On the Japanese Love of Cuteness

Is there an important difference within Japanese language and culture between moe and kawaii? Does the former, for example, serve to describe what is emotionally experienced by a subject about objects designated as belonging to the latter as an aesthetic category?

Maybe this distinction could be drawn, but it seems to me that the two terms have become virtually synonymous; for that which is felt to be adorable in Japan is invariably cute, just as those things regarded as sweetly endearing invariably solicit feelings of powerful affection amongst dedicated fans and followers.

These feelings can, of course, become eroticised, but an explicit sexual element is not usually key; the relationship established with the (often fictional, not always human) object that one finds too darling for words, is romantic, ideal, and disneyfied rather than obscene or pornographic.

Having said that, there's obviously a fetishistic aspect to moe and one can't ignore the fact that the figure of the doe-eyed, nubile young girl is central within this genre. One might describe devotees of cuteness as bambisexuals who are more interested in imaginary petting and fantasy perving, rather than the actual penetration of bodies or committing sexual crimes involving real children or live animals.

Whatever we might think of this phenomenon, the fact is that kawaii is increasingly accepted in Japan as part of their culture and national identity; one that incorporates older elements of beauty, refinement, magic and myth into an aesthetic and a sensibility that is playful and postmodern in character.

And, ultimately, cuteness surely has to be preferable to the cruelty and asceticism that characterized imperial Japanese society; given the choice, I prefer Hello Kitty and Harajuku fashion over the way of the warrior. 
  

Masterchimp

Photo from PetsLady.com

In news that must surely delight Karl Pilkington, it's been announced by researchers that chimps possess the intelligence and the skills to cook and that, if given the choice, much prefer roasted veg and baked potatoes over raw food - even if they have to wait for their meals and thus defer gratification. Sadly, what they don't have is the secret of fire.

Such findings suggest that early humans or ape-men may have developed a taste for grilled meat much earlier in their evolution than was previously thought, thereby shifting the timeline for one of the crucial developments in human history - barbecuing. 

The transition from a world of raw food to one in which cooking became standard practice, is widely regarded as important because it allowed human beings to expand their diet and increase population size. It also allowed them to significantly reduce the time previously spent foraging for fruit and nuts and edible plants and thus be free to do other things; to daydream and exchange ideas, for example, or to invent new technologies, thereby enlarging brains and stimulating the development of mind.  

What I find particularly pleasing about this story, however, is that it further challenges notions of human uniqueness. Most gratifying of all is that it's one in the eye of those idiots on Masterchef who really think that what they are doing is so fucking exceptional. Now we know that, given a little encouragement, even a monkey can turn the oven on and serve up dinner on a plate!

Note:

Those interested in the research by Felix Warneken and Alexandra G. Rosati on the cognitive capacities for cooking in chimpanzees should see the June 2015 edition of the Proceedings of the Royal Society B (Volume 202, Issue 1809): click here.

     

Omorashi

Kairi Omorashi by HarukoOmo 
deviantart.com

I suppose most of us have experienced the mildly perverse pleasure of a full-bladder and its eventual release, or felt a gently sadistic joy at witnessing a loved one's discomfort when they desperately want to piss in a public space, but are denied the opportunity to do so (the thought that they just might not make it home amusing and arousing in equal measure).  

But only the Japanese have given this variant form of urolagnia a specific name - omorashi - and have not only developed it as αn idea within the pornographic imagination, but built a fetishistic subculture upon it, thereby allowing like-minded individuals who delight in bladder desperation and panty wetting to exchange stories and images and to meet up if so desired. 

It should be noted, however, that for most devotees of omorashi an exchange of bodily fluids is not desired; they neither wish to piss on others, nor be pissed on by them. Nor do they want to see naked organs in close-up action, or hope that things might develop in an overtly sexual manner. 

For the obsession is ultimately with clothed incontinence and omorashi videos tend to focus on the garments worn by the participants; these invariably include schoolgirl uniforms, but films with women dressed as business professionals - looking dignified and in control, before shamefully succumbing to the need to urinate - are also very popular with certain male viewers. 

Now, whilst we might legitimately have concerns with some of the dubious sexual politics played out within the world of omorashi, it is, I think, relatively harmless and is frequently looked down on as too tame by hardcore fetishists for whom watersports involves far more edgy and unsettling elements. 

However, under current UK legislation I wouldn't be at all surprised to find that even omorashi is categorised as a form of extreme pornography and that peeing your pants has thus been made into a criminal offence!

Note: thanks to political writer and researcher - and defender of civil liberties - Nick Cowen, for his kind advice on this post.

Of Birds and Blondes (and One Fat Film Director)

 

The recent spate of attacks by crows on young blonde women jogging in a South London park, has once again highlighted the fascinating relationship - marked by corvid animosity - between a highly intelligent species of bird and a type of human being often unfairly portrayed as attractive and fun-loving, but not so smart.

Predictably, but, in this case, quite legitimately, the news media that covered this story all made reference to Hitchcock's 1963 classic, The Birds, a film loosely based on Daphne Du Maurier's short novel of the same name and deeply ingrained in our cinematic memory and cultural imagination. 

Of course, the events in Eltham Park don't quite match the full horror of what unfolds in Bodega Bay, but it's always perversely pleasing to recall Tippi Hedren making her film debut and being pecked to pieces for the sadistic pleasure of director and audience alike. 

Hedren, a former fashion model, was one of a number of so-called Hitchcock blondes, famed for their ice-cold innocence and Nordic beauty. When asked why he preferred to cast such women in lead roles, Hitchcock replied in a somewhat creepy manner that it was because bloody footprints are best seen against virgin snow.

Hedren portrayed the character of Melanie Daniels to perfection and Hitchcock was full of praise for his new protégé and plaything, noting her slightly glib humour and jaunty confidence, her sharpness of expression and attractive throw of the head. 

As for the actress, she initially found everything on set fascinating and wonderful. But she would later describe the week spent filming the final frenzied attack scene as the worst of her life. 

Before shooting, Hitchcock had assured her that only mechanical birds would be used. Hedren found herself, however, in a tiny bedroom having prop men in thick protective clothing fling dozens of live gulls and crows directly at her. Admittedly, their beaks were held shut with rubber bands, but their wings and feet were free to beat and to scratch. When one of the birds gouged her cheek, narrowly missing an eye, Hedren understandably burst into tears and collapsed, dizzy with fear and exhaustion. 

When a doctor recommended that she be given a week to rest and recover, Hitchcock protested. Angered and outraged by this, her physician was moved to ask whether the director wanted to kill his leading lady. Hitchcock's silent response to this is, I suppose, open to interpretation. But what is for sure, is that Hitchcock certainly wanted to possess and intimidate Hedren and ultimately the real horror of this tale lies in the abuse of a young woman by a fat man with power, not by a few angry birds.


Note: thanks to Maria Thanassa for bringing the story of the crow attacks in Eltham Park to my attention and suggesting that it might make the basis for an interesting post on this blog.        

On Pareidolia and Prosopagnosia

Still from the classic silent movie Le Voyage dans la Lune (1902)

Torpedo the Ark means: Take that Man in the Moon!

Pareidolia is the psychological term for the all too human propensity to see ourselves - particularly our own grinning faces - in nature. A well-known example of this is the man in the moon phenomenon. 

In other words, pareidolia is the visual form of apophenia or the will to meaning that interprets purely random patterns or events as being in some way significant, thereby displaying evidence of intelligent design, or the hand of God. 

It's thus thanks to pareidolia in combination with other forms of apophenia - or what Michael Shermer has termed patternicity - that primitive mankind was able to organize chaos and make the universe not only intelligible, but also loving and divine; a manifestation of the sacred. Even today, there are believers who see the face of Jesus on a slice of burnt toast.        

And this is why torpedo the ark means rejecting all forms of correlationism and all attempts to locate agency, whether in heavenly bodies, or loaves of bread. In fact, I'm only half-joking when I say that the philosopher today is obliged not only to cultivate innocence and forgetfulness, but also prosopagnosia or face blindness. 

Perhaps then - and only then - will we be able to know objects as fully independent of ourselves.

Note: I am grateful to Azucena Gómez for suggesting this post and bringing some of the technical terminology to my attention.  

Love Unlocked

A happy couple on the Pont des Arts before the removal 

of the love locks on June 1st 

The decision taken by the municipal authorities to remove the hundreds of thousands of love locks from the Pont des Arts is a triumph of practical common sense over romance; evidence that even in Paris health and safety matters more than affairs of the heart. 

Having said that, there was something rather frightful about all that congealed weight of feeling (be it sincere or otherwise) and the obscene brass symbolism of l'amour. It reminded one of how gangrenous and burdensome love becomes when it is fixed in place and full of insistence. As one commentator wrote, the bridge was starting to groan under this display of collective egoism. 

But, on the other hand, one has to be careful not to be snobbish or superior here; I certainly don't pretend or wish to imply that love as I experience it is in some way more authentic, more noble and more beautiful because it doesn't come with a lock and key. Nor do I find the metal locks ugly as things in themselves; when glittering in the sunshine they constitute a rather pretty and impressive form of three-dimensional graffiti or folk art. 

So, in sum, I have mixed feelings about their removal. Probably, if it had been up to me, I would have left them and allowed the bridge to collapse in suicidal complicity, bringing this love story to the tragic conclusion that it deserves.  

Breast Ironing

Just as the Western world finds the courage and strength of conviction to confront the disgusting practice of female genital mutilation, news emerges of an almost equally horrific form of cultural cruelty originating in the Central African Republic of Cameroon.

Breast ironing is the attempt to suppress the development of breast tissue in pubescent girls by using hard and often heated objects to literally flatten any signs of such development. Usually, this is carried out by the girl's mother who does so in the belief that it will protect her child from sexual harassment, rape, and early pregnancy that would tarnish the family name and prevent the girl from completing her education. 

Thus, as so often with the moral stylization of the flesh, breast ironing is a bad act carried out with good intentions; i.e., a form of violent physical abuse inflicted in the name of love.

The most commonly used implement for breast ironing is a wooden pestle, normally reserved for the pounding of tubers. Sometimes, however, other tools are used, including coconut shells, grinding stones, and hammers that have first been heated over coals. It is widely practiced throughout Cameroon and is also found in neighbouring countries and millions of girls have had to endure this extremely painful torture which can have serious and lasting physical and psychological effects.

And now, thanks to mass immigration and multiculturalism, breast ironing is here in Europe too, imported by the Cameroonian diaspora keen to retain their native traditions. 

Ultimately, there's very little to be said - even though there is clearly an urgent need for something to be done. One might suggest that those parents who are so concerned about protecting the honour of their female offspring that they are prepared to crush budding breasts and/or mutilate genitalia shouldn't be allowed to have baby girls in their care. But this might only lead some to mistakenly think I'm condoning female infanticide, which is a whole other (if clearly related) problem.

It shouldn't be, but, unfortunately, the words It's a girl are often heard in many parts of the world as a license not only to maim, but to kill. 

Eve Teasing

blanknoise.org

So-called Eve teasing is a phenomenon by no means limited to South East Asia, but the men of this region have gained a particularly shameful and ugly reputation for sexually harassing and assaulting young women who have simply asserted their right to venture into a public space, catch a bus, or go to school. 

It might begin with a series of crude remarks, vulgar gestures, and inappropriate touching, but such behaviour fosters an intimidating environment in which far more serious acts of sexual violence can blossom. Indeed, I'm sympathetic to feminists who not only see a direct link between Eve teasing and rape, but classify the former as a minor form of the latter.

Whatever else it is, Eve teasing is certainly not just a type of harmless flirtation - although, arguably, it might be characterized as a form of courtship disorder, endemic in societies in which female independence directly challenges sexist norms, patriarchal traditions, and misogynistic values.

And this, it is important to note, by no means just refers us to Muslim societies. In fact, in a recent poll conducted amongst gender specialists around the world, the country that  was nominated as the worst place to be a woman amongst the G20 nations was not Saudi Arabia, as one might have thought, but India.
  
Further, following several high profile cases involving tourists, several countries, including China, Japan, Switzerland, Canada, Australia, Russia and the United States, have issued advisory notices to their citizens alerting them to the rape epidemic across this country so loved (and so romanticized) by so many. The UK government posts this on its website:

"Women should use caution when travelling in India. Reported cases of sexual assault against women and young girls are increasing: recent sexual attacks against female visitors in tourist areas and cities show that foreign women are also at risk. British women have been the victims of sexual assault in Goa, Delhi, Bangalore and Rajasthan and women travellers often receive unwanted attention in the form of verbal and physical harassment by individuals or groups of men."

It further warns: 

"If you are a woman travelling in India you should respect local dress codes and customs and avoid isolated areas, including beaches, when alone at any time of day. Avoid travelling alone on public transport, or in taxis or rickshaws, especially at night."

This not only causes me to wonder why any woman would choose to go there at this time, but also think it might be worthwhile re-examining the case of Miss Adela Quested and the young Indian doctor, Aziz. Was her charge that he sexually assaulted her in the Marabar Caves really just the hysterical fantasy of a silly, self-absorbed girl, as the majority of (mostly male) critics have insisted ...?


Notes: 

Those interested in knowing more about the growing resistance amongst the women of India to Eve teasing and other forms of sexual violence might care to visit the Blank Noise website: click on the address beneath the image above.

Those interested in reading the full advice given by Her Majesty's Government on issues of safety and security to persons who plan on visiting India, click here. 

Those interested in knowing more about the controversial case of Adela and Aziz should see E. M. Forster's 1924 novel, A Passage to India. 

Dinggedicht

Trümmerfrau by Max Lichnit

What is this thing?

This thing that doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't speak, doesn't clean,
but continues to drag itself around, hanging-on, with tears in its eyes.

This thing that sits touching its face, as if seeking familiarity
with its own crumbling features.

This thing that fears silence, fears solitude, fears darkness, fears death,
and yet doesn't remember how to live.

This thing, this ruin, that is and is not meine Mutter.


SA

Why the Dalai Lama is Just Another Holy Fool

 

I wouldn't say I hate the Dalai Lama with the same degree of intensity as, for example, I hate Mother Teresa or Gandhi, but there's certainly something about him that I dislike and mistrust: the ghastly monastic robes; the perpetually smiling face (memorably described by James Snell as that of a dozy kitten); the fact that he likes to endorse the spiritual pretensions of Hollywood celebrities and hold the hands of royalty; the cynical manner in which he mixes Bambi-morality with calls for a return to a brutal theocratic feudalism under his own semi-divine leadership, etc.

Not surprisingly, Christopher Hitchens brilliantly outlines the case against him. But an equally interesting critique is by Pascal Bruckner, in which he contrasts Mr Tenzin Gyatso's astonishing success as a master of public relations and self-promotion, with his relative failure politically: 

"Coming out of exile like an Asian Moses descending from his Himalayas to reveal the essential truths ... he has transformed himself into a worldly guru ... a sort of peddler specializing in ... amiable twaddle precisely calibrated to the taste of European  and American audiences." 

He came to champion the cause of his people suffering under Chinese occupation and to impart the wisdom of the East, but, whilst the Dalai Lama succeeded in making a meek and mild version of Buddhism fashionable, he emptied the former of any real urgency or history.

Being generous, one might conclude not that he sold out or betrayed the Tibetan people, but that he was, as Bruckner suggests, overly keen to be a performer in our own image.

  
 
See: Pascal Bruckner, Perpetual Euphoria, trans. Steven Rendall, (Princeton University Press, 2010), pp. 59-61.