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JAPAN SOCIETY LECTURE 12 Sep 2005 - Oriental Club, London Lecture by Hans Brinckmann Japan Society, The Showa era, which ended 16 years ago, has become an object of nostalgia and pride in Japan. It evokes emotions ranging from wistfulness to curiosity. Some of those too young to have personal memories of the period find it evocative of an attractive 'mood' even as they seek to distance themselves from their parents' values in their own life. A faddish popularity of 1960s and 1970s retro fashions is one expression of this fascination. Showa, of course, is the name of the reign of the last emperor, Hirohito. It began in 1926 with his accession at the age of 25, and ended 63 years later, on 7 January 1989 when he died at the age of 87. It is said that the sovereign - referred to posthumously as the Emperor Showa - personally chose the name by which his reign was to be known: Showa, 'Enlightened Peace'. Yet one year into his reign the generals took charge of his nation, and for the next eighteen years Japan would be seen as a nation dedicated to war and conquest - not peace. Perhaps it is for that reason that most Japanese tend to equate the term 'Showa' with the latter two-thirds of the Showa Emperor's long reign, the period after 1945, when his nation embarked belatedly on the road to peaceful progress. That benign image of the era has come to stand for all that was good and decent and secure about Japan before the bursting of the great speculative bubble of the late 1980s confronted its people with new and harsh realities - just about the time that the Showa emperor passed from the scene. It was, in a double sense, the end of an era. Of course, the cold facts of Showa do not always support the rosy view the current nostalgia suggests. But nostalgia breeds on perception, not facts. Post-war Showa is remembered with affection for its clear goals, hard work, small pleasures, family cohesion and the sense that life could only get better. It is remembered for three-generations-under-one-roof, streetcars, and wild rivers before they were dammed. Showa was when you ate dinner at low chabudai tables, seated on the tatami, and endured the summer heat in your starched cotton yukata with the help of electric or paper fans and shaved ice, while listening to the shrilling of the cicadas or the chirping of the crickets. For the breadwinner, Sundays on the golf course were his only chance to get away. Holidays were not taken, bonuses saved, not spent. Showa was about dedication and hope. The ugly side of Showa - air pollution, hideously overcrowded trains, inhumanly long working hours, sub standard housing - is not part of the Showa nostalgia, unless caught in artistic black-and-white photographs. Even the life of the emperor who gave the era its name is not part of it, for Showa is about a mood, not a person. Perhaps, in the final analysis, the memory of Showa is the memory of youth as that vital period when you discover that beauty can be found in little things, and that friendship and personal effort can yield great rewards. The way youth should be, and mostly was, but in a world awash with gadgets and television and ready-made entertainment so seldom is anymore. The memory of Showa is also about belonging - to a family and an employer and a firm social structure, all for life. That security too has gone. I was born in the 7th year of Showa, 1932, and landed in Japan in 1950, aged 18, shortly after the start of Benign Showa. In 1953, Emperor Showa passed my office in a boxy limousine. And 36 years later, on the day he died, I was on hand to place my signature 'as an objective witness' in the condolence book at the Imperial Palace. The following extract from my recently published memoir The Magatama Doodle reflects some of my earliest reactions to Japanese life. I had recently arrived and was working as a management trainee in the Kobe branch of a Dutch bank. I shared a wing of a fine Japanese house with a rather irksome older colleague, referred to as A. [p. 16/17] While A. was complaining about the stacks of office work he alone had to bring home with him, I learned to keep the charcoal glowing in the aubergine-glazed brazier our landlady brought us on returning home, to keep our hands warm before we got the kerosene heater going. She was a fine lady with a chiselled face fallen on hard times. She wore her greying hair tied in a bun, and was never seen in anything but sober kimonos in blue and grey hues. She was of firm but considerate disposition. She moved about the spacious rooms with dignity and barely a hush. Yet there was in her quiet manner nothing obsequious, rather an accomplished roundness, a refined understanding of sound and form. When she placed the teacups on their small lacquered saucers, which she then set on the low ebony table - never bending down but squatting first to maintain an agreeable posture - the soft clicks caressed the gathering dusk hanging in layers between the shoji screens, like painted fingernails touching a champagne glass. And when she poured the tea brewed from roasted leaves, her head at a slight angle, one hand holding the lid, the fragrant steam rising up through the still cold air had something plaintive about it, reminding me of straw burning on Dutch autumn fields. My mother had never poured tea that way, and the sharp clacks of porcelain cups and silver spoons hitting porcelain saucers back in Holland had not permitted unspoken sadness to linger in the shadows. Bathing provided another taste of the Japanese aesthetic. A. refused to be 'boiled like a lobster' and borrowed some American friend's shower on a regular basis. But I responded readily to the landlady's daily call - heard just before dinnertime when all homecoming Japanese men soak away the day's stress in the hot tub - that the water had reached 'just the right temperature'. The tub was a goemon-buro, a cast-iron cauldron like those used to cook missionaries in Africa, set in a smoothly polished cement jacket, and heated from below by a wood fire. The fire was tended from the adjoining stoke-space, which, together with the tub-room and a small dressing area, comprised the separate cedar-and-tile bathhouse. A round plank, held in place by notches in the iron, protected the feet from direct contact with the hot metal, but one had to avoid touching the sides. Soaking in this liquid inferno - after washing and dousing one-self while squatting on a cedar grid, to get clean and preheated - proved an almost spiritual experience the intensity of which has not left me after all these years. I could go on in this vein - actually, the book does, for a while, unashamedly, until it settles into a more mature, less wide-eyed mode, and the reluctant banker that I was turns critical. But instead I want to show you some photographs of Japan dating back to the period I lived there, 1950 to 1974. I took many of them, but the sharper ones are by my good friend and former colleague, Ysbrand Rogge, who quit banking long before me, and became a professional cameraman. I have arranged the images by subject - 9 key areas, each of which we will examine briefly afterwards to consider what has survived of Showa's values and conditions and achievements, and what has been lost. (See attached sampling of the over 100 photographic slides shown at the lecture) These scenes do bring back memories, don't they? But I suspect that the Showa sentiment goes deeper than, say, the intermittent West-European nostalgia for the 1960s, with its overtones of sexual liberation, psychedelia and student protests. There is a sense in Japan that something precious was lost somewhere along the road to economic superpower status. What is that precious something? Let's find out. I am just putting the finishing touches to an illustrated book on the subject, but the best we can do here is to cite brief examples of each chosen category. A kind of tasting menu, if you will. First, then, the landscape. Around mid-Showa most rivers had not been dammed, riverbeds had natural banks, pristine mountain scenery had not been violated by roads and tunnels and retaining walls, and the deciduous forests had not yet been cut and replaced by uniform plantings of cedar which snuffed out wildlife and caused a serious pollen hazard all over the islands. There were lots of flies and mosquitoes and gnats, and therefore plenty of birds and bats as well. Most country roads were still unpaved, leaving houses along them covered with a film of white dust. The small towns and villages still retained their traditional look. - The damage done to the environment can not be undone - though they have started replacing some of the cedar stands with - you guessed it - deciduous trees. As for the cities, they were messier then, with narrower streets. 'Neighbourhood' was what it was all about. But renewal was in the air. Many excellent pre-war buildings were demolished to make way for high-rise structures. The Olympic legacy in Tokyo was a network of elevated highways, casting the streets below into permanent gloom. In the general building frenzy, still continuing, large segments of Tokyo and other big cities were replaced by spectacular shopping/entertainment/living centres. Apart from the shrines and temples there is little left in the way of architectural patrimony. The urban population seems to have taken the drastic makeover of their cities in their stride, never openly bemoaning what was lost. After all, when design and technology are not held back by the demands of conservation and sentiment, society may well benefit in terms of comfort and efficiency. And you can always fly to Europe when you feel a craving for crooked streets or chilly old churches. Every society has its salaried workers, but Japan has its 'salaryman'. The difference is vast. The Showa-vintage Japanese salaryman entered employment straight out of school or college, for life, with one and the same employer. In exchange for his absolute loyalty he could count on steadily increasing pay and position, permanent protection from dismissal and most importantly, the social status of belonging to a prestigious organization. He surrendered virtually all of his waking hours to his employer, and took no holidays. In the evenings and on weekends he had to be available for banqueting, company outings and games of golf. His employer owned his soul. Such an environment left little room for individual identity, nor was such desired or expected. Loyalty was more prized than the ability to argue logically or to develop ideas that were deemed 'foreign' or too innovative - unless they were concrete product improvements, of course. The system worked extremely well while the country was protected from foreign competition on its home turf. It wasn't easy on the family, who seldom saw their husbands and fathers. Yet, this strange institution, a modern form of bondage, is now seen as an enduring and, yes, cherished symbol of the Showa era. For many feel that it was thanks above all to the exertions of the salaryman that Japan became a world power. Corporate restructuring over the past decade has changed all that. The career escalator is no longer reliable, as merit-based promotions - and pay - and redundancies have caught on. Foreign interests have taken over many companies, and the promises and threats of 'globalisation' have become everyone's concern. The salaryman Showa-style is not yet declared an endangered species, but I expect the evolving 21st century edition will be very different from his Showa predecessor, and probably be referred to as salaryperson. Meanwhile, the Showa work ethic that drove the salaryman, also applied to engineers, mechanics and most manual workers, though differently. Constant activity and search for perfection marked their world, as it does today. Where else can you see deliverymen run to and from their vehicle, shop girls that keep smiling while rapidly ringing up your bill, and building crews meticulously reroute the sidewalk so as not to annoy pedestrians? The trains not only run on time, they are also spanking clean inside and out, without a trace of graffiti and with even the windows washed and dried to perfection. Domestic and commercial rubbish collection is organized to a T, and the streets look like they are cleaned all the time. The perfectionist streak in Japanese society may well prove to be a crucial asset in an increasingly competitive market place. But there is a legitimate concern that excessive emphasis on perfection may also cause excessive stress and inhuman burdens on the labour force, thus creating new risks. There was in post-war Showa only one serious challenge to authority: the 1960 protest movement aimed at killing the US-Japan Security Treaty. It was organized by a loose coalition of left-wing parties, labour unions and the radical student movement Zengakuren, but also included many middle class office workers and housewives. The movement had a strong ideological element to it, yet the participation of so many ordinary citizens was arguably an indication of the growth of political engagement. But its fiery spirit was driven more by blind passion than by fully informed debate, and it got out of hand. The protest failed, and when the government shifted its priorities to the spreading of wealth, the movement fizzled out and the public became apathetic about politics - though there are recent signs of renewed interest. If sublimation of hostile instincts towards outsiders is one measure of civilized behaviour, then the way the Japanese have always dealt with their feelings about foreign, especially Western, elements in their midst is indeed most civilized. To be sure, there are frequent instances of subtle discrimination - such as not being regarded as a suitable tenant for an up-market mansion apartment (as happened to me more than once, and quite recently too) - but these are mild compared to the racial slurs and outright violence Japanese and other Asians sometimes have to endure in the West - even in a country supposedly as civilized as Britain. Yes, generous treatment of guests has always been a charming characteristic of Japanese society. Immigrants and permanent residents, however, are a different matter. The aim is still to keep foreigners at arm's length, and treat them as honoured visitors, not as fellow citizens, no matter how long they stay and how well they speak the language. Permanent residency, let alone seeking Japanese citizenship, is generally discouraged. As in other advanced countries, the declining birth rate is now forcing Japan to increase immigration, and it seems the people have little choice but to get used to that reality, and accept some loss of cultural exclusivity into the bargain. Meanwhile, though, to stem the tide, robot designers are working feverishly to produce intelligent substitutes for all kinds of human workers, from cleaners to receptionists (did you see that pretty one at the Aichi Expo?) to care helpers in old-age homes. They hope to have a good selection of artificial humans available for duty when the crunch comes - in five to ten years' time. The Japanese never struck me as a particularly religious people - in the way that many Christians and Moslems and Jews practice their religion. The general absence of a missionary zeal among Buddhists and Shintoists and of any public display of cloying, sentimental religiosity or holier-than-thou attitudes was a relief to me. What's more, most Japanese seemed to accept both Buddhism and Shintoism and even - at some schools and weddings - Christianity in their lives, as if they were equal or interchangeable. But perhaps to most Japanese 'religion' is more a matter of tradition than confession or personal quest. Not so different from the present situation in the more secular parts of Europe, you might say. Yet, religion unarguably has left a deep imprint on Japanese history. Zen in particular was a shaping force in ethics and culture. It impressed me deeply, and for a while during the 1950s I commuted regularly to Kyoto's Tofukuji Temple to absorb some of its lingering spirit. That temple and many others were still full of monks sitting in meditation, but now the tourists outnumber them many times over. Among families, too, age-old traditions have declined. Where can we still see the annual pounding of the mochi rice cakes in time for New Year's? Or the replacement of fusuma and shoji partitions by light bamboo blinds in summer? Or the throwing of beans to chase out the demons on the eve of Setsubun in early February - not as a silly caper by a gaggle of TV starlets but seriously, out of conviction? The drift away from tradition has not spared the arts and crafts. Although many of the old arts are still practised with great skill and dedication, their intrinsic connection with everyday life is becoming tenuous. For example, calligraphy, that staple of artful expression that was still avidly practised in personal correspondence only a few decades ago, has been shoved aside by ball pens and computers - though it survives as an elective art for its own sake. Even ikebana shows the strains. Where once flowers, grasses and branches were the only materials used in the elaborate creations of the Ikenobo School - that standard-bearer of classical ikebana since the 15th century - today one is hard put to find an arrangement that does not prominently feature plastics, metal wire and other non-organic elements. 'Just flowers' is apparently not done these days. One could see that as welcome proof that even the most ancient of arts is not above modernizing. But ikebana evolved in low-slung, traditional wooden houses. The flowers were placed in alcoves, to be viewed from a squatting position. It was an intimate, quiet process. The guiding philosophy was to use a minimum number of flowers. Today's mixed-material creations, placed on tables, are often lavish and large in size, destined for offices or public spaces. The branches are sometimes daubed with paint and broken or twisted to suit the design. The change represents the drastic shift in overall living patterns, from wafuu to youfuu - from the Japanese to the Western. As a consequence, their historical bond with a vanishing lifestyle inevitably leave religions and traditions, arts and crafts increasingly at the mercy of commercial schemes, tourism, loyal followers and tax support for survival. What does all this spell for the future of the children? The task of shaping malleable young minds must surely be among the noblest and most satisfying of occupations for socially committed men and women. But the Showa teacher's brief was not necessarily to help each child realise its own potential but rather to mould their charges into social particles able to function optimally in a group (for the boys) or in a family (for the girls). If the children of Showa were less free than today's kids, they were also less exposed to outside distractions and dangers. No mobile phones ringing in their backpacks, no computer games, and - for the teenage girls - no seductive offers to help them supplement their pocket money with indecent activities. Capitalism had not yet targeted the tot-to-teen markets. Children's minds were not distracted by a hunger for super-brand fashion items. Their clothes and shoes were unbranded, functional. School groups on excursion stayed in simple inns, not 4 or 5-star hotels. And though Showa kids may have rebelled against their parents like teenagers everywhere, they did not refuse to pursue a career, or to get married, or to show respect for their elders. Instances of bullying, attacks on teachers and on other children, and absenteeism were rare. The serious social problem of hikikomori (hermit children) was yet to emerge. All this changed in the 1980s, when there was a sharp increase in all these problem areas, prompting the government to consider educational reform. In the end, not much changed, as the rival factions were unable to agree on a common course. A few years ago the subject was taken up again, this time both to tackle the ever more serious problems of violence and dropping out, and to respond to calls for greater emphasis on creativity and diversity. The results, still in the making, once again seem to be an uneasy compromise between the current right-wing rhetoric favouring a reversion to 'lost values' - not only of post-war Showa, but those discarded at war's end as well - and the no less insistent demand for greater emphasis on the development of individuality. The liberal lobby argues that instead of returning to 'obedient' patriotic behaviour - symbolized by Tokyo schoolchildren and teachers being required these days to salute the flag and sing the anthem on pain of punishment - it would be far better for the nation's future if children were encouraged to develop their own personal qualities, learn to think for themselves and communicate their thoughts more effectively. It is my personal belief that patriotism need not be taught as such. In a well-run democracy it should be the natural consequence of a healthy personal self-esteem, which in turn derives from an education that gives comparable weight to the individual and the society in which he has to function. We may conclude, then, that the Showa era has a mixed legacy. Some of its lost values are missed and lamented: the clarity of goals, the social cohesion, the security. Others, like the salaryman's circumscribed life, have been reassessed to suit changed conditions. But what is that quality we talked about at the outset - that elusive something that was typical of the past, of Showa, and that may have been irretrievably lost? I was referring to shibumi. The word comes from shibu, the astringent juice of the persimmon. Its adjective, shibui embodies the nature of traditional Japanese aesthetics: rough but refined; restrained yet elegant; austere. The noun form, shibumi, implies a deep spiritual quality as well - an aesthetic made into an ideal of feeling and behaviour that was typical of the literati but in a broader sense stood for the ideals - the identity - of the educated classes as a whole. One might well wonder why it is that shibumi came to be seen as the essence of Japanese sensitivity and inner accomplishment. After all, Japanese mainstream arts and crafts have never lacked in bright colours and bold design, witness the gorgeous costumes of Noh and Kabuki, the striking patterns and brocades of kimonos and obis, and the boldly painted fusuma doors and room screens. True - there is that exuberant streak in the otherwise restrained national character. Yet most Japanese would agree that shibumi is much more representative of their traditional ideal than those flashy luxuries. Could it be that vicarious display is the necessary trade-off for repressed behaviour? Ardent expression not by oneself, but by artists commissioned for the purpose, while preserving one's own carefully controlled composure, which is more faithfully served by - and embodied in - the austere shibumi ideal? Shibumi certainly was my big discovery, sometime during mid-Showa. I thought it was forever. It was not a brand, but it should have been. A comprehensive life-brand. But it was overwhelmed by other brands - the super brands, mostly. Not literally of course - they are different quantities. But as Western styles of living became the norm and popular taste at all levels swung to the colourful and the extrovert, shibui slowly came to stand for fogeyish, unfashionable, dull. I used to be complemented on my shibui neckties. Now they are called drab. Shibumi is a lost value, and so far nothing comparable has taken its place. The rampant materialism symbolized by the craze for super brands merely masks the void. There is no ongoing debate about where Japanese society should go. New ideas are suspect; to question is to quibble. Complacency rules the day. And into the empty space has charged the extreme Right with calls not for individualism but for more patriotism and an adamant refusal to come to terms with the past. Already Tokyo's schoolchildren and teachers are required to salute the flag and sing the controversial national anthem, a relic of the days of emperor worship, on pain of punishment if they refuse. No wonder many of the young are confused and withdrawn. But I am confident this is a passing phase. There is a growing trend among young people in Japan to carve out a life of their own, as individuals, rather than follow in their elders' footsteps - or rely on established social structures. Some set up a small business or work as artisans. Many are involved in volunteer work, often in poor countries. There is no unified philosophy behind these initiatives, but the fact that they occur at all is encouraging and significant. The legacy of Showa, then, for all its lost values and violated landscapes, is an opportunity for a new generation to fearlessly shape their society away from self-absorption and isolationist instincts, and toward a less secure, more complex and more internationalist future. The talent and means are there in abundance. What is needed is not a reactionary longing for a vanished past, but enlightened national leadership.

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