The Curiosity Chronicles

The Magi are popularly referred to as Three Wise Men. The word magi comes from the plural of the Latin word magus, in turn borrowed from Greek μάγος magus, which was used in the original Greek text of the Gospel of Matthew. Traditions identify a variety of different names for the Magi; in the Christian church they have been commonly known as Melchior, a Babylonian scholar, Caspar, a Persian scholar, and Balthazar, an Arab scholar. Each bore a gift: one gold, one frankincense, one myrrh. The significance is debated, but one theory is that each of the three gifts had a spiritual meaning: gold as a symbol of kingship on earth, frankincense (an incense) as a symbol of priestship, and myrrh (an embalming oil) as a symbol of death.

Gold has been a valuable and highly sought-after precious metal for coinage, jewelry, and other arts since long before the beginning of recorded history. Gold standards have been the most common basis for monetary policies throughout human history, being widely supplanted by fiat currency only in the late 20th century. Gold has also been frequently linked to a wide variety of symbolisms and ideologies. A total of 165,000 tonnes of gold have been mined in human history, as of 2009.

Gold has been highly valued in many societies throughout the ages. In keeping with this it has often had a strongly positive symbolic meaning closely connected to the values held in the highest esteem in the society in question. Gold may symbolize power, strength, wealth, warmth, happiness, love, hope, optimism, intelligence, justice, balance, perfection, summer, harvest and the sun. Great human achievements are frequently rewarded with gold, in the form of gold medals, golden trophies and other decorations. Winners of athletic events and other graded competitions are usually awarded a gold medal (for example, the Olympic Games). 

Aristotle in his ethics used gold symbolism when referring to what is now commonly known as the “golden mean”. Similarly, gold is associated with perfect or divine principles, such as in the case of the “golden ratio”.

Frankincense, also called olibanum, is an aromatic resin obtained from trees of the Boswellia tree, a hardy, scraggy plant mainly found on the northern Somalian coast. It is extensively used in incense and perfumes. There are four main species of Boswellia which produce true frankincense and each type of resin is available in various grades. The grades depend on the time of harvesting, and the resin is hand-sorted for quality.

Frankincense has been traded on the Arabian Peninsula and in North Africa for more than 5000 years. A mural depicting sacks of frankincense traded from Egypt adorns the walls of the temple of ancient Egyptian Queen Hatshepsut, who died in 1458 BC.

Finally, myrrh is the aromatic resin of a number of small, thorny tree species of the flowering plant Commiphora, which grows in dry, stony soil in Ethiopia, Somalia and Yemen. Myrrh resin is a natural gum. When the tree bark is punctured, the tree bleeds a thick resin; when people harvest myrrh, they wound the trees repeatedly to bleed them of the gum. Myrrh gum is waxy, and coagulates quickly. After the harvest, the gum becomes hard and glossy. The gum is yellowish, and may be either clear or opaque. It darkens deeply as it ages, and white streaks emerge.

Myrrh is used frequently in Ayurvedic medicine, which ascribes tonic and rejuvenative properties to the resin. In ancient times, Myrrh was used by the ancient Egyptians, along with soda ash, for the embalming of mummies.

What Of It? Gold, frankincense and myrrh are of course the foundation of modern gift-giving, the original Christmas presents. Interesting to contrast the deeply symbolic (and rare) nature of each of them vs. today’s harried last minute Toys ‘R’ Us run. Nonetheless, each has its own interesting backstory and are heavily debated in theological circles. For me, it’s just worth taking a second to pause and think less about What presents we are giving each other and ask: Why?

I Am Curious about traditions and their origins, about stories and myths and where they originated, and about understanding the deeper meaning behind things that we seem to be taking for granted.

Happy Christmas.

Kim Jong-il’s death this week may have dramatically altered the future of the political landscape, but there is an equally significant fashion loss as well. Who else can we rely on now for that signature look that combined teased curly perm with safari suits in various weights and textures and cuban-heeled ankle boots? His Dearest Leader did what many dictators do which is to create a look and stick with it, one that has vaguely militaristic overtones yet is easy to wear under many differing conditions: visiting peasants on the farms, signing important documents and threatening enemies. Time to investigate how many of the significant dictators of the last century worked it out.

Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar Gaddafi’s 41-year leadership of Libya prior to the uprising made him the fourth longest-serving non-royal leader since 1900 as well as the longest-serving Arab leader. He variously styled himself as “The Brother Leader,” and “Guide of the Revolution;” in 2008, a meeting of traditional African rulers bestowed on him the title: “King of Kings”. Dressing appropriately for these various incarnations made his style somewhat schizophrenic; some days favoring bespoke military uniforms (often in interesting untraditional shades of mint, duck-egg blue or even pink) complete with heavy military medalling and insignia (although it has been purported that many of the medals were not earned) and at other times, dressing in traditional African-themed robes, flamboyantly patterned with matching hats and shoes.

Gaddafi tended to struggle with his “everyday” ensembles, seemingly favoring a look that vacillated between Michael Jackson and Don Johnson’s “Miami Vice” period.

After Great Britain broke off all diplomatic relations with his regime in 1977, Ugandan dictator Idi Amin declared he had defeated the British and conferred on himself the decoration of CBE (Conqueror of the British Empire). His full self-bestowed title ultimately became “His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular”, in addition to his officially stated claim of being the uncrowned King of Scotland.

Famous for owning hundreds of traditional tartan kilts, he sported them in combination with excessive military insignia, presumably to live up to his equally excessive title. Here is Forest Whittaker famously playing him in the movie “The Last King Of Scotland.”

And finally, we have not a political dictator, but perhaps a cultural one: Michael Jackson, who seemed to embody most of the excesses of many of the others mentioned here - huge military embellishments combined with metallic, cyber-futuristic and robotic elements, as well as homages to traditional African and multi-cultural garments. A fashion hybrid sitting somewhere between Ethiopian dictator Haile Selassie and a Vaudevillian performer, he brought dictator style to the masses, who emulated his medals, epaulets and braids in huge quantities at the local mall.

 

What Of It? Obviously there is something interesting in the overlap between fear and power - many dictators are in a somewhat precarious position politically so the need to express power in a very overt and somewhat threatening form is there: using heavy militaristic or cultural references to somehow reinforce their, in many cases, tenuous stranglehold. Dressing the part of a dictator requires commitment and confidence. Actor Sasha Baron Cohen obviously understands this - his new movie “The Dictator” is clearly on trend fashion-wise.

I Am Curious about the concept of ‘power dressing” and what it really means in the context of modern politics, of expressions of personal style and of how trends manifest, even in the highest circles.

The Chinese have an um, complicated relationship with their canine friends. While in some provinces dog is still an acceptable food group, at the other end of the spectrum we have high-end dogs treated as the ultimate fashion accessory with thousands of dollars lavished on dyeing, grooming and transforming them into fantasy hybrid animals. For the record, all of the dogs in these pictures are real, none of this is Photoshopped.

Shanzhai (山寨) refers to Chinese imitation and pirated brands and goods, particularly electronics. Literally “mountain village” or “mountain stronghold”, the term refers to the mountain stockades of regional warlords or bandits, far away from official control. “Shanzhai” can also be stretched to refer to people who are lookalikes, low-quality or improved goods, as well as things done in parody. The frequent reference to shanzhai cell phones on the internet and in traditional media made people start labeling low-cost imitation cultural activities as shanzhai as well. Some of the most well-known events include the shanzhai National Spring Gala, the shanzhai Lecture Room, the shanzhai Olympic Torch Relay and even the shanzhai Nobel Prize. One thing these events have in common is that they all imitate high-end, popular yet authoritative events in which grass-roots power usually has no participating role. Some low-end performing agencies have made a business out of hiring people who look like pop stars to perform in rural areas, where people cannot afford to watch the performance of the actual stars. Thus shanzhai Jay Chou (“山寨周杰伦”), shanzhai Andy Lau (“山寨刘德华”) and shanzhai Faye Wong (“山寨王菲”) can be seen performing in many underdeveloped places in China.

The trend for the last couple of years here has been to trim and dye dogs to resemble shanzhai versions of other animals - pandas being top of the list of course, but also tigers, bison, lions, even camels. Wildly popular with locals, especially children, shanzhai pets are a huge phenomena here and there are frequent pet fairs, shows and events to showcase them and their owners.

What Of It? I’m certainly not condoning dyeing animals with toxic chemicals or even shaving their coats (you only have to look at the bison dog’s face above to see how unhappy he is) but there is something interesting to me behind shanzhai - it’s a uniquely Chinese way of not having to compromise. You want a dog that’s also a tiger? Why choose? Have both! Shanzhai is, for me, moving beyond fakery and into something else - uniquely ground-up and Chinese way to somewhat cheekily and innocently create something new from found resources.

I Am Curious about culturally-relevant approaches towards innovation, how one mans fake is another’s original creation, how concepts such as shanzhai can be perceived less as stealing and more as an original process of creation in its own right.

We lived in Singapore in the sixties and seventies - my father was in the Royal Air Force and we lived in RAF Changi, enjoying an idyllic life in the tropical sun. To occupy her days my mother was part of a local troupe called “The Aquastunt Girls,” an all-girl expat group who spent their days in the camp pool, sporting violently colored rubber caps and matching swimsuits, practicing synchronized swimming. I’ve always been fascinated by this sport (and can still perform pretty good somersaults and handstands myself after years watching my mother) so decided to look further.

At the turn of the 20th century, synchronized swimming was known as water ballet. The first recorded competition was in 1891 in Berlin, Germany. Many swim clubs were formed around that time, and the sport simultaneously developed within several countries, including Australia, Canada, France, Germany, and the USA. As well as existing as a sport, it often constituted a popular addition to Music Hall evenings in the larger variety theatres of London or Glasgow which were equipped with huge on-stage water tanks for the purpose. In 1907, Australian Annette Kellerman popularised the sport when she performed in a glass tank as an underwater ballerina in the New York Hippodrome. After experimenting with various diving actions and stunts in the water, Katherine Curtis started one of the first water ballet clubs at the University of Chicago, where the team began executing strokes, “tricks,” and floating formations. On May 27, 1939, the first U.S. synchronized swimming competition took place at Wright Junior College between Wright and the Chicago Teachers’ College.

Competitive swimmer and MGM movie star Esther Williams is often credited with bringing the sport to the masses. Williams set multiple national and regional swimming records in her late teens as part of the Los Angeles Athletic Club swim team. Unable to compete in the 1940 Summer Olympics because of the outbreak of World War II, she joined Billy Rose’s Aquacade, where she took on the role vacated by Eleanor Holm after the show’s move from New York City to San Francisco. There, she spent five months swimming alongside Olympic swimmer and Tarzan star Johnny Weissmuller. It was at the Aquacade that Williams caught the attention of MGM scouts. After appearing in several small roles, alongside Mickey Rooney in an Andy Hardy film, and future five time co-star Van Johnson in A Guy Named Joe, Williams made a series of films in the 1940s and early 1950s known as “aquamusicals”, which featured elaborate performances with synchronized swimming and diving. From 1945 to 1949, Williams had at least one film listed among the 20 highest grossing films of the year. In 1952, Williams appeared in her only biographical role, as the aforementioned Annette Kellerman in Million Dollar Mermaid, which would go on to become her nickname while at MGM.

What Of It? Despite its decidedly kitsch undertones, swimming in formation is actually pretty complex stuff - technically channeling (have you ever tried a underwater group pirouette without making a splash in the water?) and physically demanding. When it was heralded into the Olympics in 1984 people sneered at it (one reporter unkindly referred to it as “water-borne cheerleading”) until they saw the incredibly difficult moves, lifts and maneuvers that make up a routine. Routines are usually composed of “hybrids” (leg movements) and arm or stroke sections. They often incorporate lifts or throws, an impressive move in which a group of swimmers lift or throw another swimmer out of the water. Swimmers are synchronized both to each other and to the music. During a routine swimmers can never use the bottom of the pool for support, but rather depend on sculling motions with the arms, and eggbeater kick to keep afloat. After the performance, the swimmers are judged and scored on their performance based on technical merit and artistic impression. Technical skill, patterns, expression, and synchronisation are all critical to achieving a high score.

I Am Curious about the overlaps between artistry and physicality, about kitsch and its origins, about the beauty of something as simple as underwater ballet and of course, how something my mother loved in a place I call home still fascinates and speaks to me today. 

 

The following piece is the first of a special series of Curiosities for Metropolis Magazine.

I just finished reading Lucy Kellaway’s acerbic-but-true piece (free registration required) in the FT about management consultants and all their related jargon landing in China.  And it immediately brought to mind an evening I spent in Shanghai a few months ago, where we invited a group of young Chinese female entrepreneurs to come into our office to have dinner with us and talk about their experiences of building their respective businesses there. I kicked off the evening by quoting the Mao Tse Tung proverb  (in appalling Chinese, I’m afraid) “Women Hold Up Half The Sky,” and we went from there. Each woman introduced herself; they talked eloquently about their lives and where they had come from – in some cases from poor backgrounds in surrounding villages, about the sacrifices their families had made to get them there. There were tears and laughter and lots of emotional outpouring as they talked at length about their own personal philosophies, in many cases freely quoting Confucius and other ancient Chinese traditions. As I listened, one thought kept racing though my mind:

Shut up and learn. Say nothing.

I am about to go and give a talk at a TEDx event in Sendai, Japan, the epicenter of this year’s devastating 3.11 earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear reactor meltdown. I’m pretty sure I am the only non-Japanese speaker to have been invited, which is a great honor. I have made one thing very clear to the organizers- I am not there to talk about myself or to pitch IDEO, but to listen to them, to reflect back what we are seeing and talk about how we can partner with the Japanese people to create momentum, to prototype some actual forms of tangible recovery and to avoid, at all costs, any more rhetoric, analysis or discussion about this situation. Looking around me, the Japanese resilience in times like this is incredible to behold anyway – small businesses are re-emerging in the area and the locals are rallying; whilst people are still grieving, they are moving on and creating new opportunities for themselves. One fantastically inspiring story that I heard is that the local fishermen, who now have essentially no possibility to fish in the radiated water, have transferred their craft of net-making into making hammocks they’re selling online. The hammocks are beautiful, made from green fishing twine, and I am in the process of buying one for every one of our offices (shorin@cup.ocn.ne.jp). One of them was quoted as saying: “My body and soul start to relax the moment I lay my hands on a fishing net.” Their wives are working alongside them, making woven bracelets to commemorate 3.11.  Most interestingly, I learned that they are not doing this purely to make money but “because working again makes us happy.” These people are, in the best possible sense, designing. I have nothing to add, and much to learn. My role in this is to get out of their way and help tell their story. A client of mine once said: “Designers think with their eyes,” and I have always loved this. Simply looking, really seeing, listening, and in many cases, saying nothing but merely absorbing a person’s situation is the basis of great design. My role in all of this is to be interested, informed, and inspired. To be…well, curious. Hence the blog, The Curiosity Chronicles, which I started six months ago when I was in China and where, again, I was simply blown away by what I saw around me: normal people getting on with their lives, being excited about the new future that they were seeing and creating around them, making sense of their world on their own terms and in many cases, designing that world to fit them. No amount of charts, PowerPoints or complicated jargon could ever help with, explain, or compete with that. I learned the Mandarin 老百姓 Lao Baixing, which translated literally means “old hundred surnames,” “commoners” or just “ordinary folks.” I have thought a lot since then about the design equivalent of that, of being a Lao Baixing Designer - an ordinary person designing for and with other ordinary folks. Elitist people designing elitist products and speaking an elitist and rarified language bores me to tears. So I will try my best in this column to give you a window into what I am seeing, hearing, feeling and hopefully, how it inspires me and how I hope it can inspire you. I once had a client tell me “The Future Cannot Be Designed in ExCel.” I start every talk with that quote, because it is not only prophetic but true, the future starts with your eyes, and using them, and I hope we can go on that journey of seeing together. To Curiosity.

We hear them going off all the time in the neighborhood where we live, at seemingly random times of the day or night - the distinctive sound of firecrackers, the rippling, crackling, insanely loud firework that is uniquely Chinese.

A firecracker is a small explosive device primarily designed to produce a large amount of noise, especially in the form of a loud bang; any visual effect is incidental to this goal. They have fuses and are wrapped in a heavy paper casing to contain the explosive compound. Firecrackers, along with fireworks, originated in China. They are usually made of cardboard or plastic with flash powder or black powder as the propellant. This is not always the case, however; anything from match heads to lighter fluid has been used successfully in making firecrackers. The key to super-loud firecrackers however, although in part lying in the propellant substance, is pressure. The entire firecracker must be very tightly packed in order for it to work best. 

Until the mid-1980s firecracker production was extremely low-tech. They were handmade, beginning with rolling tubes. Once the firecracker tubes were rolled by hand (commonly from newspaper) and labelled and then filled with powder, their ends were crimped and fuses inserted, all by hand. These finished firecrackers were usually braided into “strings” and sold in packs which came in many sizes, from the very small (called “penny packs” containing as few as 4 to 6 firecrackers) to the most common size packs (containing 16 and 20 crackers per pack), to larger packs (containing up to 120 firecrackers), to huge “belts” and “rolls” (packages containing strings of several hundred to several thousand crackers - Phantom Fireworks sells rolls as large as 16,000 firecrackers). Firecracker packages were wrapped in colourful and translucent glassine paper, as well as clear cellophane, with glassine the most popular.

Over 2000 years ago, use of the bamboo firecrackers frightened away Chinese evil spirits, one in particular in the guise of a unicorn called Nian. Appearing on the eve of the Lunar New Year, the evil Nian ran from the bursting bamboo, or “baozhu” (cracking bamboo), assuring the people of a prosperous and happy new year. In the 21st century, scaring away Nian continues to kick start the Chinese New Year firecracker and fireworks celebration.

I Am Curious about the incredible culture of celebration here. The Chinese love their fireworks and firecrackers and they are sold everywhere. I remember how mad Singapore went at Chinese New Year and and excited to see it in mainland China for myself - by all accounts it is mayhem in the best possible sense. Firecrackers are simultaneously a reminder of China’s vast history and passionate belief system.

I Am Curious about the overlaps between religious celebration, spiritual tradition and spontaneous joy.

(Huge thank you to my colleague Greg Perez for suggesting this topic.)

I haven’t been to Shanghai’s legendary Insect Market yet, but am planning on plucking up the courage to do so. I am a huge entemophobe so the challenge is vast, but I am curious to see the fighting cricket matches that everyone here talks about. (Worth pointing out upfront that unlike many blood sports such as bullfighting and cockfighting, cricket fighting rarely causes injuries to the animals.)

Cricket fighting was nurtured by Tang Dynasty emperors more than 1,000 years ago and was later popularized by everyday Chinese people. In the 13th century, the Southern Song Dynasty prime minister Jia Sidao wrote a how-to guide for the blood sport. Jia’s obsession with cricket fighting is believed to have contributed to the fall of the empire. During the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) China’s Communist government banned cricket fighting as a bourgeois predilection, but it is now undergoing a revival among a younger generation eager to embrace genuinely Chinese pastimes. 

Cricket season begins in summer and the championships take place after the autumn equinox in late September. In Beijing, the Association for Cricket Fighting organizes cricket fighting events and championships. Chongming Island, off the coast of Shanghai, hosts a six-day national cricket-fighting competition, drawing hundreds of fans and their combative insects from all over the country. While it is illegal in China to gamble on cricket fights, the fights themselves are legal and occur in most big cities in China. Crickets are sold openly in street markets, with more than a dozen cricket markets in Shanghai alone. Staggeringly, In 2010, more than 400 million yuan (US$63 million) were spent in China on crickets.

The best crickets are from a few counties in northeastern Shandong Province. Crickets have pedigrees and are carefully bred by knowledgeable keepers. Each cricket is kept in its own clay pot and their diets include ground shrimp, red beans, goat liver, and maggots. Before fight night, female crickets are dropped in the pot to amp up the male’s fighting spirit.

What Of It? What interests me here is the renaissance of a Chinese traditional pastime and the notion of a generation reclaiming their ancient sports and making them their own. I’m certainly not condoning animal fighting, but there is something strangely poetic about the idea of two humble insects invoking such vivid patriotism. And of course the paraphernalia, endless discussion online about cricket diets and lineage, breeders criticizing one another and the rabid loyalty that ensues is fascinating.

I Am Curious about the journey of any cultural tradition, about sports in those cultures and the idea of a new generation carrying on the legacy of a previous one.

Most of our offices have some form of lightly competitive communal sport going on - in many cases there is a central foosball table where folks break in the mid-afternoon; fueled by cookies and Red Bull, they gather round and raucously egg one another on. In our Shanghai office, naturally, it’s ping pong.

Ping Pong (乒乓) is the official name for the sport of table tennis in China. The game originated as a sport in Britain during the 1880s where it was played among the upper-class as an after-dinner parlour game, then commonly known as “wiff-waff”. A row of books were to be stood up along the center of the table as a net, two more books served as rackets and were used to continuously hit a golf-ball from one end of the table to the other. Later, table tennis was played with paddles made of cigar box lids and balls made of champagne corks. The popularity of the game led game manufacturers to sell the equipment commercially. Early rackets were often pieces of parchment stretched upon a frame, and the sound generated in play gave the game its first nicknames of “wiff-waff” and “ping-pong”. A number of sources indicate that the game was first brought to the attention of Hamley’s of Regent Street under the name “Gossima”. The name “ping-pong” was in wide use before British manufacturer J. Jaques & Son Ltd trademarked it in 1901. The name “ping-pong” then came to be used for the game played by the rather expensive Jaques equipment, with other manufacturers calling it table tennis. A similar situation arose in the United States, where Jaques sold the rights to the “ping-pong” name to Parker Brothers.

In the 1950s, rackets that used a rubber sheet combined with an underlying sponge layer changed the game dramatically, introducing greater spin and speed. These were introduced to Britain by sports goods manufacturer S.W. Hancock Ltd. The use of speed glue increased the spin and speed even further, resulting in changes to the equipment to “slow the game down”. Table tennis was introduced as an Olympic sport at the Olympics in 1988.

After the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney, the International Table Tennis Federation instituted several rules changes aimed at making table tennis more viable as a televised spectator sport. First, the older 38 mm balls were officially replaced by 40 mm balls. This increased the ball’s air resistance and effectively slowed down the game. By that time, players had begun increasing the thickness of the fast sponge layer on their rackets, which made the game excessively fast and difficult to watch on television. Second, the ITTF changed from a 21-point to an 11-point scoring system in 2001. This was intended to make games more fast-paced and exciting. The ITTF also changed the rules on service to prevent a player from hiding the ball during service, in order to increase the average length of rallies and to reduce the server’s advantage.

Deng Yaping (鄧亞萍) is a Chinese table tennis player who won six world championships and four Olympic championships between 1989 and 1997. She is regarded as one of the greatest players in the history of the sport. She began playing table tennis at age five, and four years later she won her provincial junior championship. She was age 13 when she won her first national championship. When she retired at the age of 24, she had won more titles than any other player in the sport. From 1990 to 1997, she retained the title of world No. 1 ranked female table tennis player for 8 years. She was voted Chinese female athlete of the century, and joined the International Table Tennis Federation Hall of Fame in 2003.

What Of It? It’s always fascinating to see one culture wholeheartedly embrace something from another; the fact that Indians love cricket so devotedly or that China has made ping pong their own, almost a national sport here, is fantastic. And the evolution from a simple parlor game played with books to an Olympic sport is also quite a journey: I have to say, I also love the concept of modifying the speed and rhythm of a game to make it more spectator-friendly. 

I Am Curious about the cornerstones of any culture - the food, dance, traditions, clothes and in this case, sports that are carried through generations, and occasionally, as with ping pong, imported from elsewhere to become a treasured national icon. 

Last week in Japan was about studying the subtle details of everything, from handing over a business card (text pointed towards the user, ponder theirs for a second, do not carelessly place it in a pile on the table) to the depth of a bow (not too shallow which is dismissive, not too deep which is too formal and reverent) and to struggling to not make a fool of myself with chopsticks, which even though I grew up with, I still feel clumsy using. It’s a complex minefield, and I thought it might be useful to chart a course through it and figure out the dealbreakers and rules that can be bent. 

The English word “chopstick” seems to have been derived from Chinese Pidgin English, a pidgin in which “chop chop” meant “quickly.” According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the earliest published use of the word is in the 1699 book “Voyages and Descriptions” by William Dampier, where it says: “They are called by the English seamen Chopsticks”.

The first big etiquette no-no? Never, never stick your chopsticks into your food. This is bad because it’s the way a bowl of rice is offered to the spirit of a dead person, at their deathbed or in front of their photograph on the household Buddhist altar. Crossing your chopsticks on the table or food is also considered to be a no-no for the same reason, but placing them the upright-in your rice thing is considered the worst.

Passing food from chopstick to chopstick is also forbidden. Similarly, when a person dies and is cremated, their bones are passed from chopstick to chopstick as a part of the Buddhist funeral ritual. You should also not pick one one piece of food with two pairs of chopsticks (held by two people).

Finally, one I do myself all the time, hence the scolding, is taking food from a communal dish with your chopsticks. If you are served family-style, it is bad etiquette to use your own chopstick to pick up food directly from it. This is considered to be unsanitary. You should use the supplied serving utensils. If there are no serving utensils, you should turn your chopsticks the other way and use the fat or unused ends to pick up the food.

What Of It? To me,  Japanese culture can be summarized in one word: nuance. The subtlest of details mean a lot and often harken back to ancient traditions, containing within them intense meaning with the most subtle of references. The elevation of the everyday and often mundane transforms things from a simple gesture to the artful. 

I Am Curious about traditions and how they travel through time, about the concept of cultural nuance and the art of the elevated subtle gesture.

A tatami (畳) is a type of mat used as a flooring material in traditional Japanese-style rooms. Traditionally made of rice straw to form the core (though nowadays sometimes the core is composed of compressed wood chipboards or polystyrene foam), with a covering of woven soft rush (igusa) straw, tatami are made in standard sizes, with the length exactly twice the width. Usually, on the long sides, they have edging (heri) of brocade or plain cloth, although some tatami have no edging.

The term tatami is derived from the verb tatamu, meaning to fold or pile. This indicates that the early tatami were thin and could be folded up when not used or piled in layers. Tatami were originally a luxury item for the nobility. During the Heian period, when the shinden-zukuri architectural style of aristocratic residences was designed, the flooring of shinden-zukuri palatial rooms were mainly wooden, and tatami were only used as seating for the highest aristocrats. In the Kamakura period, the shoin-zukuri emerged as the architectural style of residence for the samurai and priests who had gained power. This architectural style reached its peak of development in the Muromachi period, when tatami gradually came to be spread over whole rooms, beginning with small rooms. Rooms completely spread with tatami came to be known as zashiki (lit., room spread out for sitting), and rules concerning seating and etiquette determined the arrangement of the tatami in the rooms. It is said that prior to the mid-16th century, the ruling nobility and samurai slept on tatami or woven mats calledgoza, while commoners used straw mats or loose straw for bedding.

The size of tatami differs between different regions in Japan. In the Kyoto area, tatami generally measure .955 m by 1.91 m. Tatami of this size are referred to as Kyōma tatami. Tatami in the Nagoya region generally measure .91 m by 1.82 m, and are referred to asainoma (lit., “in-between” size) tatami. In the region around Tokyo, tatami generally measure .88 m by 1.76 m. Tatami of this size are referred to as Edoma or Kantōma tatami. In terms of thickness, 5.5 cm is average for a Kyōma tatami, while 6.0 cm is the norm for aKantōma tatami.

A half mat is called a hanjō, and a mat of three-quarter length, which is used in tea-ceremony rooms (chashitsu), is called daimedatami.^[9]

There are rules concerning the number of tatami mats and the layout of the tatami mats in a room. In the Edo period, “auspicious” tatami arrangements and “inauspicious” tatami arrangements were distinctly differentiated, and the tatami accordingly would be rearranged depending on the occasion. Nowadays, the “auspicious” layout is ordinarily used. In this arrangement, the junctions of the tatami form a “T” shape; in the “inauspicious” arrangement, the tatami are in a grid pattern wherein the junctions form a + shape.In Japan, the size of a room is typically measured by the number of tatami mats (-畳 -jō).

An inauspicious layout is said to bring bad fortune. In homes, the mats must not be laid in a grid pattern, and in any layout there is never a point where the corners of four mats touch.

What Of It? Like many aspects of Japanese culture, tatami follows strict codes, many based on ancient social standing and status, that still apply today. Modern Japanese houses are still quite likely to have a tatami room, both as a sanctuary but also as an homage to past traditions, and many apartment listings for new homes still describe themselves in tatami-sizes. It’s a fascinating cultural nuance that is unique to here. 

I Am Curious about ancient logic that still applies and is accepted in the modern context, about tradition, history and continued connection to the past.

I’m in Japan giving a talk in Sendai, the region tragically devastated by this years 3.11 earthquake, tsunami and subsequent nuclear reactor meltdown, and in doing research for it have started to look at both traditional and untraditional ways that the Japanese express anger, complex social and emotional issues and generally how they externalise and politicize their feelings. One form of self-expression that seems noteworthy is Butoh, a nuanced and complex set of dance and physical movements.

Butoh (舞踏) is the collective name for a diverse range of activities, techniques and motivations for dance, performance, or movement inspired by the Ankoku-Butoh movement. It typically involves playful and grotesque imagery, taboo topics, extreme or absurd environments, and is traditionally performed in white body makeup with slow, hyper-controlled motion, with or without an audience. There is no set style, and it may be purely conceptual with no movement at all. Its origins have been attributed to Japanese dance legends Tatsumi Hijikata and Kazuo Ohno.

 

Butoh appeared first in Japan following World War II and specifically after student riots, when the roles of authority were subject to challenge and subversion. It also appeared as a reaction against the contemporary dance scene in Japan, which Hijikata felt was based on the one hand on imitating the West and on the other on imitating the Noh. He critiqued the current state of dance as overly superficial.

The first butoh piece, Kinjiki (Forbidden Colours) by Hijikata, premiered at a dance festival in 1959. It was based on the novel of the same name by Yukio Mishima. It explored the taboos of homosexuality and paedophilia and ended with a live chicken being held between the legs of Kazuo Ohno’s son Yoshito Ohno, after which Hijikata chased Yoshito off the stage in darkness. Mainly as a result of the misconception that the chicken had died due to strangulation, this piece outraged the audience and resulted in the banning of Hijikata from the festival, establishing him as an iconoclast.

There is much discussion about who should receive the credit for creating butoh. As artists worked to create new art in all disciplines after World War II, Japanese artists and thinkers emerged out of economic and social challenges that produced an energy and renewal of artists, dancers, painters, musicians, writers, and all other artists.

A number of people with few formal connections to Hijikata began to call their own idiosyncratic dance “butoh.” Among these are Iwana Masaki (岩名雅紀), Tanaka Min (田中民), and Teru Goi. Although all manner of systematic thinking about butoh dance can be found, perhaps Iwana Masaki most accurately sums up the variety of butoh styles:

“While ‘Ankoku Butoh’ can be said to have possessed a very precise method and philosophy (perhaps it could be called ‘inherited butoh’), I regard present day butoh as a ‘tendency’ that depends not only on Hijikata’s philosophical legacy but also on the development of new and diverse modes of expression. The ‘tendency’ that I speak of involved extricating the pure life which is dormant in our bodies.”

What Of It? Subversion is fascinating in cultures such as Japan where the prevalence of manners makes it hard to rebel. Butoh is a fascinating form of physical expression, both uniquely Japanese in its calm, almost contemplative forms and metaphorical subtext, but also subtly anarchic in its message.

I Am Curious about art forms that express complex emotions in culturally nuanced ways, about metaphorical storytelling and physical endurance as performance.