Neil Steinberg flies to Japan and finds a country and culture conflicted over cuteness.

On 14 April 2016, a 6.2 magnitude earthquake hit Japan’s southernmost island of Kyushu, toppling buildings and sending residents rushing into the streets. Hundreds of aftershocks – one an even stronger 7.0 quake – continued for days, killing 49 people, injuring 1,500 and forcing tens of thousands from their homes. News spread immediately around the globe on social media. “Earthquake just happened,” Margie Tam posted from Hong Kong. “R u ok kumamon?” “Are Kumamon and his friends safe?” wondered Eric Tang, a college student. “Pray for Kumamoto & Kumamon,” wrote Ming Jang Lee from Thailand, a phrase that would be repeated thousands of times. Kumamoto is a city of 700,000 in a largely agricultural province in south-western Japan. But what, or more precisely who, is Kumamon? And why in the wake of an immense natural disaster did concern for earthquake victims focus on him, specifically? That’s a bit more complicated.

It is 12 March 2016, one month before the earthquake. Kumamon bounds onto an outdoor stage at the opening event of his birthday party in Kumamoto. About 150 guests – mostly women – cheer, clap and whistle.

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Kumamon waves and bows. He is about 1.5 metres tall, with black glossy fur, circular red cheeks and wide, staring eyes. He’s dressed for the occasion in a white satin dinner jacket trimmed in silver and a red bow tie. One woman in the crowd holds a Kumamon doll swaddled in a baby blanket. Another has dressed her doll in a grey outfit matching her own. She says it took her a month to sew. A number of fans have pasted red paper circles on their cheeks to mimic his. Those in the first row arrived at 3am to snag their prime spots to greet the object of their intense though difficult-to-explain affection. “Actually, I have no idea why I love him so much,” says Milkinikio Mew, who flew from Hong Kong with friends Lina Tong and Alsace Choi to attend the three-day-long festival, even though Hong Kong is holding its own birthday party for Kumamon. She slept in, showing up at 6am for the 10am kick-off, so had to settle for a seat in the last row. Kumamon is… well, he’s not exactly a cartoon character, though he does appear in a daily newspaper comic strip. He’s not a brand icon either, like Hello Kitty, though like her, he does not speak and, also like her, his image certainly moves merchandise. He’s not sexy, but when the Empress Michiko met Kumamon – at her request – during the imperial couple’s visit to Kumamoto in 2013, she asked him, “Are you single?” But what is Kumamon? Well, he’s sort of a… But first, the big moment is here. A birthday cake is rolled out, and the crowd sings ‘Happy Birthday’. Then presents. A representative from Honda, which has a motorbike factory nearby, gives him its Kumamon-themed scooter. An Italian bicycle maker unveils a custom Kumamon racing cycle. Plus a new exercise DVD, on which Kumamon leads the workout.

More than 100,000 products feature Kumamon’s image, from stickers and notebooks to cars and aeroplanes

The Italian bicycle is not for sale, yet. But the other two items are, joining the more than 100,000 products that feature Kumamon’s image, from stickers and notebooks to cars and aeroplanes (a budget Japanese airline flies a Kumamon 737). When Steiff offered 1,500 special edition Kumamon plush toys at $300 each, they sold out online in five seconds according to the German toymaker. Last year Leica created a $3,300 Kumamon camera, a bargain compared to the solid gold statue of Kumamon crafted by a Tokyo jeweller, which retails for $1 million. So what is he then? Kumamon is a yuru-kyara, or ‘loose character’, one of the cuddly creatures in Japan that represent everything from towns and cities to airports and prisons. The word is sometimes translated as ‘mascot’, but yuru-kyara are significantly different from mascots in the West, such as those associated with professional sports teams, which tend to be benign, prankish one-dimensional court jesters that operate in the narrow realm of the sidelines during game time. Kumamon has a far wider field of operation as the yuru-kyara for Kumamoto Prefecture (a prefecture is like a state in the USA or a county in England). He has become more than a symbol for that region, more than merely a strategy to push its tourism and farm products. He is almost regarded as a living entity, a kind of funky ursine household god (it is perhaps significant that the very first licensed Kumamon product was a full-sized Buddhist shrine emblazoned with his face). He hovers in a realm of fantasy like a character from children’s literature, a cross between the Cat in the Hat and a teddy bear. © Kumamoto Prefectural Government Kumamon has personality. “Cute and naughty,” Tam explains, later, when I ask what about Kumamon made her care about him enough to be concerned immediately after the earthquake. She wasn’t alone. After the April quake, Kumamon’s Twitter feed, which has nearly half a million followers and is typically updated at least three times a day, stopped issuing communications. With a thousand buildings damaged, water to the city cut, a hospital jarred off its foundations, and 44,000 people out of their homes, the prefectural government, which handles Kumamon’s business dealings and appearances, had more important things to do than stage-manage its fictive bear. But Kumamon was missed. “People are asking why Kumamon’s Twitter account has gone silent when the prefecture needs its mascot bear more than ever,” the Japan Times noted on its Facebook page on 19 April. Into the vacuum came hundreds, then thousands of drawings, posted by everyone from children to professional manga artists, not only from Japan, but from Thailand, Hong Kong, China. They waged an impromptu campaign of drumming up support for earthquake relief using the bear, which stood in for the city itself and its people. Kumamon was depicted leading the rescue efforts, his head bandaged, lifting stones to rebuild the tumbled walls of Kumamoto Castle, propping up tottering foundations, enfolding children in his arms. “Ganbatte Kumamon!” many wrote, using a term that means something between ‘don’t give up’ and ‘do your best’. What is happening here? Kumamon is kawaii – the word is translated as ‘cute’, but it has broad, multi-layered meanings, covering a range of sweetly alluring images and behaviours. Not only does kawaii encompass the army of Japanese mascots, but a world of fashion that has adult women dressing as schoolgirls and schoolgirls dressing as goth heroines or Lolita seductresses, giving rise to ero-kawaii, or erotic kawaii, a mash-up of cute and sexy. We eagerly spend fortunes on cute avatars – Kumamon earned $1 billion in 2015, Hello Kitty four or five times that – without ever wondering: What is cute? What about it causes us to open our wallets and our hearts? Is appreciation for cuteness hardwired in human beings? What does it say about our society? Is what it says good or, possibly, could cuteness harbour darker facets as well? These are questions being mulled over by a potential new academic field, ‘cute studies’. And where do our concepts of cuteness originate? That one is easy. The primal source of all things cute is found in every country, in every city and town, every neighbourhood and close to every block in the world. You may have the template for all the cuteness in the world right in the next room and not even realise it.

Soma Fugaki’s dark eyes sparkle as he scans the opening night crowd at Blossom Blast, a feminist art show at the UltraSuperNew Gallery in Tokyo’s hip Harajuku district. Drinks are poured, music pulses. But Soma doesn’t dance or even stand. He’s a baby. Just five months old, Soma squirms in the arms of his father, Keigo, who gazes lovingly into his son’s face. “Everything about him is a reflection of myself,” Keigo says, “a cartoon version… That has to do with how much I think he’s cute. I stare at him all the time. He looks like me. It’s my features, but exaggerated: bigger cheeks, bigger eyes.” © Julia Pott Babies are our model for cuteness. Those last two details – big cheeks, big eyes – are straight out of Konrad Lorenz’s Kindchenschema, or ‘baby schema’, as defined in the Nobel Prize-winning scientist’s 1943 paper on the ‘innate releasing mechanisms’ that prompt affection and nurture in human beings: fat cheeks, large eyes set low on the face, a high forehead, a small nose and jaw, and stubby arms and legs that move in a clumsy fashion. And it doesn’t just apply to humans: puppies, baby ducks and other young animals are covered by Lorenz’s theory. Lorenz’s paper is the ur-document of cute studies, but did not produce an immediate reaction among the scientific community. He was a Nazi psychologist writing during wartime, exploring their loathsome eugenic theories – a reminder that the shiny face of cuteness invariably conceals a thornier side. For decades, scientists focused on what babies perceive, what they think. But in the 21st century, attention turned to how babies themselves are perceived, as cuteness started taking its first wobbly steps toward becoming a cohesive realm of research. Seeing cute creatures stimulates the brain’s pleasure centre Experiments have demonstrated that viewing cute faces improves concentration and hones fine motor skills – useful modifications for handling an infant. A pair of Yale studies suggest that when people say they want to ‘eat up’ babies, it’s prompted by overwhelming emotions – caused, one researcher has speculated, by frustration at not being able to care for the cute thing, channelled into aggressiveness. These emotions are triggered chemically, deep within the brain. Experiments hooking up volunteers to magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scanners have shown how seeing cute creatures stimulates the brain’s pleasure centre, the nucleus accumbens, causing a release of dopamine, in a way similar to what happens when eating chocolate or having sex. Women appear to feel this reaction more strongly than men. While biologically this is explained by the need to care for infants, society’s larger embrace of cuteness has led academics in gender studies to wonder whether cute culture is the sugar pill that sexism comes in – training women to be childlike – or whether it could instead be a form of empowerment in which young women take control of their own sexuality. More recent experiments have tried to separate cuteness from its biological roots to see if there are general aesthetic standards that can make an inanimate object ‘cute’. In a study at the University of Michigan in 2012, visual information expert Sookyung Cho asked subjects “to design a cute rectangle by adjusting the size, proportion, roundness, rotation, and color of the figure”. What she found supported the idea that “smallness, roundness, tiltedness, and lightness of color can serve as determinants of perceived cuteness in artifact design”. It mattered, she found, whether the person designing the rectangle was in the USA or South Korea. Cuteness is nothing if not culturally specific, and that itself has become a rich focus of inquiry.