Yotsuba&!, pronounced Yotsubato (よつばと, or “Four Leaves and… !”) in Japanese to include the ampersand, is a comedy-driven comic written by Kiyohiko Azuma. It was published beginning in March 2003 and still runs in Dengeki Daioh magazine.

Yotsuba&! was made available to English-speaking audiences by ADV Manga; however, Yen Press took over the license and republished the volumes in 2009. You can buy it through the 3rd-party sellers on Amazon for pretty cheap. In fact, you should buy it.

Yotsuba&! is a comic about a young girl named Yotsuba who moves to a new neighborhood with her father. The comic follows the eccentric, everyday trivialities of Yotsuba as she interacts with her father, neighbors, and town.

It’s a fairly simple story that requires barely any explanation. It’s a comic about a girl who does stuff, akin to how Virginia Woolf’s novel Mrs. Dalloway basically boils down to a story about a lady as she goes around her daily routines. As strange as that sounds, Yotsuba&! is a comic about dealing with the hilarious things that occur in daily life (even if some of those things might be caused by a weird, little girl). With chapters titled “Yotsuba and Drawing,” “Yotsuba and the Culture Festival,” and “Yotsuba and Typhoons,” it’s really just a comic about everything and a girl. Basically, what the title says: Yotsuba & !.

There are three things that I wish this essay to achieve:

1) Explore where Yotsuba&! is situated in the Japanese comics industry and the minds of its (adult?) readers.
2) Look at how Kiyohiko Azuma has developed as an artist and how that is illustrated in Yotsuba&!.
3) Explain why Yotsuba&! (in relation to Azuma’s other works) says a lot about writing comic comics.

1

To begin, let’s look a bit more at Yotsuba&!‘s method of publication. As I said previously, Azuma’s comic is serialized in Dengeki Daioh (電撃大王, King of Electric Shocks) magazine, and has been running since March 2003. Azumanga Daioh, for which Azuma is most known, also ran in this comics magazine.

Before I continue, I feel the need to explain how magazines work in Japan. Somewhat similar to American television ratings, the Japanese comics industry targets its comics to demographics. In America, these tend to look like “Male 18-30″ or “Female 45+.” In Japan, comics demographics are similar but are categorized by name. Basically, they’re split into four categories: boys (少年, shounen), girls (少女, shoujo), young men (青年, seinen), and young women (女性, josei). Most comics are targeted to one of these four demographics, though the actual readership can vary wildly (eg., older men can read comics for girls).

So, with that in mind, Dengeki Daioh caters to a specific demographic. If you check the Wikipedia page, it notes that the magazine is aimed at boys (shonen). However, you’ll note in the History of edits that this was changed from young men (seinen) back in 2006, supposedly when the magazine shifted to a monthly schedule.

Based on the actual comics we see in Dengeki Daioh, we might posit the magazine to cater to somewhere between the shonen and seinen readerships (Zac Berteschy argues for the same interpretation in 2005). The cover images above illustrate that most of the stories found in these issues revolve around bishoujo (美少女, beautiful young girls) protagonists. The image below, which is a 2009 calendar celebrating Dengeki Daioh‘s popular female leads, highlights the same point.

I take a look at Dengeki Daioh‘s stories and readers because Yotsuba&! has been constantly criticized for being a story about a young girl in a men’s magazine, and then subsequently is defended as a suitable — and specifically innocent — comedy for guys (one good piece is by Jason Thompson on Moé: The Cult of the Child). The underlying tone in this criticism, of course, is that Yotsuba&! might be seen as a moé or bishoujo comic, which spontaneously taints it. I’m not going to argue for or against these demographic-genres, but Dengeki Daioh is certainly a magazine aimed at a younger audience than other seinen or adult magazines (such as Comic High! — which contains titles such as Chu-Bra!! and Kodomo no Jikan or Comic LO, which publishes erotic lolita titles).

Instead of situating Yotsuba&! in the context of bishoujo comics, instead I will argue that it is a comic for (young) adults. Which might be a little ironic, given that the Manga Moveable Feast is meant to shine the spotlight on comics for kids. And with the all ages rating for Yotsuba&!‘s release in the U.S., it would make sense as a satisfactory choice. However, I will argue against this notion, and instead uphold that Yotsuba&! is meant for the audience that it targets in Japan. It’s a story about a young girl, but the humor is in the relationships she maintains in an adult world. When she interacts with kids, (older teen and adult) readers laugh at the ridiculous situations, expressions, and reactions that emerge. When she interacts with adults, older readers laugh because they connect with the adults in the comic, who also see Yotsuba as pretty ridiculous. Of course, Yotsuba&! is also about “all the rest” (&!), and the short stories that we see of the adults in her world are just as funny because older readers can relate.

Yotsuba&! is a comic for adults. Not in the sense of perversion or ecchi perspectives. Instead, it’s a comic that older readers will understand, and with which younger readers — while they might enjoy it — will have a more difficult time associating.

2 + 3

If you know anything about Kiyohiko Azuma, you should recognize his name from the cover of Azumanga Daioh, which — as I previously mentioned — also ran in Dengeki Daioh starting in February 1999. If you do a quick scan of Azuma’s Wikipedia page, though, you’ll notice that he has done other earlier work. These include:

Inma no Ranbu (1997)
Try! Try! Try! (1998–2001)
Wallaby (1998–2000)

Try! Try! Try! is actually the predecessor to Yotsuba&!, and follows pretty much the same characters with Yotsuba as the protagonist. Wallaby is a story about a girl who sews a stuffed wallaby in memory of her recently-deceased classmate, Warabi. His soul comes to inhabit the toy animal, though the girl never understands that it is her friend (because the name Wallaby in Japanese, ワラビ, is the same as わらび, the boy’s name… if that wasn’t already obvious). And Inma no Ranbu (淫魔の乱舞, The Lust Demon’s Boisterous Dance) is an adult, erotic comic about female warriors getting sexed up, illustrated by Azuma (though he published under a pseudonym, for obvious reasons).

It’s interesting to look at the spectrum of Azuma’s titles and how they define his career. The character designs are fairly set in stone if we begin with Inma no Ranbu.

The backgrounds are nonexistent (what’s the point in an erotic comic, right?), and the facial expressions are fairly plain. The art style overall is minimal with strength in the line work, though it barely varies.

Wallaby shows improvement. Definitely not in the background art, as it barely exists in this comic as well, but Wallaby represents probably the primary space where Azuma practices his facial expressions. The character designs are still a bit wonky, but they improve going into Azumanga Daioh. The background art, however, improves dramatically, as Azuma makes distinct decisions to create a world for his characters to inhabit. Almost in complete contrast to Wallaby, Yotsuba&!‘s backgrounds and peripheral images (such as objects that characters interact with) are fine-tuned and extremely detailed.

The only copy of Try! Try! Try! I could look through was a one-shot from 2001. The style mirrors that of Yotsuba&! if you compare it to the original chapters, which is a bit interesting, since it seems that Azuma’s solidified his art style by 2001.

However, Yotsuba&! is an interesting case if we want to move away from talking about just “art style” and talk about “comic style.” And to do that, we actually have two things to work out: “comic style” as in 1) comics, and 2) comedy.

Azumanga Daioh, while popular perhaps because of its anime adaptation, ran in Dengeki Daioh as a 4-frame comic (四コマ漫画, 4-koma manga). The 4-koma has a long history in Japan before World War 2 (you can read more about it at Wikipedia). All of Azuma’s other comics are in ordinary format, including Yotsuba&!. So what does it matter that Yotsuba&! is not a 4-koma?

First, let me remark on Azuma’s other comics. Comic artists in Japan constantly have to battle to find the right balance between text (the words on the page), image (the drawings of characters and place), and structure (number and arrangement of panels). Azuma’s early works, such as Inma and Wallaby, suffer from having an imbalance between these three comic elements. Azumanga Daioh‘s 4-koma structure, on the other hand, enforces a balance between the elements that Azuma masters and through which he creates hilarious situations in every column.

Yotsuba&!, though, is not a 4-koma comic. It is structured like an ordinary comic. But for reasons to be explained, it finds an excellent balance between these text, images, and structure.

From here on, I will argue that Yotsuba&! secretly hides a 4-koma-like structure in how it organizes its humor.

The 4-frame comic is organized as kishoutenketsu (起承転結, or “intro, development, turn, and conclusion”). Each of the four “stages” of the narrative development in 4-koma represents one frame of the comic, and one full joke is complete at the end of each set of four.

Again, Yotsuba&! is not a 4-koma comic. However, while each chapter is set up as a distinct plot (eg., Yotsuba plays with her dad) with its own jokes, every page in itself contains a joke or funny moment. Now, I could list off the jokes on every page, but I feel like you’ll just get the point by going out and reading the comic! But I can, at least, explain what I mean about the “secret 4-koma structure.” By working on Azumanga Daioh, Azuma adjusted the way he told jokes to fit the 4-koma format, but in doing so he perfected telling jokes by aligning one frame with another. Reading Yotsuba&! feels like reading a 4-koma with varying numbers and sizes of frames. You can read Yotsuba&! and pick out different jokes, and for the most part they fit into 4-koma-like structures. However, the continual jokes do not hinder the narrative; instead, they help with character development, and each chapter of Yotsuba&! seems like a handful of 4-koma gently woven together into a more film-like form.

In fact, you can see Azuma doing a special rendition of Yotsuba&! in the 4-frame comic format between chapters 27 and 28. And the great revelation is that it doesn’t feel any different from reading the comic as regularly written and drawn.

Improving on Azuma’s earlier work, Yotsuba&! also illustrates that Azuma has figured out how to create impressionable comics. What I mean, basically, is that when Azuma wants to let his characters’ personalities shine, he can give each moment an impact. Usually these impacts consist of Yotsuba becoming really surprised…

… but these moments are constantly hilarious. These quick changes in emotion — spanning across two frames — are, I believe, a direct impact of Azuma’s work with 4-koma, as you’ll usually see that kind of comedic dichotomy between the 2nd and 3rd or 3rd and 4th frames of 4-koma. Yotsuba&!‘s humor is aided by Azuma’s love of sound effects, which actually pervade and dominate all of his works (eg., see the image from Inma above). I love how he uses them in a lot of Yotsuba&!‘s early scenes, especially ones where there’s not a lot of necessary noise (like waking up in the morning or working quietly), to emphasize the personalities of his characters.

Interestingly, the hard-hitting humor that pervades a lot of Yotsuba&!‘s early chapters begins to dissipate in Azuma’s later work on the series. It’s not that the humor disappears, but we get to see a lot more humble moments shared between the characters, particularly in collected silence. In my opinion, I think the reason for the change is that Azuma realized the popularity and worth of Yotsuba&! as a comic that represents more than just “a comic for guys,” that it reflects a lot about the relationships between the characters in the world he has created. And it’s moments like these…

… that I think define what Yotsuba&!‘s all about: loving daily life and the awesome moments that humor us.

The key point I want to emphasize from the video: If we look at the economic implications of moé, to increase [I hurriedly said "understand"] sales, most producers nowadays have borrowed from the moé aesthetic and specifically catered to this otaku subculture.

Word came in today that I’ll be speaking at Ignite Boston 7.

I’m going to be speaking about Japanese fans’ affinity for 2D chicks at Ignite Boston 7 next week on Thursday 4 March 2010. If you can’t make it to Boston, the event is part of Global Ignite week, so the video will be streamed live online and eventually posted on the upcoming Ignite video portal.

Registration (it’s free) and info is here: http://microsoftcambridge.com/Events/IgniteBoston7/tabid/287/Default.aspx

But quick info for those disinterested in clicking links:

Ignite Boston 7 will be Thursday, March 4, 2010 from 6pm to 9:00pm. The event will be at Microsoft’s newest campus, the New England Research & Development office (NERD) right in Kendall Square in Cambridge, MA.

Since there is limited space at the venue, you must RSVP on this page to have an opportunity to get into the event; but admission is on a first-come/first-served basis (to account for RSVPs who end up not making it; we don’t want to waste spaces). By RSVP’ing you will also be entered for a chance to win $300 worth of O’Reilly books of your choice. You must be present to win. There will likely be other items like tee-shirts and other promo items for those who alert us ahead that they plan to attend. If you plan to attend, and do not RSVP you will be put in the ‘wait-list’ queue.

From Narrative to Character: Transmedia, Emotional Economies, and the Success of Neon Genesis Evangelion

This paper also explores questions posed by the most recent developments in the Evangelion franchise: the quartet of movies (of which Evangelion 1.0 and 2.0 have already premiered in Japan). Although these movies are clearly an adaptation of the original narrative, they also represent an instance of transmedia storytelling that provides new perspectives to a previously-built world. How does this conflict between adaptation and transmedia storytelling affect the comprehension of the Evangelion narrative for a new generation of fans? Is the emotional economy regenerated or merely prolonged? And how can we better understand the relationship between fans and media by examining the Evangelion franchise as in evolves before our eyes?

Instead, here’s a quick repost of the abstract I sent (two weeks late…) to Colony Drop as a submission for their fanzine (forthcoming, I have no idea the hell when).

—

How Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea is Basically a Movie About a Cliff and Nothing Much More (Or, How Miyazaki Tricked Me Into Believing Just That)

While you might expect a colorful and energetic analysis of a film by Hayao Miyazaki, a filmmaker great enough to merit an Academy Award, this is an essay about flying fish.

Miyazaki’s Ponyo (2008) succeeds a long line of popular, animated films produced by Studio Ghibli, inclusive of such titles as Princess Mononoke and Spirited Away, many of which (if not all) do not feature flying fish or anything resembling airborne herring to the least degree. Ponyo, written and directed solely by Miyazaki (a first for the Studio), features a goldfish-turned-muppet-turned-girl named Brynhildr (later, she rejects her father-imposed name for the moniker, Ponyo, bestowed upon her by a five-year-old Japanese boy) who steals the role of protagonist in this film by shoving aside more-interesting characters and unresolved plot holes. And while Ponyo the film attempts to coat a bildungsroman with elementary-school zest, this is not a movie about Ponyo the muppet. This is a movie about flying fish.

Why flying fish? Or, why flying anything? Critics of Miyazaki’s films have continually highlighted the theme of flight that pervades his movies. However, flying is not what Miyazaki’s films are about. It’s really about hair. Hair, constantly moving, blown around by wind or falling or violent weapons whizzing by unprotected foreheads. Miyazaki loves to animate hair. Why do you think that My Neighbor Totoro — a film that features a monstrous, fuzzy amalgamation of a raccoon and owl — succeeds so well as an animated film, for instance? It’s certainly not the “cute” varmint that nearly devours a pair of juvenile girls in the barrens of a giant forest. The Studio has been blustering hair since Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind in 1984, gliding to Laputa: Castle in the Sky (1986), and culminating in the intense power of “the Ghibli Engine” that is the 1992 production of Porco Rosso.

But this is a movie about flying fish, correct? Right on the mark, but it’s about flying fish. Fish need water, water that Miyazaki unfortunately cannot animate in an acceptable manner. Water might be said to flow like hair in wind, but Miyazaki’s style dictates that all forms of liquid move like Play-doh, hair gel, or Irvin Yeaworth’s 1958 The Blob.

So, if Ponyo — a movie about a fish in the ocean — relies so much on water, does Ponyo flop? Well, this essay certainly will not let the lack of dramatic structure nor the focus on pure character profiling (the Miyazaki moé moment) slip by without lambaste. Miyazaki’s Ponyo is a wonderful work of art; however, it is not a good film. Yet, while I must believe that Isao Takahata is planning the ultimate smackdown for his directing partner in the near future, I affirm wholeheartedly that Ponyo is a good Miyazaki production.

Yes, Miyazaki pulls a fast one on his audience, forcing them to ask the filmgoer to their left or right, What the hell did we just watch?, usually preceded by, Why are Noah Cyrus and Frankie Jonas singing an Auto-tuned bastardization of the theme song in this American dub?, but he does so in a manner that satisfies the thematic animated style emphasized in his previous compositions. How? Flying fish. Miyazaki fashions a world where one never existed, between cliffs, a world of water in which fish fly like birds over submerged cars and through flourishing trees. And these silent flying fish carry Ponyo to the same pinnacle occupied by Spirited Away’s bathhouse or Laupta’s flying, aged castle.

I hope for this essay to fill in many holes left by ignorant American otaku on the history, style, and animation of Miyazaki’s most popular Ghibli films. And, of course, focus a bit more on the important elemental scenes of Ponyo, such as the flying fish that most reviewers so astutely and skillfully ignore.

Akiba-kei.

My question this time around might be… Where do we draw the line between the promulgation of more-recent otaku culture and any differences with the older otaku culture? The primary image as evidence is Akihabara, of course, the geographical and cultural landmark of the otaku audience in Japan. Are there more correlations?

My initial thoughts emerged from examining the transformation of anime songs over time and the images associated with the music. There are not many cases where songs are reused throughout a series’ lifecycle (as in when the anime series is reincarnated by different directors after a lengthy withdrawal from television broadcast), but when a production team reapplies a theme to a series, the images tend to reflect the context of the times, different from before.

A second image is that of the Akiba-kei dance, a style that seems to be geared toward otaku. The style brings focus away from the singing to flashy yet simple hand and body movements. Such dancing derives its origins in the idol boom of the 1980s, and I would argue evolved further through the popular influence of Para Para in the late 1990s.

An interesting set of videos to examine are two instances of a song from the many incarnations of Macross, which ghostlightning posted to his blog last week. The song, 私の彼はパイロット (My Boyfriend is a Pilot), retains the original lyrics and melody from its first appearance in the original Macross series, dated 1982. The second video, below, shows the reanimation of the song, set in the Macross Frontier saga, dated 2008.

Sung by Lynn Minmay, 1982.

Sung by Ranka Lee, 2008.

Taking a look at the former video, Minmay doesn’t give us much to work with in terms of dancing, besides subtle swaying and a brief attempt at hand motion. In a way, it resembles the generic Japanese idols of the 1980s. For instance, take a look at Seiko Matsuda, who even today retains her popularity as an idol. In the flashback clips below, Minmay’s and Matsuda’s approach to the audience seems identical.

Seiko Matsuda, looking back on her career.

Examining the later video, though, Ranka Lee’s performance much more resembles the Akiba-kei style of dancing associated with maid-style idols of the otaku brand. Clearly much more hand/body motion, clearly much more skirt flashing. Comparable to Reni, below:

Reni, of New York City karaoke “fame.”

I suppose one of the defining characteristics between the “old” and “new” mindsets of the otaku culture is moé, but how much does that factor into what most fans observe as fan service? Heisei Democracy asserts (scroll down to (Fan)service), “In certain respects moe as a genre could be considered an exercise in fanservice,” but I resist asserting a correlation between the two. Certainly, moé characteristics are in a way a method of targeting a specific audience, but fanservice is distinct in its nature and intentions inside of an animated series, while moé characterizes most of the show (given certain respects).

In relation to the dancing idol, the fan service of the ’80s depends on a flip of the skirt or the wink of an eye. Compared to the moé image, though, such things do not necessarily titillate the (otaku) viewer as much as the essence of the moé show itself. Regarding Ranka Lee’s interpretation of 私の彼は…, it appears as if the image of the female has been caught up in the trend toward moé-ization of everything anime. Contrastingly, Minmay represents a period in subcultural time, encapsulating the feeling toward that which is adored, by the older generation of otaku.

This discussion assumes familiarity with kawaii and moé terms.

In certain situations, one might comprehend an overlap in feelings of moé and kawaii. Similarly, differences exist, constrained by unique perception of visual characteristics.

However, distinctions between moé and kawaii might also be perceived in social dichotomies, more definitely that between physical space, by which I mean specifically the opposition of Akihabara and Shibuya.

Ressentiment, by Kengo Hanazawa

For most, it is common knowledge that Akihabara (秋葉原) is the major electronics district of Tokyo and the Kanto region (Nipponbashi, or Denden Town, being the equivalent of Osaka and the Kansai region), while Shibuya (渋谷) remains the hotspot of trendy Tokyo street fashion (Shibuya contains the vast shopping district Harajuku). How might we characterize these differences as qualities of each respective landscape?

The comparison above attempts to illustrate immediate differences in the functions of each area. However, if you are unread in the history of Akihabara, it was once the popular district for popular commercial goods (starting with refrigerators and televisions in the post-war period, then moving later to computers and other technical supplies/parts). It might be said that Japan moved from the need of objects (physical, owned items) to the need of images (fashion; personal embellishment), and such evolution led to a movement over time of trendy commercialization from Akihabara to Shibuya (a movement about which is joked in the Ressentiment excerpt above). Nowadays, though, Akiba is not thought of as the popular commercial sector so much as is Shibuya.

The level of commercial quality with respect of geography plays primarily into this discussion of 萌えの感じ and 可愛い感じ (feelings of moé and kawaii, respectively). In fact, trends, fashion, and commercialism has factored into discussions of the otaku lifestyle since 1983, when the term otaku first appeared in print media. Nakamori Aiko’s “Otaku Studies” discusses fan fashion of the ’80s in detail:

髪型は七三の長髪でボサボサか、キョーフの刈り上げ坊っちゃん刈り。イトーヨーカドーや西友でママに買ってきて貰った980円1980円均一のシャツやスラックスを小粋に着こなし、数年前はやったＲのマークのリーガルのニセ物スニーカーはいて、ショルダーバッグをパンパンにふくらませてヨタヨタやってくるんだよ、これが。それで栄養のいき届いてないようなガリガリか、銀ブチメガネのつるを額に喰い込ませて笑う白ブタかてな感じで、女なんかはオカッパでたいがいは太ってて、丸太ん棒みたいな太い足を白いハイソックスで包んでたりするんだよね。- Manga Burikko

Rumpled long hair parted on one side, or a classic kiddie bowl-cut look. Smartly clad in shirts and slacks their mothers bought off the “all ¥980/1980” rack at Ito Yokado or Seiyu [discount retailers], their feet shod in knock-offs of the “R”-branded Regal sneakers that were popular several seasons ago, their shoulder bags bulging and sagging — you know them. The boys were all either skin and bones as if borderline malnourished, or squealing piggies with faces so chubby the arms of their silver-plated eyeglasses were in danger of disappearing into the sides of their brow; all of the girls sported bobbed hair and most were overweight, their tubby, tree-like legs stuffed into long white socks. – Translation by Matt Alt

Even more helpful is Volker Grassmuck’s essay on otaku lifestyle, in which he explains the generational moniker 新人類 (shinjinrui), the oppositional force of otakudom.

Those shinjinrui were college or professional kids in their twenties. Quite different from otaku they put a strong emphasis – and spend a lot of money – on glossy outward appearance. They preferably have jobs in modelling or advertising which earn them enough money and leave them enough time for their main source of pleasure: showing off luxury goods and fast cars. The latest hit among them is a left-arm suntan, because it signals that this ‘girl’ or ‘boy’ drives a left-wheel import car. The shinjinrui were also called ‘cristal-kids’, after TANAKA Yasuo’s award-winning best-seller Nantonaku, Kuristaru (Tokyo 1980. engl. as “Somehow Cristal”) which became a sort of Yuppy-guide to Tokyo’s ‘in’ restaurants, boutiques, and clubs, a How-to instruction on being hip. It first appeared 1980 in the monthly journal “The Arts” (bungei) and was imediately republished as a book which sold more than one million copies. Tanaka gives us an extensive inside view of the joyful life in empty forms. A life in which one truly and explicitly cherishes snobbery and affectation. His plot “verges on nonexistence” (Norma Field), but in 442 notes he boasts with all the information the trendy hyper- consumer needs. Example: Where do you go on a saturday night after elven if the desire for icecream overcomes you? Answer: Take a taxi to Swensen`s on “Killer” Avenue. Because of the rapid change in fashion, most of the information was, of course, outdated the moment “Somehow Cristal” hit the masses. Though other info bits are here to stay. Through the shinjinrui, for example, the Japanese language was lastingly enriched by the ‘brand name syndrome’ – I’m alone, but not lonely: Japanese Otaku-Kids colonize the Realm of Information and Media, A Tale of Sex and Crime from a faraway Place

In a basic form, Nakamori illustrates the otaku as unfashionable, perpendicular to the shinjinrui of the time. In terms of hometown, or today more commonly “mecca,” Akihabara houses the otaku and Shibuya the (contemporarily-defunct?) shinjinrui. Those following trends obsess over fashion, while those on the fringe obsess over fantastic images — both, of course, consumed by the desire to harness information.

But where does kawaii and moé fit into all this? Ultimately, it is codified in the functions of fashion.

Fashion is about novelty, or if not that then the return to a regulated state of imaginative materialism (ie., the resurgence of decade-identified images, eg. 1920s flapper, or more generally the 1980s). Toward the former, street fashion, the hottest new item; toward the latter, specific to Japan, the shift to Uniqlo. However, these two elements make up fashion, so what about unfashion? It is the strict, unchanging form, easily approachable, never conservative because it is forever conserved. In some respects the unfashionable is a fashion, yet cannot truly be called fashion because it does not change. Fashion strives on and depends on moods.

Kawaii is fashionable. Moé is not.

Moé is the unconscious reaction against the commercialization of desire.

Moé is a style in that it is forever static. Contrarily, kawaii depends on fluctuation to survive. When we consider kawaii, the essence of cuteness, we see something that is novel, hence different, thence it makes an impression which we call cute. If the encounter is not novel, a reaction might be to remark it as cute, yet it loses a significant amount of pure authenticity. Kawaii culture endures as fashion changes, forever supplying the mind with novel images which may be considered cute. Oppositely, the moé style never deviates, never evolves. Otaku, then, find familiarity in the moé image, a maternal affection (according to Ken Akamatsu) that humbles the otaku soul.

It is entirely possible for an outsider to consider a moé-centric object or personage to be kawaii. However, the knowledgeable otaku understands the moé image. On the other hand, comprehension of kawaii depends entirely on consideration of the image, instead of recognition.

Japan’s Ambassadors of Cute – Q: Kawaii or moé?

Neojapanisme’s recent article on the misrepresentation of fujoshi inspired the initial thoughts on this article and continues to lend meaning to the understanding of the static moé image. The Fujoshi Syndicate’s なぜ、腐女子は男尊女卑なのか？ attempts to reconcile the image of the Akiba-kei (秋葉系) maid with a male understanding of femininity. Too true. This maid image relies mostly on the moé style, though in ways it reacts against it, by offering new designs of dress, on occasion. However, fundamentally, the maid is a static image in the masculine-dominant otaku culture. Perhaps this reliance on the moé image accounts for the lack of sex in Akihabara. Shibuya boasts 道玄坂, but Akihabara lacks the space for true sexual acts, instead providing a sexualized culture, imposed by reliance on the static worldview of moé.

The ultimate paradox inherent to this discussion lies in the relationship of kawaii and moé images to the respective geographical homestead. At heart, Akihabara retains a do-it-yourself culture, defined by the aim to create something out of disparate parts sold on street corners, reliant on self innovation and imagination. Alas, the ubiquity of 萌え deflects this culture sustained by self-reliance. Similarly, the Shibuya fashion culture thrives in commercialism, broadcast by designers and department stores to the masses. Yet kawaii is kept alive in the creation of the new, as the populace innovates fashion out of inflicted “fashion.”

Perhaps in truth moé ultimately is defined by the (new) 秋葉系, a style defined by its territory. Is its future, though, doubtful?