and gallery next door to Yohji Yamamoto, up at the Nezu Museum end of overstated Omote Sando.
Sitting out on his back balcony at the Omote Sando space, Hiroshi told me the lease on the building runs for the next three years at least, and in the meantime he's working on re-opening some kind of bookstore up on the roof of his Nakameguro apartment building. He thanked me for mentioning Utrecht in the New York Times, told me how much he likes Motto in Berlin, then proceeded to set up a Momus event at Utrecht on December 27th.
So, from 6-8pm on Sunday December 27th I'm happy to say I'll be giving an Unreliable Tour of the Yusuke Machiba drawing exhibition in the Utrecht Reading Room gallery, Now Idea. Entry will be 1000 yen, which includes a free drink. Utrecht Reading Room is a two-minute walk from Exit A5 of Omotesando Station on the Ginza, Chiyoda and Hanzomon Lines. Address: 5-3-8-201, Minami-Aoyama, Minato-ku, Tokyo 107-0062.
Before I was a curator I was a singer, you know! Momus: The Singing Curator -- Live! On December 22nd "gm ten" proudly presents a 45-minute live set from Momus, the Scottish singer, songwriter and producer best known in Japan for his work with Kahimi Karie. The Berlin-based Momus, visiting Japan this month in the role of an art curator, has agreed to perform a short set of his songs at "gm ten" Gallery. He'll take a break from preparing Aftergold, a major exhibition of Japanese art to be held in the UK in 2012, to sing songs written over the past twenty years. There will also be a guest appearance from Yukiko Sawabe.
[Date] 2009.12.22(Tue) Open 20:30 / Start 21:00 [Place] gm ten Sanwa 2nd Bldg 3rd Floor, 4-1-7 Azabu-Jyuban, Minato-ku, 106-0045 Tokyo Japan -3mins Walk from Azabu-juban station on the Tokyo Metoro Nanboku line (exit 3 or 4) -6mins Walk from Azabu-juban station on the Toei Oedo line (exit 3 or 4) [Charge] 1,000yen (Music fee + 1Drink) [Live] Momus with Special Guest, Yukiko Sawabe [DJ] Mao Yamazaki (gm projects / AKICHI RECORDS) Ryo Aoyanagi (gm projects / AKICHI RECORDS) [Reservation (not essential, but recommended)] send email to info@gmprojects.jp subject line: MOMUS LIVE (1) your name (2) the number of persons (3) phone number
You know me by now; I'm Momus, the well-known web interpreter from the town of Bzrkyr in Upper Trilesian Osnia. To take a break from -- and freshen myself spiritually for -- my duties (studying the web, facilitating the improvement of my students' moral character, expounding the holy laws), I like to travel, and Japan has become a favourite destination. What I like about Japan is that it's different from Upper Trilesian Osnia, but not too different. Basically, today's Japanese are very much like Upper Trilesian Osnians in the 1950s.
Here I am at the "Hachiko" crossing in front of Shibuya Station. Now, a yokel would probably go crazy and dance around and say "Wow, look at the lights! Such big video screens!" But I take this crossing very much in my stride. We have a similar square in Bzrkyr with even more TV screens -- super-miniature ones the Japanese haven't even invented yet -- and even more people running around. In Bzrkyr you'd have seventeen realistic dogs yapping at your ankles rather than one lumpen statue dog sitting on a pedestal. In fact, compared to the Krsyzicnny Crossing, this place is tame and quiet; ideal for a bit of relaxation. (Give it a decade or so, though, and I expect it'll be indistinguishable from any Trilesian town.)
Ah, here's a cinema! Quaint! In Upper Trilesian Osnia we don't have these fleapits any more. We download joke videos from YouTube, household accidents, that sort of thing. If the Japanese still apparently have the attention span to sit for ninety minutes in a dark hall in a building draped with metal curtains, well, good on them, I say! They should enjoy it while they can, because -- if Upper Trilesian Osnian developments are anything to go by -- it'll soon be "curtains" for this type of entertainment.
A Trilesian also gets a good waft of nostalgia entering a place like Libro Books, in the basement of the Parco department store. Both department stores and magazines long ago disappeared from Upper Trilesian Osnia, replaced by outdoor markets and word of mouth, so this kind of place feels like a museum to us. When I took the picture above the "sales assistant" asked me what I was doing and I just chuckled. I was tempted to say: "Just wait a couple of decades, my friend! Photos like this will be the only evidence that this Libro place ever existed!" But, you know, the first law of time travel is that you're not allowed to influence the past. We have to leave it to the Japanese to discover the future in their own time, and their own way.
What could be nicer after a stressful day not-shopping (we Upper Trilesian Osnians are so over consumerism, though the Japanese are only starting to make the most tentative steps in this direction) than a cup of iced chai in a Jungle Cafe? I can't really say that without blushing a bit inside; back in the day, it's whispered, Upper Trilesian Osnia had dozens of these Jungle Cafes, places where people could escape the icy weather and indulge in fantasies of the tropics while sipping coconut juice. Later, of course, it was considered politically off-colour to talk about "the jungle" or create reductive masquerade versions of "cafes in hot places". Now in Upper Trilesian Osnia the cafes are freezing, as they bloody well ought to be. I expect Japanese cafes will be too, soon enough. In the meantime, relaxing on fantasy wicker furniture surrounded by fake jungle is, I have to confess, a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. Might as well enjoy it before the Japanese come to their senses.
Japan is -- continues to be -- the most different society I know. While it may superficially look like any number of other advanced modern cultures, this place has something very, very strange going on just below the surface. I've been fishing about for a word or phrase to describe one important dimension of this strangeness, a thing I pick up here as I move around. The first word that occurs to me is "motherlove". But perhaps a better term would be "ambient impersonal tenderness". Japan is a society shockingly full of ambient impersonal tenderness, overlapping with tender-mindedness, shading into tweeness.
I catch glimpses of this in the difference between what my defensive reflexes tell me reality is like, and what the Japanese reality often turns out to be. For instance, yesterday I caught sight of what looked like a plate of smashed glass in the wall beside me. Reflexively, my brain made a little story, a story that would be plausible in Berlin but not here: "Anti-globalism protesters have smashed the glass to show their resentment against a world system they feel excludes and alienates them." In Berlin it's very common to see smashed glass in bank or office windows, and anarchist or anti-globalist slogans left as a sort of signature.
But on second glance I see that the "smashed" pane is actually covered by a protective plastic sheet, wrinkled in such a way that it makes the glass look shattered. This is Tokyo, not Berlin. My thoughts drift to an exhibition by Yoko Ono of holes shot in sheets of glass, a show called A Hole I saw the other day at Gallery 360. Ono invites viewers to look through the violent hole in the glass (which recalls Lennon's smashed, bloody glasses on the cover of her Season of Glass album) and use it as a way to frame a new view of the world. One reading of this show, seen in Tokyo, is that a Japanese woman is saying to Japanese people: "The society I have adopted as my home is a much more violent one than the one we're used to; look, someone shot my husband. Violence can easily become a way of framing our view of the world."
But daily life in Japan is the opposite of violent. Take the panel discussion I attended at Vacant the other night. The last panel discussion I attended in Berlin turned into a weird attack, by all the other panelists, on a man who goes regularly to Africa to collect ethnic music for his record label. This man -- meek and nervous in manner -- was attacked (subtly, in a devil's-advocatey way) for certain post-colonial contradictions in his stance, for a certain low-level "hypocrisy" or inconsistency, for turning non-property into property, and for participating in the music industry's obsessive "archive fever". The poor man became a symbol of everything we hate about our own system!
Now, I was one of the subtle attackers, and I can only say we did it because we thought the conversation would be boring without some element of conflict, and without the kind of "criticality" we've been taught is good, or at least good form. But the other night at Vacant the dynamic between the panelists was completely different. There was indeed something "vacant" about the conversation, but also something kind, even tender. Two women photographers were questioned by a male photographer, Masafumi Sanai. I was struck by the casually caressing way Sanai asked his questions and the tenderness with which he interjected his "yes I am listening, oh, that's interesting" noises. I'm sure linguists have a name for these sounds -- they're much more important in Japan than in the West, where you'd just tend to listen silently (possibly critically) then respond. Here you interject "uh... oh... ah... so..." syllables in a rhythm and a tone which, to me, makes the conversation sound so empathetic that it's almost like a minor act of lovemaking.
So while Sanai coaxed his guests permissively, caressingly with these rhythmic interjections, the women photographers themselves had a similar relationship with the audience: one, essentially, of coquetry; of casual, relaxed, intimate flirtation. The BBC's Hard Talk -- conversational fisticuffs, or a theatrical approximation of it -- this very much was not. It was more like a very, very light form of group sex. It rode on a clear empathy between clearly-differentiated men and women; the gender element was much more structurally central than it would ever be allowed to be in the West, where the questioner would (in the name of enlightened gender politics) be doing his best to relate to the women "as if they were men" (and of course this careful "non-misogyny" is precisely where I think the West carelessly encodes its misogyny).
Wearing my "Western eyes" I'm perpetually shocked by the sexy shortness of skirt and bareness of leg I see on Tokyo public transport, because of course through Western eyes this betokens a "sexualisation" which will surely lead young women "duped by a male-dominated society" into dangerous situations where they'll be taken advantage of, abused, even raped (though of course associating skirt length too explicitly with rape becomes a reactionary argument). We Westerners extrapolate from short skirts out into a whole series of awkward or dangerous scenarios played out in a low-empathy, low-trust, Western-style environment, a Resident Evil sort of environment where you never know what alienated person or flesh-eating zombie you're going to meet next. But these projections don't match the Japanese context, a situation of almost-twee security, cleanliness, low crime, low-to-no anomie, and familial tenderness between strangers (with occasional disturbing gropings into the territory of incest).
On my travels I've been taking pictures (or sound recordings) of representations of authority figures, and without exception they're ludicrously cute and empathetic. Policemen and construction workers on warning signs look like cute children, they bow and smile and intervene with friendliness. Even when they frown they look like pouty, sulky children. Now, as a British person I'm used to a certain idea of a construction worker, or white van man; he will, I know, leer openly at women who pass his site, make loud judgmental comments about me because I look weird or effeminate, and probably not hold back long if I'm crossing the road in front of his vehicle. But in Japan not only is the illustrated construction worker solicitous and tender in the signs that warn me that work is going on, the real thing is just as respectful, ushering me past with a bow and a shining guidance wand. I actually want to weep with gratitude, because my Western training has led me to expect vitriol, vague menace, and imputations against my masculinity from security staff, police, and construction workers.
There's an extraordinary infantilisation or feminisation of the figures of construction, logistics and policing. A white van (or, more likely, a tiny white truck) rushes past, and certainly a man is driving. But when he signals left, a female voice emits from the truck asking us, tenderly, to take care. Escalators, trains and elevators too come equipped with female voices, solicitous authority figures, and soon the entire city seems to be an automated female authority figure, robotic, gentle and maternal. It's not too far-fetched, I think, to connect this to suggestions that Japan was once a matriarchy. Certainly, the whole society seems to have a mother complex, and a diffuse feminine atmosphere of tenderness mixed with a certain nannying authoritarianism pervades the land.
Yesterday I went with friends to see a studio theatre version of Shuji Terayama's autobiographical 1974 film Den'en ni Shisu. We, the audience, were treated -- kindly but firmly -- like children as we were "boarded" into the tiny Shimokitazawa theatre. We were called up the narrow steps by ticket number, then ushered through into the theatre, where a belted, braced, flat-capped actress on the stage shouted affable instructions and ushers made sure we found seats. To be "mothered" in this way is odd -- the female authority figure is a collective mother, not one you have a personal connection to -- and yet becomes more and more familiar when you're in Japan. Possibly Japanese -- herded around by this primal mother the whole time, treated like children, indulged and spoiled, suckling from the social oppai -- become mollycoddled milksops, the most idiotically sheltered consumer society ever known to man. But possibly it's also massively wise, the secret of their social success, and a huge saving of psychic energy. Why be manly? Why be individualistic? Why struggle, why fight, why criticize? Any revolution here would have to be a revolution against the ambient tenderness of this great primal social mother, but revolution against mother is not in the nature of mammals. We need the milk.
We began Saturday back at the No Man's Land show at the French Embassy, because Hisae hadn't seen it, and a whole new wing of student work had opened up since I saw the show on Thursday.
Then we walked in sunshine over the Hiroo hill to gm ten gallery at Azabu Juban, where Chiako Kudo and Mao Yamazaki were waiting to talk us through an event we're planning to hold there on December 22nd. This is a new gallery (it only opened in October) related to the operations of Osaka designers Graf, known for their furniture and playful constructions for Yoshitomo Nara shows worldwide. Mao runs the music side (his label, Akichi Records, releases Oorutaichi) and Chiako the art side.
I've been talking with friends about where to play a casual free live show while I'm in Tokyo, and the consensus has been that gm ten is the ideal spot. On December 20th their new art show -- featuring drawings by manga veteran Eico Hanamura -- will open, and on December 22nd at 20.30 I'll play a 45-minute Momus set in the gallery, hopefully joined by a special guest or two.
There's a map of gm ten's location -- right next to Azabu Juban subway station -- here and, as I said, the show is free.
After the meeting with Chiako and Mao, Hisae and I headed (past the impressive Christmas... well, digits at Roppongi Hills) down to Ura-Harajuku to catch a panel talk at Vacant (catered vege-stylee by Yoyo!) featuring photographers Masafumi Sanai (Mr A Girl Like You himself) and Ume Kayo (her again!).
I had a wee thrill on the way to Vacant when I popped into Tokyo Bopper. Seeing charisma shop assistant Yama-Sama in the flesh for the first time really felt like seeing a pop star, and I had to hold back a manly squeal of excitement as I made a quick circle of the store and left (we were late).
After the talk at Vacant I met TABbers Cameron and Darryl again, then German photographer Sebastian Mayer and Vicente Gutierrez, who writes for Lucas Badtke Berkow's magazines Paper Sky (recently restyled) and Plants Plus, a sort of web extension of the excellent-but-defunct Planted magazine. Here are Lucas and Ito Seiko talking about their plans for the plants site:
I must say, I like the business goal of "widening the horizons of plants" by leveraging the green life forms' brand into previously-untried media, like a plants TV network and a plants music festival. Lucas thinks big; plants, it's time to raise your game!
Believe it or not, "uses of polished concrete in Japan" is a topic I've been planning to blog about for some time. And now I have the perfect excuse to unleash the comment torrent this topic will undoubtedly provoke ("How dare you suggest that wet-look concrete is a mere compensatory tactic?"). Yesterday, buffeted by a fierce low pressure system, Hisae and I erected umbrellas and headed down to Nadiff a/p/a/r/t.
There I found an area of polished concrete so miraculously shiny that I genuinely thought the rain was leaking in through the window, and tried to splash it with my shoe like a puddle. But let's take a step back, before this text gets too exciting.
Nadiff, to recap, is short for New Art Diffusion. It's an offshoot from Saison Culture; the bookstore, record store, gallery and cafe was started by the people who used to run the Libro bookstore in the Ikebukoro branch of Parco. For the longest time it was in a funky part of Aoyama, near the Maisen tonkatsu restaurant. Then in 2008 it moved to a purpose-built structure on an obscure alley off a riverside footpath in Ebisu.
If it weren't for prominent signs on the lampposts, nobody would find the new incarnation of Nadiff. And that would be a pity, because it's a jewel, an excellent repository of art books and magazines, with two galleries and a bar attached. The only thing that's gone is the record section, boiled down to a single table featuring CDs released by Raster Noton, Casten Nicolai's label. Nadiff has, in timely fashion, got out of CD retail.
But now comes the exciting part of my tale. Nadiff may have got out of music, but it's very much got into shiny polished concrete. The ground-level store's floors boast a fascinating variety of surface sheens. You need to read Schemata Architecture Office's account to discover how haphazardly these textures were arrived at:
"The existing floor was uneven from inaccurate construction," writes Schemata architect Jo Nagasaka, "so we poured epoxy mixed with pine ash on the floor to create a flat surface. The transparent black liquid made different shades of black, following the uneven surface on the floor. It looked like gradation of color on a gradually shoaling beach."
It actually looks, on a rainy day, as if even more inaccurate construction has let the elements seep in and cover the whole surface of the floor with a couple of millimeters of water. It's very hard to imagine such construction imperfections happening in Japan when you consider the care with which such things are done...
...but taking construction imperfections and making a conversation piece of them by subtly drawing attention to them is a Japanese tradition too; it's called wabi sabi.
It's hardly going to be headline-grabbing news for readers of this blog that I love Tokyo more than any other place on the planet. Re-immersing myself in this city gives me a chance to count the ways and the whys, though.
In the brief time I've been here I've done a ton of stuff. I went to Vege Shokudo in Koenji to eat old friend Yoyo's excellent vegetable curry, and found a posse of Tokyo Art Beat writers assembled there, including Cameron McKean and Darryl Jingwen Wee.
After the meal Yoyo took me out onto the narrow alley to meet the Shiroto No Ran storekeepers, including Hajime Matsumoto, who gave a talk about the collective in Berlin in October.
The man in the red-framed glasses below (he remakes secondhand clothes by stitching on playful motifs borrowed from cigarette packets, combini uniforms, and so on, a bit like Andrea Crews in Paris) then guided us to the legendary Asoko clubhouse, up a side-street. Nobody was there, but it was a thrill to locate it.
The next day I had lunch with Yukiko Sawabe, whose work I wrote about recently on my Art-It blog. We went to organic food basement Crayon House, then dropped into Gallery 360 (showing Yoko Ono's pistol-cracked glass plates) and Utrecht reading room, which is a pleasingly understated but immaculately-curated gallery and art bookshop on Omote Sando.
Then, taking in the new Nezu Museum and Junko Koshino's imperious building overlooking the Azabu expressway, we headed to the French Embassy in Hiroo, which has a really great show on called No Man's Land, a sort of art school degree show in which French and Japanese artists have been given individual rooms in a warren-like, slightly dilapidated building to make over as they see fit. It was nice to see a Love and Hate Bento Box video in one featuring Roger McDonald, and a painting by Audrey Fondecave featuring Mai Ueda and Cyril Duval as Holbein's Ambassadors in another.
But if I love Tokyo it's the surrounding context -- the thing producing events and encounters like these -- that deserves the credit. You really only sense something as abstract as a context interstitially, in slipping glimpses as you scurry from appointment to appointment. And yet these glimpses contain the magic that fuels the city, and your love for it.
So here's a paragraph of those glimpses, so frail, so fragmentary and yet so forceful. The tiling in the Citibank lobby on Aoyama Dori. The wooden mailboxes outside Utrecht. A transparently delicate schoolgirl reading a book on the stairs at Ebisu subway station. The 5 o'clock music transforming Meguro into Prospero's island (Shakespeare did travel to Japan; one day I'll make a film about it). The sense of complete safety; I can wear the most ridiculous clothes without fear of embarrassment or assault. Never having to worry about prying hands near my wallet, even in the densest crowd. A sense of being, if not in the future, at least in a parallel world where people are quite a bit more refined, well-mannered and intelligent than I'm used to. A pervading calm inhibition. The mechanical tenderness of soothing lift music. The women, their manner, their faces, their legs, their hair.
• It's morning, Tokyo, Meguro. I'm sitting in the apartment Hisae and I will occupy until the end of the month. Hisae travels up from Osaka later today.
• Drinking tea and looking out over a sunny urban slope leading down to the Meguro River -- the very place I lived in 2001 and 2002, in fact -- I feel richly contented. Any moment now the doorbell will ring (I'm told) and my lost suitcase -- which finally arrived at Kansai International Airport yesterday after a week's delay caused by glorious free collective bargaining a baggage-handlers' strike in Helsinki -- will be delivered.
• In happiness terms, having the flat, Hisae, Tokyo, friends to see, wifi, a laptop and a few fresh clothes (my absurd flappy Bless kabuki romper suit) is absolutely optimal. I don't need more. And when I have more (all the accumulated junk of the years that clutters my Berlin apartment) I feel worse. I feel old surrounded by those constant reminders of a long, long past. Suitcase living suits me.
• The apartment we're subletting belongs to photographer Ariko Inaoka, who went to Parsons School of Art and lived in New York for ten years. Her Super 8 films (which I like very much; somehow they're very Scottish!) punctuate this page. On Tuesday we had lunch with Ariko in Kyoto, where she treated us to the excellent cold soba served in her family's 500 year-old restaurant, Owariya. Ariko will shortly take over the running of the restaurant, taking on -- in the manner of kabuki actors -- an inherited name (a male name, in fact; a kind of persona, almost a family ghost).
• Ariko's Tokyo apartment is somewhat more luxurious than anything I'd be able to afford myself, were I to move back to Tokyo, and that contributes to my sense of pleasure.
• The habituation treadmill (in other words, the patent relativity of happiness) is something I now take so much for granted that I build it into my calculations. Living in Tokyo full-time wouldn't -- thanks to the habituation treadmill -- feel as wonderful, after a year or so, as just visiting the city annually or bi-annually does, so I visit. And paying rent 12 months a year for an apartment like this would simply make it a new base-level for acceptable dwellings, so it's much better to rent it for just one month and experience it as "luxury" at one twelfth the price of mere "acceptability"!
• I'm not sure where that logic goes if you take it further, though. Perhaps periodic spells in prison because "nothing beats the sense of release you get from being released"? Stiff beatings with birch twigs because "it feels so great when it stops stinging"? We hedonic relativists are surely strange beasts.
now that I have the freedom to do whatever, I really love staying home and doing absolutely nothing. see mom, that was all you had to do, take your steely talons outta my ass.
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[Date] 2009.12.22(Tue) Open 20:30 / Start 21:00
We began Saturday back at the 
