justgambie:

(via filteringtheworld)

Happy Victims

happy-victims:

The original title of the series Kidaore Hojoki plays upon a seminal classic of medieval Japanese literature, poet Kamo no Chomei’s Hojoki—sometimes rendered as The Ten-Foot Square Hut. Written around the turn of Heian Period (794-1185) into the Kamakura Period (1185-1333) when the country was in turmoil, the poet found refuge in a tiny hut within which he was able to find a vast spiritual cosmos. Now eight centuries later, I documented a new breed of poetic spirit equally and unabashedly able enjoy vast collections of designer brand clothes they cram inside their tiny living quarters.

There are lots of people in this world obsessed with food, obsessed with sex, and yes, shop-til-you-drop obsessed with clothes. These happy fashion victims love clothes so much that they’ve trimmed the three necessities of human life—food, clothing and shelter—down to just one, and then not just any clothes, but a particular brand that they collect at the expense of all else. Most especially foregoing living space, which is probably the most expensive thing there is in Japan.

No, these Happy Victims aren’t rich; they’re decidedly on the poor side. It would hardly surprise us if they had lots of money and bought lots of clothes, but that would hardly amount to an obsession. Or if they lived in big houses with plenty of storage space, we’d never know how much they collect. But because they live in such small places, we can see exactly what they wear, what they eat, what books they read and music they listen to. Everything is out in plain view.

Every day I’d seek out fashion fanatics, visit their apartments, have them show everything they own—be it megabrands like Hermès, Gucci or Chanel, or cutting edge chic like Alexander McQueen or Comme des Garçons—then I’d have them step into the picture and tell me their stories. A man living in a run-down hole-in-the-wall who owned a 550,000 yen Hermès briefcase, a secretary surviving on instant noodles who buys a dress costing close to a million yen, I met all types. People often ask me how I found all these people. Well, I generally just asked around, did anyone know some friend of a friend who fit the bill?

I had no idea until I started this project, but the brands themselves are typically uncooperative. Or rather, they can be downright negative, complaining bitterly or worst of all even sending me formal letters of protest. Here I was thinking they’d be so happy I was making them advertising pages for free, but they were not amused; from their perspective this was “not their image.”

In the fashion magazines that crowd the racks of bookstores and corner shops, beautiful models live beautiful lives wearing beautiful clothes in beautiful homes. Whereas my Happy Victims are neither strikingly attractive nor occupy handsomely appointed dwellings. And yet in all of Japan, they’re the ones who buy those brands most, not models.

As a rule, those who make and sell products are especially appreciative of their customers. I know I’m happy when I publish a book and some magazine or newspaper reviews it favorably, but I’m even more happy when I see someone actually buying one of my books in a bookstore. The same thing goes for fishermen and farmers. Not so in the fashion industry, apparently. They’re embarrassed by the kind of people who buy their clothes, they look down on their customers, they’d rather uphold their own concocted fantasy worlds. The more I pursued my reportage work, the stranger that whole business looked to me.

Many otherwise right-minded people in this country comment that “In Europe, only a certain class of people buy luxury brands, young kinds don’t go wearing expensive apparel beyond their means.” Well, if that’s the case, this book fairly defines the objects of their ridicule: “Young Japanese who buy tons of expensive clothes while living nowhere near up to class.”  
 
People like to sneer at high school girls who sell themselves to get money to buy Chanel goods or housewives who stuff Louis Vuitton handbags into the baskets of their mama-and-baby bicycles when they go food shopping. And yet the very same folks think nothing of the poor scholar who keeps buying and buying more books than anyone could possibly read in a lifetime, piling up so many volumes that floor starts to tilt. They don’t laugh at DJ wannabes who scrimp and eat only convenience store snack foods while they buy stack upon stack of records. Only the objects of their passion differ, not the depth or intensity. Can such a hierarchy really exist in the world of collecting?

People find my photos of fashion victims interesting because such top-of-the-line items coexist with their less-than-fabulous everyday lifestyles, all very matter-of-factly. To see top people surrounded top goods by might make people jealous, while the lowest of the low scraping the very bottom of the barrel is merely painful to look at. But when things mix that normally don’t go belong together, now that’s the stuff of excitement and inspiration.

These Happy Victims unilaterally dedicate their lives to the brands they love despite getting no kudos from the sellers. But they’re magic to my eyes, they radiate positive vibes that transcend all reason.