Nureki Chimuo Archive

2008.8.12 濡木痴夢男のおしゃべり芝居 第五十一回 Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater Chapter 51 モデルの心にある「何か」 That “something” in the model’s heart I was commissioned by a certain magazine to write a short piece titled “The Unforgettable Models of Nureki Chimuo.” The allotted space was two pages. I carelessly wrote “two pages,” but nowadays we don’t refer to manuscript length in terms of pages. “Number of pages” refers to the number of manuscript sheets. I know it’s laughable to mention this now, but since publishers today edit on computers, they don’t say “number of sheets” anymore. They say “number of characters.” “Please keep it to 800 characters.” That’s how they ask. When given such precise word count instructions, I momentarily fall into the illusion that I must carve out each word, and it makes me uneasy. The term “number of pages” carries a warm, traditional resonance, that of writing a manuscript by hand, in a relaxed mood. I sense a kind of expansiveness in it. Even today, the editorial departments of distinguished, long-established publishing houses still request manuscripts using the term “number of pages.” “Please aim for around fifty pages. It’s okay if it runs a bit longer.” They leave room for flexibility. This allows the writer to compose freely. “Please write 800 characters.” When told something like that, the image of some mechanical, flavorless string of characters flashes through my mind.

Lately, even I respond smoothly, “800 characters? Yes, understood. I’ll write 800 characters then.” When in doubt, go with the flow. Or rather, I’m simply used to writing short manuscripts that fit neatly into small boxes. During the heyday of “SM magazines,” how many short pieces did I write for various publications under multiple pen names? I’ll skip the details here to keep this brief, but essentially, they were meticulous accounts of the various preferences, inclinations and fantasies, both read and fantasy, that fall under the umbrella of SM. Unlike today, the content in those SM magazines back then was finely textured. The finer the detail, the larger the readership. Today’s SM magazines focus solely on flashy, sensational content, resulting in a coarser texture. SM preferences are inherently held by individuals with finely textured, highly attuned sensibilities. It is only natural that readers drift away from publications whose pages have grown coarse. I wrote extensively and in minute detail about the preferences, inclinations, and secret quirks of various factions of enthusiasts, presenting them as reader confessions within small, limited-word-count and line-count spaces. The sheer variety of fetishistic obsessions and the delicacy of their sensibilities fascinated me beyond measure. I believed enthusiasts were the most human of all humans. I recorded my writing situation during this period in my “work memos.” I recently deposited those records at the Sex Industry Museum. Those interested are welcome to take a look. Now, back to the topic at hand. I was asked to write “The Unforgettable Models of Nureki Chimou” in 800 characters. I agreed readily and wrote about a girl named Naomi Sugishita, but in the end, it ended up being three and a half pages.

That means it exceeded a thousand characters. Since cutting it down was a hassle, I just handed it to R-san and had her send it via computer. Here’s what I wrote about Naomi Sugishita. After the shoot ended, when we went out to eat with the photographer and staff, Naomi Sugishita would curl up in a corner of the restaurant, cover her face with both hands, and cry. She said that when a fun day of shooting ended and she thought she’d be free from the restraints for a while, she felt lonely and tears came to her eyes. Her thin, long limbs curled up small, hugging her knees, her back hunched as she cried. To other diners, it must have looked quite strange. “Stop it, you’re making a fool of yourself,” I told her. “No matter how much you cry, the shoot is over. We can’t spend all night entertaining you. Tomorrow brings tomorrow’s work.” But she wept like a child, her eyelids red. And though she must have been hungry, she ate nothing. I packed that story into a thousand characters, but now I’ll write what happened next. After leaving the restaurant, the staff dispersed there. Since it was late, Naomi was to be driven home by the photographer’s car. I rode along in that car too. At the time, I lived near Yutenji Station on the Tokyo Line, while Naomi lived with her parents in Sangenjaya. So, we planned to drop Naomi off near her home first, then have the driver take me to my place. After dropping off Naomi and me, the photographer would drive to a certain station on the Keio Line before heading home. Once you leave the bustling district of Sangenjaya and enter the residential area, the streets suddenly narrow and grow dark.

Setagaya Ward’s backstreets are lined with old wooden houses, and many of the roads are oddly winding. “There’s a shortcut. I’ll tell you the way, so just drive straight ahead,” Naomi said, settling into the seat next to F-san, the photographer, who was holding the steering wheel. It was nearly 11PM, with no people around, and the road grew even narrower and darker, so F-san drove cautiously at a slow pace. “Oh, wrong turn. We were supposed to turn left at the next street. I’ve never been through here before. This road looks completely unfamiliar.” “Hey, hey, pay attention. We should be near your place by now. Isn’t there some kind of landmark?” F-kun’s voice already sounded anxious. He’d already taken Naomi’s bondage photos over a dozen times and knew her personality pretty well. “It’s too dark to see properly. Ah, there! This time, right, if we turn right, we’ll definitely come out somewhere familiar.” Even after turning right, the road led deeper into an increasingly dark area densely packed with houses. I had absolutely no sense of direction anymore. “Ah, I guess that was wrong after all. We ended up in another weird place.” Saying this, Naomi chuckled softly. “Hey, I’m counting on you, Naomi. “I’m sorry, F-kun. I can’t do this. I’m really confused. I just don’t know anymore.” “Hey, hey, pull yourself together. Let’s get out to somewhere brighter for now,” I called out feeling anxious. “But getting lost is kind of fun, isn’t it? I absolutely love being lost. Let’s just stay lost like this, the three of us forever.” And then, Naomi laughed again. Within that dark laughter lay something more than a joke. For just an instant, I felt a chill run down my spine.

What actually happened after we got lost on that night road? To be honest, I don’t remember. We didn’t cause any accidents, and I don’t recall bothering anyone, so although it took a while, the car must have made it close to Naomi’s house. Naomi Sugishita isn’t the only woman carrying something heavy and deep inside her heart. Being bound, unable to move your limbs, or being inflicted with pain, and then saying “it feels good,” that really isn’t normal. The women who came to Kinbiken back then, seeking temporary solace and pleasure, each carried “something” within their hearts. That “something,” I feel, was fundamentally the same for all of them. It might be something like the “karma” everyone carries in life, simply for being human. Those who possess this sensibility are likely the ones who absorb it particularly keenly, deep within their minds and bodies. Most photographers see the bound woman as unusual and try to capture only that unusual “form.” Without noticing the loneliness, desolation, and anxiety lurking deep within that abnormal form, they simply try to photograph it in various altered shapes. No matter how skillfully one employs technique to capture only the “form,” the surface alone, it can never become a work of art. It cannot move the heart of the viewer. Women who enjoy being bound carry a correspondingly “something” deep within their hearts, or bear it heavily upon their backs. Unless that “something” is expressed through the camera, it cannot become “bondage photography” that stirs the soul of the viewer. No matter how many angles are used to photograph only the form, it cannot become true bondage photography.