On the Traditional Beauty of Japanese Women (2): White Skin

色の白いは七難隠す

 

Whilst the emergence of mass marketed skin lightening products was an early 20th-century phenomenon, the Japanese desire for blemish-free fair skin is as old as the hills. 

 

In other words, whiteness has been an aesthetic ideal for many centuries. In the Nara period (710-794), for example, women belonging to the upper class would powder their faces with oshiri to look more beautiful. 

 

There's even a word for this: bihaku. 

 

And there's also an ancient proverb which promises that women with less than perfect features can still look good providing they're pale enough: iro no shiroi wa shichinan kakusu ('white skin covers the seven flaws'). 

It's important to note, however, that for the Japanese, whiteness signifies holiness as well as beauty. And so the Japanese woman's preference for fair skin is not the result of western imperialism; it emerges from within Japanese culture - or, if you prefer, Japanese racism - itself. 

 

That the Japanese regard their whiteness of skin as uniquely different from that of other peoples, is made clear by the writer Jun'ichirō Tanizaki in the following astonishing passages:

"From ancient times we have considered white skin more elegant, more beautiful than dark skin, and yet somehow this whiteness of ours differs from that of the white races. Taken individually, there are Japanese who are whiter than Westerners and Westerners who are darker than Japanese, but their whiteness and darkness is not the same. [...] For the Japanese complexion, no matter how white, is tinged by a slight cloudiness." [1]

 

Thus it is that Japanese women resorted to cosmetics:

 

"Every bit of exposed flesh - even their backs and arms - they covered with a thick coat of white. Still they could not efface the darkness that lay below their skin. It was as plainly visible as dirt at the bottom of a pool of pure water. Between the fingers, around the nostils, on the nape of the neck, along the spine - about these places especially dark, almost dirty, shadows gathered. But the skin of the Westerners, even those of a darker complexion, had a limpid glow. Nowhere were they tainted [...] From the tops of their heads to the tips of their fingers the whiteness was pure and unadulterated. Thus it is that when one of us goes among a group of Westerners it is like a grimy stain on a sheet of white paper. The sight offends even our own eyes and leaves none too pleasant a feeling." [2]

 

Tanizaki concludes that rather than become self-loathing and ashamed of their impurity, the Japanese chose to display the cloudiness of their skin to their best advantage and sink themselves into the shadows, with whom they develop a profound and complex relationship: 

 

"If whiteness was to be indispensible to supreme beauty, then for us there was no other way, nor do I find this objectionable. The white races are fair-haired, but our hair is dark; so nature taught us the laws of darkness, which we instinctively used to turn a yellow skin white." [3] 

 

And nothing makes the whiteness of a Japanese woman's face look whiter than supernatural green lips and black teeth:

 

"I know of nothing whiter than the face of a young girl in the wavering shadow of a lantern, her teeth now and then as she smiles shining a lacquered black through lips like elfin fire. It is whiter than the whitest white woman I can imagine. The whiteness of the white woman is clear, tangible, familiar, it is not this other-worldly whiteness." [4] 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker, (Leete's Island Books, 1977), pp. 31-32. 

[2] Ibid., p. 32. Tanizaki, rather controversially, then adds a statement which might be seen to justify white racism: 

      "We can appreciate, then, the psychology that in the past caused the white races to reject the coloured races. A sensitive white person could not but be upset by the shadow that one or two coloured persons cast over a social gathering." 

      Of course, this remark appears in the context of a book written in praise of shadows.

[3] Ibid., p. 33. 

[4] Ibid., pp. 33-34. Readers interested in knowing more about the Japanese penchant for green lips and black teeth should see the first part of this post: click here. 

Naomi (Notes on a Japanese Novel)

I.

Sadly, I have to confess my slight disappointment with Tanizaki's novel Chijin no Ai, often translated into English as A Fool's Love, but more commonly known as Naomi (1924). 

For ultimately, talented though he is, Tanizaki is no Nabokov and the book pales in comparison to the latter's tragi-comic masterpiece, Lolita (1955). Joji isn't a fascinating monster of depravity like Humbert and, unlike poor Dolores Haze, the teen waitress Naomi - object of Joji's erotic obsession - fails to capture our hearts (by which I mean arouse our compassion, not just our affection or illicit desire). 

At the end of Tanizaki's book, we are left mildly amused; we are not ravished or made to feel complicit in corruption as readers. There is no dark perversity present in Naomi, no great cruelty or crime. And there is no death.

Having said that, Naomi remains a novel of some import - not least for what it tells us about Japan during the interwar years, as it struggled to come to terms with modernity and the encroaching influence of Western culture. For Naomi is not simply a greedy and manipulative good-time girl with Eurasian features who likes to dance and take lovers, she's the future made flesh come to challenge old conventions, institutions and values with her high heels and hedonism.

Perhaps not surprisingly, therefore, the book was received enthusiastically by young, progressive readers who dreamt of the appearance of emancipated women with chic Western hairstyles smoking cigarettes on the cosmopolitan streets of Tokyo unencumbered by centuries of tradition; they even termed this Naomi-ism. But more conservative readers weren't so pleased and the government censors were soon alerted to the existence of this less than wholesome work.


II.

The story, in brief, is that of a rather dull 28-year-old electrical engineer, Joji, who falls for a stylish 15-year-old girl, Naomi, working at a local café. She accepts his offer to place herself under his care and guidance and, eventually, to become his wife. But she doesn't accept that this should in anyway restrict her freedom to come and go as she likes - or, indeed, to love whom she wants. When this invariably results in conflict, it is Naomi who emerges triumphant and Joji who must submit.

From the first, it's obvious what Joji finds attractive about Naomi: her sophisticated-sounding name and the fact that she has something exotically Western about her appearance: "And it's not only her face - even her body has a distinctly Western look when naked", he tells us.

Indeed, despite a certain playful innocence in their relationship, Joji is not blind to the beauty of Naomi's flesh and the wonderful proportion of her limbs; the graceful arms and long straight legs. He derives much pleasure from habitually bathing his young mistress in the washtub and observing how her figure grows strikingly more feminine over time.

Joji's ablutophilia isn't his only kinky method of finding physical satisfaction from his relationship with Naomi, however. He also enjoys engaging in a spot of pony play and having the girl ride on his back whilst he crawls round the room on all fours; giddy-up! she'd cry, and for reins she'd make him hold a towel in his mouth.

Essentially, however, Joji's a foot fetishist and likes most of all to caress, kiss and lick Naomi's lovely soft, white feet (particularly the toes, heels, and insteps). Even after he discovers that she's been deceiving him, Joji can't resist the temptation of Naomi's bare feet. For the opportunity to once again glimpse them peeking out from beneath her kimono, he can forgive her anything and overlook the fact that she was a born prostitute and prick tease:

"Naomi was always whetting my desire ... and luring me to the brink, but then she'd throw up a rigid barrier beyond which she wouldn't step ... no matter how close I thought I'd gotten, there was no penetrating that final barrier."

This continued teasing with which the novel culminates, results at last in a form of male hysteria. Joji grows more and more exasperated and obsessed by the thought of the woman, recalling the tiniest details of Naomi's anatomy: "the shape of her nose; the shape of her eyes; the shape of her lips; the shape of a finger; the curve of her arm, her shoulder, her back, or her leg; her wrist; ankle; elbow; knee; even the sole of her foot ..."

These memories of her flesh have a terrifying capacity to arouse his carnal feelings and seemed in some sense even more vital than the real body parts. Thus it is that this masturbatory fantasia of mental images - supplemented by the many photographs he took of the girl back in happier times - makes Joji dizzy and delirious with desire:

"I saw Naomi's red lips everywhere I looked ... Naomi was like an evil spirit that filled the space between heaven and earth, surrounding me, tormenting me, hearing my moans, but only laughing as she looked on."

In the end, all of Joji's fetishistic pleasures come together and ironically result in his absolute submission. Looking at Naomi fresh from her morning bath, he admires her delicate, pure, vivid white skin. She asks him to shave her body, including her underarms, but without laying a finger on her skin. It quickly gets too much for poor old Joji and he begs her to stop teasing; throwing the razor aside, he then throws himself at her feet and cries: let me be your horse.

For a moment, Naomi hesitates. She stares at him in silent, unblinking astonishment and with an element of fear (worried that he's gone insane): "But then, with a bold, audacious look, she leaped savagely onto [Joji's] back" and forces him to concede to all of her demands; he'll do whatever she says; he'll give her as much money as she needs; he'll let her do whatever she wants; he'll stop calling her Naomi and call her 'Miss Naomi' instead.

These things agreed, she shows him mercy and let's him fuck her: soon, both were covered with soap.


III.

Several years later, Joji in his role as slave-narrator concludes:

"I've known all along that she's fickle and selfish; if those faults were removed, she would lose her value. The more I think of her as fickle and selfish, the more adorable she becomes, and the more deeply I am ensnared by her. I realize now that I can only lose by getting angry.
      There's nothing to be done when one loses confidence in one's self. In my subordinate position, I'm no match for Naomi ... She seems strangely Western as she goes around spouting English ... Often I can't make out what she's saying. ... Sometimes she calls me 'George'.
      The record of our marriage ends here. If you think my account is foolish, please go ahead and laugh. If you think that there's a moral in it, then, please let it serve as a lesson. For myself, it makes no difference what you think of me; I'm in love with Naomi." 


Junichirō Tanizaki, Naomi, trans. Anthony H. Chambers, (Vintage, 2001). All lines quoted are from this edition.

This post is dedicated to my friend and fellow philosopher, Naomi G.

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).

Science is Universal

When not writing in praise of shadows and the superiority of the traditional Japanese toilet as a place of spiritual repose and poetic inspiration, Tanizaki likes to dream - somewhat dangerously, I'd suggest - of an Oriental science that would stand in radical opposition and contrast to the knowledge forms and mechanical innovations developed in modern Europe:

"Suppose for instance that we had developed our own physics and chemistry: would not the techniques and industries based on them have taken a different form, would not our ... everyday gadgets, our medicines ... have suited our national temper better than they do? In fact, our conception of physics itself, and even the principles of chemistry, would probably differ from that of Westerners; and the facts we are now taught concerning the nature and function of light, electricity, and atoms might well have presented themselves in different form."

Now, to be fair, Tanizaki immediately pulls himself up at this point and admits that he is merely indulging in idle speculation on matters of which he's entirely ignorant. But it needs to be emphasised just how mistaken and insidious this view is - not least of all in this age of irrationalism, relativism, and anti-scientific stupidity in the name of diversity, otherness, and traditional wisdom.

For whilst each and every nation can have its own cuisine, its own art, its own cinema, etc. it cannot have its own science in the sense in which we today talk about and understand science; the scientific method isn't peculiar to one group of people and the facts it discovers about the world aren't merely local interpretations. Ultimately, science is universal and not determined by race, religion, ideology, or culture. There's no such thing as Soviet biology or Chinese medicine; nor is there Christian evolution, or feminist physics.           

When scientists talk about the Big Bang, for example, they are not simply playing a language game or indulging in empty metaphor; nor are they constructing an oppressive grand narrative. They are, rather, attempting to conceptualise the universe as it exists in mind-independent actuality. By observation and experimentation carried out within a theoretical context, they are making a noble effort to verify that their statements about the world are as objectively true as it's possible for statements to be (whilst still remaining open to falsification in the light of new evidence).

Science is universal not because it's a humanism, but because it describes an inhuman universe ...

See: Junichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker, (Vintage, 2001), p. 14.

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.