The billboards were all over Tokyo. A naif lost in the produce section of a supermarket; a dazed girl adrift near a rack of blue plates. Something was odd about the images — the women floated in a sea of objects, bobbing heads without bodies. A moment of intense staring and zoom, clarity: their outfits were printed with life-size photographs of the items (fruit, plates) behind them. It’s hard to say whether the women blended into the background or whether it was the background that obscured the women.

Emblazoned across the top of the billboard were the words “You Are What You Buy.”

No irony, no meta-commentary, just another earnest marketing campaign. This is disturbing.  You might agree, for many reasons, but let me be clear. It’s not the nullification or commodification of women’s bodies that bothers me, nor the faint reminder that there are times and places where women are literally objects to be purchased. Frankly, I’m not even troubled by the humorless proclamation that the soul, identity, id, or whatever-you-call-it is simply a collection of purchased items.

The real crime here is against fashion.

Fashion! That realm of the ridiculous, that sublime froth of chiffon and champagne, the temple of Carrie Bradshaw and Yohji Yamamoto. It’s the coveted handbag, $900 heels, the magic of Roland Mouret’s Galaxy dress, and the workaday reliability of Zara. Tokyo is undeniably a showcase for chic, and I for one am a devoted fan of its furious glamour. But a dark power is growing. It’s a sinister force that gleefully determined the exact moment when trench coats were over, when jeans went from bootcut to skinny, and recently made leggings mandatory. It applauds the dazed passivity those billboards so blatantly exploit, and it rejoices over obedient shopping.

Forget the plague of Louis Vuitton handbags. What I am talking about is the fascistic reign of the straight-from-a-magazine ensemble. The propaganda shouts and soothes: 10 Outfits to Seduce A Man and 5 Looks to Up Your Cute. Before we throw stones, let’s be honest; these are just the fashion equivalent of a quick-fix philosophy to which most of us have fallen prey at some point or another, usually in the form of books titled “Fried Foods That Make You Skinny” or “Three Days to Love, Wealth, and Happiness.”

It’s easy to understand the allure of a prefab outfit that promises to improve your paycheck, your sex appeal, and your doe-eyed sweetness (all at the same time). But you see the victims of this fashion lobotomy all over Tokyo: clone-like women with their personalities muffled, cinched, and zipped up.

Granted, fashion is a cruel tyrant who gave us 90-pound teenagers to emulate and told us to go conquer the world in painful shoes. It feeds on angst and self-loathing and lust and craven women at sample sales, and it vomits out lots and lots of credit card debt.

But if you’ve ever slipped into a dress that really truly fit, you’re probably hooked anyway.  And if you’ve ever ditched your fishnets to meet your boss, or put on a power suit with commanding shoulders, or worn a headscarf in another country, you already know the power of the language of clothing. (Incidentally, if you’ve ever donned one of those Little Bo Peep outfits and walked around Harajuku, you’ll need some serious therapy, but first I’d like to hear the juicy details.) Clothes say where you come from and where you want to go. School and boardroom. Saitama and Milan. Identity and aspiration. Fashion is a way to broadcast your best self, to pin your fragile hopes and dreams bravely on your lapel.

Renegades come in surprising guises. The other day, I met a Japanese woman who wears a kimono nearly every day of her life. She showed me how she uses a tiny bit of scotch tape to hold a particularly tricky fold of her obi in place. She let me know in no uncertain terms that a brutal death would befall me if I let slip her identity and the blasphemy she had committed, so I won’t, but the act is so deeply subversive, so wildly joyful, that it makes me want to dance the hoopla.

The truth is, the many exquisite cords and knots of a kimono are just really classy scotch tape. All that folding and tying happens because without it, the heavy mass of silk would slide right onto the floor. Thus function becomes form, and nowhere more beautifully than in Japan.

Ironically, the traditional strictures of Japanese kimono allow for a riotous interplay of color, pattern, and meaning that can be as nuanced and complicated as the wearer. It’s all about how it’s put together. But the authoritarian voice of billboard and magazine would reduce the act of dressing to shopping. To mindless consumption. That’s not too many steps away from mindless conformity, tyrannical group-think, and other disasters.

Forget being a broadminded citizen-of-the-world. I’ll proudly wave the jingoistic flag of individuality. In fact, I believe that the time has come for every woman to seize her hangers and bang them together for peace — or at least for individual expression. So make some noise, riot in the streets, and for heaven’s sake, burn those hideous khaki pants. It’s the right thing to do. In dark times like these, outlandish and eccentric beauty is as thrilling as a revolution. 

4 Comments

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  GrouchyGaijin at 07:04 PM JST - 24th May

  Usually crimes have a victim. I see many of these fashion victims every day!

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  kansaikate at 09:01 AM JST - 27th May

  I love this article! Fashion (and in fact consumerism in general) is an avenue for self expression, an exercise of free will, of power which can release joy and confidence into your life.

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  Gaijingeek at 05:00 PM JST - 27th May

  This is the most well written article I've read on Japan Today. It's clever and funny too! You should have made it more prominent.

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  Nessie at 06:23 PM JST - 27th May

  clone-like women with their personalities muffled, cinched, and zipped up.

  Making the dubious assumption that they have personalities, are we?

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