All Dolled Up with Lulu Hashimoto

Lulu Hashimoto: tumblr.com

Japanese beauty, Lulu Hashimoto, is a girl who has really taken the expression all dolled up to heart.

Or, more precisely, Lulu Hashimoto is a doll-like character performed by an anonymous model who has really taken the idea of self-objectification to an uncanny level.  

In other words, Lulu is actually a full-body doll suit, consisting of a wig, a mask and stockings patterned with doll-like joints, created by Hitomi Komaki, a 23-year-old fashion designer who has a thing for dolls and their unique attraction (a disturbing combination of cuteness and creepiness).

Despite Komaki's rather puzzling and somewhat disingenuous denials, there's obviously something fetishistic about this game of dress up and disguise born of the world of BDSM; of becoming-object through a process of dollification - a process of physically and mentally transforming oneself into a living doll and seeking out an Owner to whom one must be subservient at all times.  

Lulu has not only turned heads on the streets of Tokyo, but has built up a substantial following on social media, with fans all over the world. She is, in addition, among the finalists of the annual Miss iD (alternative) beauty pageant this year; a contest open to all kinds of beings, human and non-human, actual and virtual, including holographic characters generated by artificial intelligence.

To broaden our understanding of the real in this manner - and to redefine notions not only of aesthetics, but humanity - is, I think, a good thing; it's certainly an interesting project from a queer philosophical perspective.    

And the possibility of donning a doll-suit, whatever one's age, race, or gender and (if only momentarily and imaginatively) becoming a beautiful young Japanese girl like Lulu, certainly has its appeal ...  

Notes 

Those interested in seeing more photos of Lulu and becoming one of her 31.3k followers on Instagram, click here.

Those interested in dollification as practiced within the kinky community might like to visit dollification.com

In Praise of Shadows and the Beauty of Japanese Ghost Girls (A Post for Halloween 2016)

A Japanese Ghost Girl or Yūrei [幽靈]

The Land of the Rising Sun is also the Land of the Falling Shadow; a place in which the gathering gloom of twilight and the brilliance of daybreak are held in equal regard and darkness causes no anxiety or discontent. The Japanese accept the moon at midnight and resign themselves to the presence of bats, ghosts, and witches, etc.  

Perhaps no one writes more profoundly in praise of shadows than Junichirō Tanizaki. He understands that the power and the beauty of the object - its allure - is tied precisely to that aspect of it which is forever concealed in darkness and which withdraws from sight (that is to say, its occult aspect).

Take, for example, the fairest and most seductive of all objects - woman - who is arguably never so lovely as she is when at her most spectral, like a phosphorescent jewel glowing softly in the night that loses its magic in the full light of day. In the erotic imagination of the Japanese male, woman is inseparable from darkness; cosmetically enhanced and concealed in the folds of her robe or gown; her raven black hair framing (and often hiding) her white face.       

This is not, typically, a Western aesthetic. For Westerners, beauty is that which shines forth, which radiates, which loves, like truth, to go naked and which can be perceived by the eye. There is, thus, something obscene about our theory of beauty in that it ultimately rests on indecent exposure (not least of sun-kissed female flesh).

And we really rather despise shadowy existence: our quest for enlightenment never ceases and we spare no effort to eradicate even the faintest trace of darkness. Indeed, as Jean Baudrillard pointed out, we would, if we could, leap over our own shadows into a world of pure lucidity and transparency in which to accomplish perfect self-actualization.

Thankfully, however, a being devoid of their shadow, of their mystery, of their object-allure, is no more than a mad fantasy. No matter how bright we make the lights, no matter how much we bare our flesh and reveal our innermost thoughts and feelings, we'll never transcend the night or escape the shadows.

Happy Halloween ...


See: Junichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker, (Vintage, 2001).

Aux Chiottes with Junichirō Tanizaki

Junichirō Tanizaki (1886-1965) was one of the great figures of twentieth century Japanese literature. His work has two main obsessions: erotics and cultural identity and is thus of obvious interest and appeal for the present writer. 

Whilst a young man, he was very much the modern dandy and keen to lead a western lifestyle. But, during his thirties, he became increasingly interested in the traditions and artistic practices of his homeland (particularly the Kansai region) and he is perhaps best known today outside Japan not for his fiction, but for an enchanting little essay - In Praise of Shadows - in which he sketches out his aesthetic credo.

Tanizaki was neither a reactionary nor an eccentric. He didn't violently reject the necessities of modern life and - unlike D. H. Lawrence - he writes enthusiastically of the blessings of scientific civilization.

For example, he's surprisingly relaxed on the subject of electric lighting; "the sight of a naked bulb beneath an ordinary  milk glass shade seems simpler and more natural than any gratuitous attempt to hide it" [6]. Indeed, gazing out from the window of a train at twilight as it passes through the lonely countryside, can give even the most humble of lamps a decidedly elegant glow.

On the other hand, Tanizaki has no time for the snarl of an electric fan and insists they remain out of place in a Japanese room. Similarly, no modern stove will ever look right. What's more, gas stoves are noisy and produce headaches, whilst electric stoves, "though at least free from these defects, are every bit as ugly" [7].

As for the question of bath tiles, Tanizaki admits they are practical and economical, but their sparkling whiteness can completely ruin the beauty of the bathroom if the latter is mostly made of fine wood. But this isn't a major worry for him and he's prepared to compromise. The toilet, however, is another matter and the source of far more vexatious concerns.

For Tanizaki, the toilet is the key room of the Japanese dwelling place - not the kitchen, or the bathroom. And whilst the parlour may have its charms, it's the noble Japanese kharsie that "truly is a place of spiritual repose", standing apart as it does from the main house "in a grove fragrant with leaves and moss" [9].

At first, you think he's joking. But then it becomes apparent that Tanizaki is writing in earnest in praise not only of shadows, but of the shithouse: "No words can describe that sensation as one sits in the dim light ... lost in meditation or gazing out at the garden ... surrounded by tranquil walls and finely grained wood ..." [9]

He continues:

"There are certain prerequisites: a degree of dimness, absolute cleanliness, and quiet so complete one can hear the hum of a mosquito. I love to listen from such a toilet to the sound of softly falling rain ... And the toilet is the perfect place to listen to the chirping of insects or the song of birds, to view the moon, or to enjoy any of those poignant moments that mark the change of the seasons. Here, I suspect, is where haiku poets over the ages have come by a great many of their ideas. Indeed one could claim with some justice that of all the elements of Japanese architecture, the toilet is the most aesthetic. Our forebears, making poetry of everything in their lives, transformed what by rights should be the most unsanitary room in the house into a place of unsurpassed elegance, replete with fond associations with the beauties of nature. ...
      Anyone with a taste for traditional architecture must agree that the Japanese toilet is perfection." [9-10]

Having said that, Tanizaki concedes that wood-flooring and tatami matting is hard to keep clean, so one might be better off installing all the latest mod-cons after all. Certainly, he wants a powerful flush system - even at the cost of destroying all affinity with nature and good taste! But excessive illumination and cleanliness in the toilet, however, is just too antithetical to the Japanese sensibility; "what need is there to remind us so forcefully of the issue of our own bodies ... the cleanliness of what can be seen only calls up more clearly thoughts of what cannot be seen" [11].

When it comes to constructing a toilet of great beauty that serves as a place of philosophical reflection, then "the distinction between the clean and the unclean is best left obscure, shrouded in a dusky haze" [11].
 

See: Junichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker, (Vintage, 2001). Page numbers given in the text refer to this edition.     
  

Thanks to Katxu for suggesting I read the above work.

Mind the Gap (Notes on Heidegger and the Japanese Concept of Ma)

As much as I love objects, it's the pathos of distance between them which fascinates the most; that gulf of negative space and suspended time in which relations are conceived (for even love is a product of the void). 

The Japanese have a word for it: ma - sometimes translated into English as interval or gap, though I doubt very much the verbal injunction to mind the gap issued by London Underground invites us to consider the play between being and non-being (or form and formlessness). But then, to be fair, London Underground are more concerned with passenger safety when leaving the train, than opening ontological doors through which a black sun might shine.   

However, despite the prosaic nature of rail bosses, there are thinkers in the West who have shown a sensitivity to the concept of ma. Heidegger would be an obvious example, who, in a meditation on the thingness of things, has this to say about the essence of a jug: the jug's thingness resides in its being qua vessel. That is to say, it's the holding nature of the jug that is crucial. But this holding nature belongs to the emptiness of the jug - it's not a physical property of the clay as such.

In other words, Heidegger is arguing that although the sides and bottom of the jug appear to hold the liquid contents, at most they merely contain the fluid. We pour the wine, for example, between the sides and over the bottom of the jug and whilst they are obviously crucial to the operation, they are not essential; the wine flows into the empty space and it is this void that does the vessel's holding.

It's for this reason that the potter who is credited with making the jug, doesn't really make it at all; he simply shapes the clay on the wheel. Or, more precisely, he shapes the void, which ultimately shapes the jug, the potter and all things (including music, language, flower arrangements and peace of mind).  


See: Heidegger, 'The Thing', essay in Poetry, Language, Thought, translated by Albert Hofstadter (Harper Perennial, 1971), pp. 163-80.