emis

Yohji Yamamoto:"On Women and Fashion"

Essentially, what a man seeks in the opposite sex is a warm receptacle that will bring forth those things that most make him a man. With an intelligent woman, he may occasionally find some faint indication that they are kindred spirits, but should he catch even a single glimpse of an inflated ego within her, he will begin to despise her as much as the woman in whom he detects the kind of excessive femininity that bores him. A desire to erase the traces of all such women prompts him to turn to women he can manipulate and toy with more easily.

In short, a man cannot accept anything that surpasses him. He loves only himself, though he might experience the joy of living by exaggerating the instant in which he exchanges a simple greeting with a complete and utter stranger passing by. Such encounters, however, are based on but the barest of social conventions, things designed to appease in some small way the alienation one feels in the crush of the crowd. That being said, it might also be the case that such conventions are the most beautiful manifestations of the conditioning that exists in this human world.

Women will fall head over heels in love with this pitiable vulnerability pulsing through the creature known as man. Where she is taken off-guard by a particularly wounded soul, she may lose herself in her desire to nurture and care for him, and therefore spend her life in tears. Or, alternatively, she may place him in the palm of her hand and, with "my dog is working like a dog" as her highest words of praise for him, she may live out her life in his company.
("My Dear Bomb" pg 13)

In my youth I wanted to become a painter. Thinking about how furiously my mother worked to support me, though, prevented me from choosing that path to certain destitution. Eventually, to please my mother, I studied to enter one of the prestigious universities that the rich boys attended. Not surprisingly, about my third year there, it lost all meaning for me and I found myself despondent. I set off on a journey to Europe, traveling via the Siberian rail-road.

The journey took me eventually, to the city of Rome. What I remember most vividly is the fact that the city made me furious. Any building found on any alley leading off any major avenue had a story behind it, an anecdote connected to it, or some sort of meaning associated with it. It made it impossible to relax and simply take in the sights. The entire city was itself a sort of museum, and it made me sick to my stomach.

Human beings, whether young or old, have an innate desire to be understood; they build things they speak in order to make their presence known. In this sense my work might be considered the epitome of some gaudy attempt to attract attention. My thoughts that day as I explored the streets of Rome, however, were of a different sort. Phrased in terms of a reaction to the growing environmental crisis, I felt that screaming out for ecological solutions and volunteer work would not be nearly as effective as the complete disposal of all man made edifices, all cobbled-together explanations, and all the mountains of garbage. Or, to take it one step further, it seemed the best thing one could do for the sake of the earth would be to die on the spot.

Though they pour toxic waste into the rivers, humans will only pay attention to it the day the dead fish rise to the surface. I felt something akin to the desperation of that moment, and it promoted me to place myself in a Vanity Fair world where I made things that were anything but necessary. When I began to make clothing my single thought was to have women wear what was thought of as men's clothing. In those days Japanese women wore, as a matter of course, imported, feminine clothing, and I simply hate that fact.

After graduating university and finding myself without direction I casually suggested to my mother that I help her at the shop. She was furious. This reaction; only natural as she had expected me to leave the university and transition smoothly into a job at a fine company. She lectured me, insisting that if I was serious about the work I should at least learn how to cut cloth. I enrolled in a vocational school for dressmaking and, jostled on all sides by women acquiring the skill in order to improve their marriage prospects, I spent my days tediously pinning fabric while pondering the question of what constitutes a proper profession for a man.

I completed the course and began working at my mother's dressmaking shop. Elegant madams would come into the shop with magazine clippings, asking us to make them the outfits they saw there. Hourglass figures they had not, but I diligently took their measurements as I grumbled silently to myself about the impossibility of reproducing the magazine look. I hated it. Intensifying my annoyance was the fact that the shop was in the Kabukicho area of Shinjuku, a place overflowing with women whose job was to titillate male customers. They had shaped my image of womanhood since childhood, and I was therefore determined to at all costs avoid creating the cute doll-like women that some men so adore.

Suddenly the phone rang.
"Hello," said the voice on the line.
"Yes?"
"You didn't come into work yesterday."
"There wasn't anything in particular that had to be done, so I decided to rest."
"Was that it? Anyway, I've been thinking about you living in that hotel. Are you eating properly?"
"I am."
"Well, that's good to hear."
"And…"
"And what about your hair? Isn't it getting a little long? Maybe you should get it cut, get cleaned up."

Who in the world would be calling me this early in the morning? Of course, it was my mother.

Leave me alone mum would you?
And just let me say one thing okay?
Mom, do me a favor, leave me alone.
I've already survived twice as long as your husband did.

But, mum
There is one thing I want to say, okay?
Please, whatever you do, just don't leave me behind.
Don't leave me all alone.

I was just dead tired.

"Well, then I guess I'll be going," she said as she rolled up her flesh-colored stockings.

"Hey, just a minute! You mean you're going to just leave me here like this?"
"What else can I do? I've got to get to work."

I know, I know, I know.

Ah, in those days the seats on the Aeroflot flights made my ass hurt. And these days the ashtrays have disappeared from the seats in first class.
("My Dear Bomb" pg 29-32)

All men, essentially, feel the same way. Without exception they want to break free from the life they are living at the moment, somewhere find the right woman, and disappear with her. The simple fact of the matter is, however, that most men do not act on that desire.

A man born into this world will agonize over things for a time; he will ponder things for a while. Next his thoughts will turn over to the violent murder of his parents. though he may have a woman he loves, he will reject as absolutely absurd the idea of officially registering a marriage at city hall. The question, then, is "Why do men do precisely these things?" It is simply because they have made the simple choice to refrain from disappointing their families, even if it means they must repress their egos and powerful desires. They dedicate themselves to continual restraint, and for that reason their simple choice might also be called a foolish one.

As life goes on and one grows older, repeatedly there arise situations that one cannot handle according to the principles of life that one decided on in one's youth. In my case, those principles included the decision to leave the main thoroughfare and tread instead the side roads of life as well as to accept the unspoken agreement to leave others alone in exchange for being granted my own independence. I decided to live my life according to those principles, and I have always thought that I would do in life what needed to be done, and that would be it. I continue to believe those things today.

Life, however, confronts us with circumstances that we would never have expected. When I had passed the age of fifty the woman who had dedicated long years of her life to me suddenly called me to her and told me she was determined to have a child. "I see," I said.

She went on. " I am determined to have your child. I'm sure you'll be indecisive all your life, and that's just fine with me. But I want to have your child, so go to the hospital first of all, and have yourself checked." With this course of action, I assume, she meant to put the final touches on her life as a woman.

I had no grounds for objection, so I met individually with each and every other woman I had been seeing and carefully explained the situation. The circumstances being what they were, I said it would be best if we no longer saw each other. They all readily agreed, and our relationships were ended. I next went to the hospital she had designated, underwent the appropriate tests, and received official clearance. A few months later she conceived a child.

Once, in the dead of summer, I was invited to an event as the parent of that child. It was held deep in the mountains of Nagano prefecture at a weathered old hotel that had been rented as a base for a summer camp. Having finished the morning's classes, the raucous children came pouring out over the schoolyard lawn. About the seventh one out the door was my very own child. I felt my face brighten for I was seeing him for the first time in a while. He seemed to notice me. I thought he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, but then ran off with the other children, never to look back toward me again.

I don't know whether he ignored me out of embarrassment or anger. He was about four years old, and I watched from a distance of seventy or eighty meters as he struggled not to reveal his emotions in his face. I wondered if he realized that I was his father. If he did, and still feigned ignorance, it must mean that I felt paralyzed, as if some mysterious, powerful drug had been injected into my system.

There is a time when a child is so adorable that they compensate entirely for the worries and troubles that they will cause they're parents throughout their lives. I was determined to make my child happy. I wanted nothing more than to be sure my child never had to say "Where has my daddy gone?" I was overwhelmed by the power of this affection, uncontrollable and rooted in the most primal depths of the human condition.

Though the child had been conceived under duress, there was something of me within him. There inside him was me as I had been in my childhood.
(My Dear Bomb" pg 19-21)