Nureki Chimuo Archive

In 1940, I was in the fifth grade of elementary school. I was ten years old. At that time, my family lived in Asakusa Ryusenji-cho. We lived in an old two-story wooden house, my parents, my younger brother and sister, and myself. Five of us in all. Though poor, there was first and foremost a peaceful atmosphere of family. I was given a cramped three-mat room on the second floor of the north side of the house, where sunlight never reached. Or rather, because I liked that dim, damp little room, I had taken it over for myself. I pasted two pictures cut from a boy’s magazine onto the ceiling panels of the room and gazed at them every night. In the evening, I took the futon out of the closet and spread it out on the tatami mat to sleep. When I lie on my back, those two pictures on the ceiling come directly into my line of sight. One depicts a handsome young man in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, bound behind his back with thick rope and tethered to a large tree. The other depicts a handsome youth with bangs, clad in kendo practice gear, opening the front of his sashiko-stitched uniform, exposing his undergarment, and preparing to thrust a dagger held in reverse grip into his abdomen. His abdomen exposed, he is clearly wearing a hakama16 . A hakama is a pair of pleated pants, often worn in formal attire or martial arts garments

Both illustrations are from novels in boy’s magazines. One novel was a popular adventure-themed boy’s novel of the time, while the other was a period piece centered on themes of loyalty and patriotism. It was an era when war with China had become a quagmire, and the threat of war with America was looming on the horizon. Monthly magazines for boys and girls published at the time also strongly reflected the militaristic era. We were called “Young Citizens,” and we sensed the atmosphere of being unwillingly recruited into the war organization. Even elementary school students underwent bayonet training. This involved attaching a short sword to the tip of a rifle and practicing stabbing enemy soldiers with it. A ten-year old boy couldn’t handle a real gun because it was too heavy. So he was given a wooden training weapon modeled after a gun fitted with a dagger. He was taught the “stance” and “thrust” to kill enemy soldiers with it. I was made to wear special armor that completely covered my left shoulder for training, but the middle-aged male instructor shoved my chin so hard I flipped over and slammed my head hard into the floor, giving me a concussion. It was a terrifying memory. My fear and hatred of militarism began with that concussion. Bayonet training remains a dreadful memory, yet the two pictures I pinned dead center on the ceiling and gazed at nightly while laying on my back linger as sweet, vivid recollections. I even recall their exact designs. Though over 60 years have passed, this memory remains as vivid as yesterday. Precisely because it is so vivid, I now feel compelled to write about that strange fluttering in my chest back then. I clearly remember that one of the two pictures, the one depicting a passionate adventure novel, was by the artist Kashou Takabatake17 . I did a great deal of research, and if this is not the exact image, it is very close.

I don’t quite remember the name of the other artist, the one depicting the young swordsman on the verge of seppuku18 . But he was a beautiful, “sensual” young warrior, no less striking than Kashou Takabatake. (Or, perhaps, it was one of Kashou’s paintings as well.) Lying on my back in a dim, gloomy, three-mat room where the sun never shines all day, gazing at the two pictures, a sweet, poignant, strangely helpless feeling slowly filled my entire body, bringing a dizzying pleasure. Though I hadn’t yet reached the age to clearly recognize it as sexual pleasure, it was unmistakably pleasure. Seppuku is the Japanese ritual suicide where someone disembowls themselves with a sword.

The two images entered my field of vision simultaneously, sometimes overlapping. As I gazed at them, a sweet tingling sensation spread through the back of my head, and I felt my body gradually sinking into the futon. The fact that a ten-year old boy went to the trouble of cutting them out of a magazine and putting them on the ceiling suggests he must have felt a particular fascination for those two pictures. There was something so compelling that it stirred an obsession within me, a desire to gaze at it while lying down, to keep watching until I fell asleep. At times, the blood in my body would grow hot, and my hands and feet would feel warm. I didn’t know yet that this warmth in my body was related to sexual desire. Was I erect at that moment? Was I erect or not? It’s important, yet I don’t remember. Since I don’t remember, I must not have been erect. If he had an erection, the boy naturally would have started masturbating. At that time, I didn’t even know masturbation existed in the world. The boy, bound with his hands behind his back, tethered to a tree, was beautiful. His head was shaved bald, as is customary. After all, the protagonist is “military youth.” Yet even with his shaved head, he is by no means fierce. He is “handsome and well-featured.” His cheeks are full, almost seductively so. And the lines of his entire body are gentle. He is full-bodied, yet flexible like a woman. If he had long hair instead of a shaved head, it would be the body of a girl. He wears a short-sleeved shirt. The collar is slightly torn. The boy’s bare skin peeking through the torn shirt looks alluring. Soft lines that seem to glow. However, I remember almost nothing about the story in the novel. But I do recall it was a tale of a courageous boy who achieved great feats for his country. The one bound is undoubtedly a boy, yet he could be mistaken for a girl whose breasts haven't yet swollen. It doesn’t matter either way. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. You can see the painter’s intention; just look at it however you like. As a boy, I didn’t understand the word “perversion.”

The young swordsman, moments away from being disemboweled, stood in a crouching stance, as if something were supporting him from behind. He spread open the front of his sashiko-stiched kendo uniform, untied the hakama sash to expose his lower abdomen, and stroked that white belly with his left hand. The scene is of him about to thrust the tip of the dagger held in his right hand, gripped in reverse, into his abdomen right at this moment. The gentle, beautiful lines of his abdomen are the very embodiment of a young woman’s smooth, taut flesh. The resolute expression on the young swordsman’s face, his bangs standing up as he faces death, brims with tragic beauty filled with tension. A rapturous aura hovers over this youth, no longer a boy nor quite a girl. It might have been a story where a beautiful girl dressed as a man, defeated in battle and cornered by an enemy army, took her own life. I’ve forgotten the novel’s plot. The wild, tangled strands of hair falling across her face held a fierce beauty, while the fingers of her left hand, caressing her own belly, possessed an almost sinister beauty. Whether a boy or a girl made no difference. Each night, my heart was stolen by that pairing, suffused with pathos and melancholy. On the right side, where two panels were affixed side by side on the ceiling, stood a modern-day boy in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, bound with his hands behind the back. On the left, a beautiful young swordsman in period attire, the collar of his kendo uniform spread wide, poised to thrust a dagger into his own belly. These two figures would sometimes shift eerily in my field of view, or overlap into one, drawing me into a captivating world of illusion. I repeat; I did not yet know the word “perversion,” but at ten years old, I was clearly drowning in the beauty found within it. Around this time, I was listening to a radio drama I still cannot forget. Back then, there was only one radio station: NHK. To be precise, it was an era when the name NHK didn’t even exist. Naturally, radio programs became increasingly focused on boosting morale, promoting bushido, and emphasizing military themes. The unforgettable radio drama was a period piece. In a desperate situation, a young samurai resolves himself to commit seppuku for the honor of his clan, just moments before the act.

The conversation between the boy and his mother left a lasting impression on me, and it still lingers in the back of my mind. The brave mother said to the young samurai who had resolved to die, “Before you leave this world, I’ve prepared your favorite food. Eat this first, then take your leave.” Then, the boy replied, “Mother, though I appreciate your kindness, I must decline. They say if you eat before committing seppuku, it makes for a messy sight.” This line sent a shock through me at the age of ten. It felt like electricity coursing through my body. After eating something, if you cut open your stomach, the food spills out from inside… What a terrifyingly realistic image. “Musai” is a word that isn’t used much anymore, but it means “shabby” or “tacky.” I imagined that scene. And my fantasy trembled with excitement. In my fantasy, the young warrior boy transformed into a young beautiful woman, disguised in dashing clothing. The excitement I felt then remains unforgettable to this day. Because I can’t forget it, I am writing it down like this. Auditory delusions spread endlessly. Memories persist. Perhaps the reason I made several seppuku videos featuring massive amounts of entrails at Kinbiken was also due to the sweet aftereffects of my youth. I went to a nearby field, made sure no one was around, picked up a sharp stick, crouched down in the grass, and said aloud, “If I cut my stomach now, something ugly will come out.” I said it with inflection, like a young warrior in a radio drama. Then I thrust the tip of the stick into my stomach and fell face-down in the grass. I became a corpse, spending several minutes in the thick summer grass. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever playing with the neighborhood kids. I disliked playing in groups. In the empty field, I enjoyed indulging in all sorts of fantasies. No, I didn’t go out much. I shut myself away in the three-mat room at the end of the second floor, secretly pulling books from my father’s bookshelf that my parents told me “you mustn’t read,” and lost myself in them. I read Edogawa Ranpo, Yumeno Kyuusaku, Ooshita Udaru, Koga

Saburo, Unno Juzo, and Tanizaki Jun’ichiro over and over. My father was also an avid reader of Shin Seinen19 . 45 years later, Heibonsha’s Bessatu Taiyo published an art book of “Kashou Takabatake.” It was titled “Illusions of Beautiful Boys and Girls” within the Picture Book Masterpiece series. Of course, I bought it immediately. The world of Kasho has been resplendently revived. Two sketches are casually printed on an inconspicuous page within. I stared in amazement. Two sketches of nude women were displayed side by side. A strand of rope lies across the breasts of a voluptuous naked woman seated with one knee raised. Upon closer inspection, the rope is revealed to be the woman’s own long hair. The other nude woman sits with her knees spread wide apart, her back and butt facing us. This too is a voluptuous body. Clearly on her back is a visible handprint. It is the handprint of a man’s open-handed slap. Had this handprint been positioned just a little lower, it would have clearly indicated a situation where a man had forcefully slapped a woman’s ass. In this era, paintings showing traces of a bare woman’s back being slapped with an open hand were permitted, but spanking the buttocks was likely forbidden. There’s an unmistakable eroticism to a woman’s buttocks. The two sketches are intriguing, offering a glimpse into Kasho’s inclinations. Many publications have used this title. This is in reference to a publication that ran from 1920 to 1950, publishing literary and modernist works.