Oshare Nippon

1.  An Intro

2. The Digital Fashion Takeover

3. Japanese Fashion and Society Glossary

From the Post-War to the ‘80s

4. Post-War Japan and the "Dressmaking" Craze

5. How Ivy Fashion Shaped Oshare Culture

6. A Visual Experience (Part 1)

7. A Visual Experience (Part 2)

8. The Tie That Binds

9. The Models That Started It All

10.  How US Counterculture Changed Japanese Fashion (Part 1) 

11. How US Counterculture Changed Japanese Fashion (Part 2)

12. College Girls' Domination

13. JJ and the Rise of the Akamoji-kei

14. Popeye's Revolution (Part 1)

15. Popeye's Revolution (Part 2)

16. ′70s Japan Trend Through the Music Charts (Part 1)

17. ′70s Japan Trend Through the Music Charts (Part 2)

18. ′70s Japan Trends Through the Music Charts (Part 3)

19. ′70s Japan Trend Through the Music Charts (Part 4)

20. ‘70s Harajuku (Part 1)

21. ‘70s Harajuku (Part 2) 

22. Shoujo Manga’s Golden Decade (Part 1)

23. Shoujo Manga’s Golden Decade (Part 2)

From provincial girl to cultural phenomenon, how modernity, scandal, and mass culture turned Sumako Matsui into Japan’s first modern superstar.

The Roots of Japanese Pop Culture (1)

In 1868, the Meiji Restoration transformed Japan, restoring power to the emperor, dismantling feudalism, and opening the country to the modern world. Among its many social changes was the gradual lifting of a centuries-old ban on female stage performers, allowing women to slowly return to public performance after more than two hundred years of exclusion. One of the first superstar actresses, Sumako Matsui, would be born two decades later, in 1886, in the countryside of Nagano Prefecture, the youngest of nine children in a former samurai family.

At fifteen, Matsui—then still known by her birth name, Masako Kobayashi—left her quiet village behind and, with the encouragement of her sister, moved to Tokyo. Her sister had married into the family that ran Fugetsudō, the legendary Western-style confectionery in Tokyo’s affluent Azabu district. Already a fixture of elite urban life, the shop was renowned for its refined Western-inspired sweets and remains open and popular to this day.

Determined to transform a strong-willed, unpolished country girl into a proper Tokyo young lady, her sister and brother-in-law enrolled Matsui in a sewing school. Sewing was considered appropriately feminine, delicate, and respectable. And even though she learned the skill, she never truly took to it. The role of a demure young woman simply did not suit her.

What is striking is that, despite being neither conventionally feminine nor traditionally beautiful, Matsui was immensely popular. Customers at Fugetsudō courted her relentlessly. She ignored them all and, though she occasionally helped out as a salesgirl, she was not especially good at it. Instead, she preferred to observe her brother-in-law, a master salesman who could charm anyone. Watching him, she began to imitate his gestures, his tone, and his timing. Without realizing it, Sumako Matsui was already fascinated with the art of performance.

After saying no to many, Matsui finally married a frequent patron at the sweets shop, a man chosen by her family that ran an inn in the countryside. And although she tried her best to fit into the gentle wife role, her husband, and especially her mother-in-law, were not convinced. When she contracted tuberculosis, they used the excuse of her frail health as a reason for a divorce. After barely a year of marriage, she was single once again.

She was devastated and humiliated. But she would not remain single for long. While waiting in a hospital, seeking treatment for her illness, she met her second husband, Seisuke Maizawa, a fellow native of her hometown and a professor of geography and history. When he later became a lecturer at the Tokyo Actors’ Training School, he grew involved with the theater world and introduced her to it. And she fell in love with it.

A S&M Love Affair

Japan had long sustained a vibrant theatrical tradition. One consequence of the Meiji era’s opening was the rise of Western-influenced theater, which began attracting the interest of intellectuals and reformers. Maizawa was among those drawn to it. Through his position at the all-male Training School, he studied Western plays and built connections with actors and directors. Through him, Matsui caught a glimpse of that new world. She became captivated and decided to pursue acting, a dream her husband fully supported. He arranged introductions to help her on her path, and he knew exactly where she needed to be to achieve her ambition: the Bungei Kyōkai.

Bungei Kyōkai, or the Literary Arts Society, was a prestigious acting school affiliated with what would later become Waseda University. It was founded by Tsubouchi Shōyō, a renowned author who secured his place in modern Japanese literature in 1885 with an influential book titled The Essence of the Novel. In that study, he urged writers to explore the complexity of human emotion, becoming a key figure in the rise of realism in Japan. He later translated the complete works of Shakespeare into Japanese, which became another central achievement in his career.

When establishing his school, Tsubouchi aimed to elevate Japan’s cultural standards. More than an acting academy, Bungei Kyōkai offered a rigorous curriculum on the history and theory of drama. At a time when coeducational classes were rare, he defied convention by admitting women. To preserve propriety, strict rules forbade socializing between male and female students outside the classroom.

Maizawa, Matsui's husband, knew a few officials at the school and arranged for them to evaluate his wife’s potential. The profession demanded exceptional beauty and refinement, so officials were stunned when they met Masako. She represented the opposite of the ideal. She spoke with a thick rural accent, her movements were awkward, she had no sense of style, and her features were considered large and plain. Instead of a refined young lady, she looked like a country bumpkin.

Her flat nose was a particular concern. Because high nasal bridges are viewed in Japan as Western and therefore rare and desirable, Masako’s features were not just considered unattractive. They were seen as a liability for anyone meant to portray foreign women onstage. Determined to address the issue, she took a drastic step: plastic surgery, still uncommon and rudimentary at the time. It was painful and left lasting consequences. The paraffin injected into her nose caused the sides to turn violet in cold weather. Even so, Masako emerged with the profile she wanted, just in time for her Bungei Kyōkai audition.

At the audition, her sturdy build unexpectedly worked in her favor. Tsubouchi wasn’t impressed by her looks or her speech, but her proportions were considered ideal for Western roles. She was admitted to the school and finally adopted the stage name Sumako Matsui.

As expected, her lack of formal education became an immediate obstacle, and her total unfamiliarity with English, in a school where students were required to study numerous English scripts, nearly led to her expulsion. A tearful appeal, an intervention from her husband, and a promise to work hard ultimately preserved her place.

Matsui never mastered English, but her determination earned her the respect of classmates and teachers. She studied relentlessly, and her commitment to her craft soon eclipsed any interest in her marriage. Household responsibilities faded into the background. This brings us back to a familiar cultural framework for discussing certain Japanese relationships: the S and M dynamic.

As noted earlier, in Japan, the S&M framework is not limited to sexuality. It can describe power dynamics in relationships and even personality types. The toxic relationship between Matsui and Maizawa reflected this to a degree. Maizawa often joked to colleagues that his wife had once thrown hot soup at him or attacked him with a lit gas lamp. He remained devoted regardless and did everything he could to support her dream, even moving into a cramped apartment near her school for her convenience. He was a masochist. Despite his devotion and endurance, Matsui, the sadist, ended the marriage. After a fight, she threw his belongings from their second-floor window onto the street, and that was the end of it.

This dynamic helped shape her enduring image as cold, selfish and even villainous. But Maizawa ultimately became little more than a footnote in her story. In Japanese literature and cultural memory, the figure most often portrayed as the true victim of her cruelty, and the one who dominates her legend, is her next romantic partner, Shimamura Hōgetsu.

A Legend Emerges

Shimamura Hōgetsu’s life could have been the plot of a tragic novel. He lost his mother when he was young, and a few years later his father died drunk when their house caught fire. He was then adopted by a man who recognized his talent and supported his education. Thanks to this, he was able to leave the countryside and enroll at Tokyo’s prestigious Waseda University, where he would later become a professor. Beyond academia, he became an influential literary critic, translator, and author. He spent three and a half years in England and Germany, immersing himself in cultural life there and developing a deep fascination with European theater.

During all of this, an arranged marriage had bound him to a woman chosen by his adoptive father, a union he maintained out of duty and gratitude. After returning from his exciting European exchange, he struggled with the monotony of academic and family life. Seven children, deteriorating health, the loss of two of them, and mounting pressures darkened his mood. He began neglecting his work and withdrawing from daily responsibilities. Around this time, he devoted himself to translating Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, a play about a married woman who abandons her husband and children to discover her own identity. It is easy to imagine the story struck a personal chord.

Meanwhile, Matsui continued her studies at the Bungei Kyōkai. By her graduation year in 1911, she was one of only two women still in the troupe, and she made her public debut as Ophelia in her class’s production of Hamlet at the Imperial Theater. The play received lukewarm reviews, but her portrayal of Ophelia was widely praised. At a time when the exaggerated, all-male performance style of Kabuki still dominated the stage, her naturalistic acting felt groundbreaking.

After graduation, Matsui and her classmates became salaried members of the school’s troupe. The younger students, however, were growing restless with Tsubouchi’s old-fashioned repertoire, which consisted mostly of Shakespeare adaptations. In response, A Doll’s House was chosen as the troupe’s next project. Shimamura, who had translated the play, was asked to direct. He had never directed before, but he accepted, and Matsui was cast in the lead role.

At the same time, Japan was swept up in the “atarashii onna,” or “new woman,” controversy sparked by Hiratsuka Raichō. In Meiji-era Japan there was little space for women with radical ideas, yet Raichō was impossible to ignore. In 1911, the same year Matsui debuted in Hamlet and later starred in A Doll’s House, Raichō launched her influential feminist literary magazine Seitō.

Seitō, or Blue Stocking (a reference to the British feminist social movement), was created and run entirely by women to advance women’s rights. Over the years it provoked enormous controversy. In 1912, contributor Otake Kōkichi wrote a piece personifying alcohol as if she herself had consumed it, then published an account of visiting the Yoshiwara red-light district with her uncle and other Seitō members. These incidents, along with rumors of a romantic relationship between Kōkichi and Raichō, sparked a scandal. The “new women” began to be portrayed as promiscuous figures who drank, visited forbidden places, and even pursued same-sex love.

The contributors became targets of the Tokyo press. Their homes were vandalized, some lost their jobs, and the government made repeated attempts to censor the magazine.

But, in 1911, the “new woman” was still a cultural novelty. Japanese society was trying to understand who these bold women were and whether they represented progress or moral decline. Many women of the emerging middle class admired them. In later marketing terminology, 1911 would be remembered as the year of the “new woman boom,” a moment of intense media and public fascination with these rebellious young women.

Within this atmosphere, an adaptation of a Norwegian play in which the heroine rejects the “good wife, wise mother” ideal was bound to provoke discussion and was buoyed by the atarashii onna phenomenon. By the end of the play, Nora Helmer chooses herself over her husband and children. The choice was so radical that even many atarashii onna criticized it. In a special Seitō issue devoted to the play, Raichō described Nora’s actions as selfish.

While Nora, as a character, was polarizing, the production itself was not. It became a cultural phenomenon. Once again, Matsui’s natural acting style drew widespread praise and transformed her into a full-fledged star.

Controversy Proof

After the success of A Doll’s House, Matsui and Hōgetsu became partners both in work and in love. This was a bold move, considering that Bungei Kyōkai expressly forbade any socializing between male and female students outside of class. To make matters worse, Hōgetsu was married with children.

At least in the beginning, their success was too great for them to face any professional reprisal. Following A Doll’s House, Hōgetsu, now more confident as a director, chose Hermann Sudermann’s Die Heimat (also known as Magda) as the troupe’s next production. As expected, Matsui once again played the lead. Echoing the themes of A Doll’s House, the play caused a stir for its criticism of patriarchal society and traditional social norms. But unlike Ibsen’s heroine, Magda does not abandon her children. Instead, the play attacks the tyranny of family expectations, with Magda rebelling against her conservative father. Unlike Norah, a polarizing figure, Magda was extremely well received by the atarashii onna, who, from the pages of Seitō, championed a similar message.

The Ministry of Home Affairs, on the other hand, took issue with the play’s ending, in which Magda defies her father’s wishes and poses beside his corpse. Officials closed the theater and banned further performances. In response, Hōgetsu yielded to government pressure and added a final line in which Magda apologizes to her family.

The controversy only fueled interest. The production toured all across Japan with sold-out showings. What raised eyebrows within the troupe, however, was the sense that Hōgetsu and Matsui were treating the tour as their honeymoon.

As their relationship intensified, it became impossible to ignore. Both began to be ostracized for what the troupe considered undignified behavior. Shimamura was mocked for being romantically involved with a mere actress, someone considered beneath him in status, while Matsui was branded a promiscuous woman who would pursue a married man without shame. Eventually, the rumors became too loud for Tsubouchi, Bungei Kyōkai's leader, to overlook and, in 1913, he fired Matsui. Soon after, Shimamura resigned in a thirty-page letter “composed in blood and tears.”

Feeling betrayed, Tsubouchi dissolved the Bungei Kyōkai entirely and retreated into the safer world of Shakespeare research. Meanwhile, Matsui and Shimamura, along with other former members of the troupe, founded a new and more modern company called Geijutsuza. Free from the restrictive rules of their former school, Matsui’s fiery temperament grew even more pronounced. Still, her star power was indispensable for the troupe’s survival, creating an environment in which the other actors had little choice but to tolerate her.

As everywhere else, Japan loved a good scandal. While lover suicides and illicit affairs could ruin reputations in a rigid, shame-based society, they also generated enormous public fascination. The troupe became successful from the start, helped along not only by Matsui star power but also by endless gossip about her and the director. Their productions played to full houses, fueled as much by the rumor mill as by the plays themselves. But in 1914 they struck gold with a play that would elevate Matsui status from a successful actress to a social phenomenon

The Katyusha Phenomenon

In 1911, just as the Meiji era was coming to a close, the “atarashii onna” boom helped turn Hōgetsu and Matsui’s adaptation of A Doll’s House into a full-blown sensation. By the early years of the Taishō period, however, Japan had found a new cultural obsession: the works of the recently deceased Russian author Leo Tolstoy. Having learned from experience, Hōgetsu quickly realized it would be wise to ride this wave. So, in 1914, Geijutsuza opened its new production, an adaptation of Tolstoy’s Resurrection, with Matsui in the role of the Russian prostitute Katusha.

As expected, Resurrection became a huge phenomenon. A song performed by Matsui, “Katyusha no Uta,” with lyrics written by Hōgetsu, spread its reach even further. Although phonograms were still rare and extremely expensive, a recording of the song sold 20,000 copies, close to the total number of phonograms available in the country. It became Japan’s first true pop sensation. By September 1914, combined sales of records, sheet music, and songbooks had topped 140,000, a national record. Katyusha fever swept the country. Fans attended performances dressed in Russian peasant attire and wore the Katyusha hairstyle, Katyusha combs, and Katyusha headbands. The trend became so widespread that the Japanese word for “headband” remains katiusha to this day.

The record-breaking “Katyusha no Uta” is considered Japan’s first major pop hit. It helped popularize the word katyusha, now used in Japanese to mean “headband,” and turned Sumako Matsui into one of the country’s biggest stars. The version above preserves the Taishō-era romanticism of the original but is a modern re-recording, as Sumako’s original version is not widely available online.

Resurrection toured nationwide, performing 444 times over four years, and Matsui Sumako became a pervasive presence in Japanese society during the early Taishō years. Club Cosmetics and Lait, the two major engines of the cosmetics revolution at the time, used her image in their advertisements. Her autobiography, released at the height of Katyusha fever, became a massive bestseller, devoured by the modern girls of the era. Uno Chiyo, the celebrated novelist I wrote about earlier, idolized her and dreamt of becoming an actress before chasing literature.

Meanwhile, the Geijutsuza theater troupe was awash with money, starting constructions on a headquarter theater and a training school. Hogetsu, who was now experienced at commercial theater and giving the public what they wanted, also started including songs in all of the group’s plays. All these songs, performed by Matsui, went on to become huge sellers. They visited Russia and Manchuria and, to pay for their ambitious projects, had a grueling schedule of performances across the whole country, sometimes doing several plays simultaneously. But everything would come to a grinding halt in 1918.

A Tragic Closing Act

In 1918, the Great Influenza Epidemic ravaged the world, with over a third of the global population contracting it, a pandemic many believe to have been the deadliest in history. Even Matsui, known for almost never getting sick, was infected, though she was nursed back to health by her lover and, within a few weeks, was back on her feet. Shimamura, on the other hand, was not so lucky. In far frailer health, he did not survive the illness, dying in November of that year.

Matsui was devastated when she returned from rehearsal and found him dead in bed. Many of Shimamura’s friends blamed her, pointing out her selfishness and self-centeredness as the cause of his death. According to them, when he wanted to go to the hospital, she refused, fearing that his wife and children would take him away from her. Knowing that he had a weak heart, they argued that she had all but killed him.

Without Shimamura to shield her, Matsui suddenly found herself in the eye of the storm. She now had to confront the fact that no one liked her. Her fiery temperament, diva behavior, and reputation had earned her very few allies. Although she was appointed his successor as head of the troupe, almost no one respected her. Some claimed she tried to seduce a particularly capable staff member to bring him to her side, but an intervention by the actors prevented it, leaving her even more isolated.

In January 1919, two months after Shimamura’s death, she performed the starring role in the troupe’s adaptation of Carmen. After the performance, she returned to her room in Geijutsuza’s headquarters. She changed into her finest Ōshima silk kimono, layered a crested haori over it, tied a pale blue satin maru obi, put on her watch and rings, and carefully applied makeup. Then, went into the prop room, and hanged herself.

During her successful years, Matsui had been seen as a strong, confident figure admired by other women. Although she never identified herself as an atarashii onna, she was connected to the movement and contributed to Safuran, an art magazine for women founded by former Seitō contributor Kazue Tomimoto. In her most famous piece, she lamented the discrimination she faced in the theater world, where her opinions were often ignored by male colleagues. She frequently clashed with men, and in the weeks leading up to the debut of Resurrection, she quarreled with every man in the cast. Shimamura, forced to choose between them or her, fired them all. Her defiant, strong-willed disposition in a highly sexist country was seen by many as her defining strength.

After her death, however, her image became more nuanced. Shimamura’s influential male friends wrote about her in unflattering terms. In their accounts, she was selfish, cruel, egotistical, narcissistic. She was not a “new woman” but, in their view, a terrible human being.

Of course, being a strong, opinionated woman in early Taishō Japan made her an easy target. But to attribute her troubled reputation solely to sexism would be too simple. Accounts of her selfish, difficult, and diva-like behavior abound, from both men and women who shared the stage with her.

The influential writer and playwright Hasegawa Shigure devoted a chapter to Matsui in her seminal 1918 bestseller Bijinden, which chronicled the lives of influential and beautiful women of the Meiji and Taishō periods. Even while attempting to eulogize the legendary actress, Shigure recounts several absurd episodes and admits that it was difficult not to find her, at times, “detestable.”

Perhaps, after years of success, the greatest humiliation was reserved for her after her death. Her legacy was tarnished by countless recollections of her poor manners and abrasive personality, and her final wish—to be buried alongside Shimamura—was denied by his de facto wife.

Still, there were no hard feelings between Matsui and Mrs. Shimamura. When the widow and her children arrived at the room where his body lay to pay their respects, Matsui bowed and apologized for causing worry. The widow replied, “No, you’re not the one who is at fault. Once Shimamura left our house, I considered him a stranger. Whatever happened afterwards was no concern of mine.”

As Phyllis Birnbaum observes in her profile of Sumako Matsui, the often forgotten Mrs. Shimamura, reduced in films and memoirs to a nagging, plain, and forgettable wife, is in many ways the true victim of this story.

While Matsui and Shimamura lived turbulent, consequential lives, Mrs. Shimamura was left to endure humiliation, care for the household and children, and shoulder the aftermath long after both were gone. Matsui paid a price for her scandalous defiance in a patriarchal society, but she ultimately achieved fame, success, and lasting significance. Mrs. Shimamura’s story, by contrast, reflects a far more common fate. While her husband and his lover made history, she lived a life of quiet suffering and responsibility, carried alone and met with little sympathy or recognition. Perhaps that is the true tragedy.

Before idols and media empires, there was noh and kabuki: the deep roots of Japanese pop culture

Long before movie theaters, pop music and television made screens and technology feel inevitable, entertainment meant gathering in front of a stage. And in Japan, that stage laid the groundwork for the trillion-yen pop culture machine that would rise centuries later.

Japan’s theatrical history is one of the oldest and richest in the world. It begins with nogaku, the umbrella term for the two earliest surviving forms of Japanese theater: the lyric drama noh and the comic theater kyogen.

Noh is Japan’s oldest major theater tradition, a classical dance-drama performed since the 14th century. Drawing on literary tales that often feature supernatural beings taking human form, it relies on masks, stylized gestures, elaborate costumes, and minimal props. Emotion comes through codified movement rather than naturalistic acting, and the art is preserved through the iemoto system, a hereditary structure that governs training and transmits official technique.

In the 14th century, Noh was closely tied to the cultural world of the elite, especially the samurai class, and its performance style reflected that status. The iemoto model that shaped its transmission also appeared in other refined arts such as tea ceremony, ikebana (flower arrangement), and shodō (calligraphy). Noh’s pacing follows the principle of jo ha kyū, meaning “beginning, break, rapid,” a progression in which a performance starts slowly, builds gradually, and ends quickly. Variations of this rhythm appear throughout traditional Japanese culture, including martial arts and poetry.

An illustration depicting Izumo no Okuni, the shrine maiden who created kabuki theater.

Kyogen developed alongside Noh, catered to the same audiences, and was often presented between two Noh plays. Its format was very different, though, and Kyogen aimed above all to make people laugh. Even so, in its early history it remained a form of entertainment for the elite.

When kabuki emerged in the transition between the lively Sengoku and Edo periods, it marked a turning point in Japanese popular entertainment because it cut across social classes. Colorful, bold, and unabashedly theatrical, kabuki remains a major pillar of Japanese high culture today. Its all-male casts are iconic, performing both male roles (tachiyaku) and female roles (onnagata). Yet, in an interesting twist, the form was created and first popularized by women, and that early female-led boom is precisely what made kabuki so accessible to ordinary people.

The Kabuki Revolution

The historical success of the film Kokuho, the biggest pop culture phenomenon of 2025 and a box-office smash, proves the enduring power of kabuki within Japanese society.

In the early 1600s, a shrine maiden named Izumo no Okuni began performing on the dry riverbed of the Kamo River in Kyoto. Known for her beauty and talent in both singing and dancing, she drew crowds with her bold, playful style. Soon, she started recruiting women from the margins of society, mostly sex workers, teaching them to sing, dance, and act. Together, they created something entirely new: kabuki.

Okuni’s performances became a nationwide sensation. Brothels quickly adopted the style, using it to attract customers and showcase their workers. Kabuki, which blended dramatic performance with traditional dance, featured catchy, innovative music, flashy costumes, and drew audiences with stories that mirrored and commented on current events.

 In Edo (modern-day Tokyo), the shows were especially popular in the red-light district of Yoshiwara, where massive crowds gathered to watch. What made kabuki remarkable in the capital wasn’t just the spectacle on stage, but also its audience. For once, people from different social classes shared the same space, something incredibly rare in Edo. Aristocrats who spent their days secluded in their compounds in tea ceremonies, rituals, flower viewing and poetry gatherings mingled with merchants and townspeople, united by a common fascination.

In this feudal world, kabuki offered a glimpse of something new: a proto-capitalist Japan. The merchants, officially at the bottom of the social ladder, became the real stars offstage. They had no status, but they had money. And that made it possible for them to dress and flaunt the latest styles and trends, stealing the spotlight at those rare occasions where different social classes were together. Their flashy style often mirrored what performers wore on stage. More than theater, kabuki performances were a glimpse of Japan’s capitalistic future.

Meiji Consolidation

Kanjinchō, a piece of imperial-viewing kabuki performed by the great actors of the Meiji era—Ichikawa Danjūrō IX, Ichikawa Sadanji I, and Nakamura Fukusuke IV (image source).

The origin of the word kabuki has never been confirmed, but most scholars agree it comes from the archaic Japanese word kabuku, meaning “to lean” or “to slant.” In this context, it referred to acting in an eccentric way, and the term described a trend in Kyoto in which people, known as kabukimono, favored flashy clothing, unusual or striking appearances, and behavior that broke social norms. In other words, kabukimono were stylish, gaudy and also a bit of delinquents. And their style influenced the rise of this type of performance.

So while today kabuki is seen as a highly respected Japanese art form, recognized as an intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO, it was originally perceived, like most forms of mass entertainment, as somewhat vulgar. Not exactly surprising considering many early performers were prostitutes. 

After performances, women often offered sexual services to those who could afford them, and fights frequently broke out among young samurai. This prompted the shogunate to ban women from performing. After their removal, kabuki troupes turned to very young boys as performers.

Because pederasty (sexual relationships between adult men and adolescent boys) was pervasive and normalized among the samurai class at the time, the change did little to reduce kabuki’s popularity. Soon, however, the same problem resurfaced — samurai were now fighting over the boys. In 1651, new restrictions decreed that only actors older than fifteen could perform.

By the end of the 17th century, kabuki had already taken on most of its familiar characteristics: the onnagata and tachiyaku roles, and its strong emphasis on lineage, with renowned actors passing down their skills to their sons or, in some cases, adopted heirs. Acting families gradually became the guardians of the art form.

This lineage system preserved kabuki’s legitimacy and prestige as Japan entered the transformative Meiji era (1868–1912). With the fall of the Tokugawa shogunate, the abolition of the samurai class, and the restoration of imperial rule, Japan began its rapid transformation into a modern state. Amid these sweeping changes, the efforts of kabuki actors and playwrights to modernize the art form paid off: kabuki remained relevant and evolved into a lasting symbol of Japan’s traditional culture.

As the Meiji era began, the ban on female performers was no longer enforced. So while kabuki maintained its traditional “men only” rules, women slowly began returning to the stage in other forms of theater. Still, after more than two centuries of exclusion, it remained a rare and unconventional path.

It was in this atmosphere of change that one of Japan’s first female superstars, Sumako Matsui, burst onto the scene. Her impact on Japanese culture was immense: to feminists, she symbolized liberation and artistic freedom; to conservatives, she was a cautionary tale of a woman who was simply too ambitious; to showbiz, she was a force to be reckoned with.

During her short but dazzling career, Matsui shattered records and defied expectations. Yet her most curious legacy lives on in an unexpected place: the Japanese word for “headband.” Reading fashion magazines in Japan, I always found it amusing that the term katiusha sounds distinctly Russian, unlike most Japanese fashion loanwords that come from English. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that this odd little word traces its origins back to a pop culture phenomenon sparked by none other than Sumako Matsui herself — Japan’s ultimate Meiji-era diva.

To be continued….

How a Ginza pharmacy reimagined beauty, fashion, and the Modern Girl

The Dawn of Modern Cosmetic: Lait in the East, Club in the West

Shiseido main store located in its prime Ginza location during its early Showa years.

Shiseido’s story begins in 1872 (Meiji 5), when Arinobu Fukuhara, former chief pharmacist of the Naval Hospital, opened Japan’s first Western-style pharmacy in Tokyo’s glitzy Ginza district. Under a banner of “quality first,” the company quickly built a reputation for innovation. In 1888 (Meiji 21), three years before Hirao Sanpei's Diamond Toothpowder and Kobayashi Tomijiro Shoten's Lion, Shiseido introduced Japan’s first cream toothpaste, sold exclusively in its own shop and priced as a luxury at 25 sen compared to the 2 or 3 sen of domestic rivals. Soon after came the nation’s first vitamin supplement, Kakke Pills, followed in 1897 (Meiji 30) by Eudermine, Japan’s first luxury cosmetic lotion, praised for its effectiveness and cutting-edge technology. Alongside the Seven Color Face Powder line, it marked Shiseido’s first true step into cosmetics and one of the first building blocks of the beauty empire it would one day become.

Innovation extended beyond pharmacy and cosmetics. In 1902 (Meiji 35), Shiseido drew headlines by installing the country’s first soda fountain inside its Ginza store, serving flavored soda water and premium ice cream, an indulgence few Japanese had ever tasted. That same year, the founder’s third son, Shinzo Fukuhara, spun off the beauty division, setting Shiseido on its official path into cosmetics. By 1916 (Taishō 5), the company was fully committed to expanding this line of business.

Eudermine, Shiseido’s first major hit, is still a popular today, over a century later —proof of the brand’s endurance and timeless appeal.

A latecomer to the field, Shiseido faced tough competition from Nakayama Taiyōdō, the powerhouse behind Club Cosmetics, and Hirao Sanpei Shōten, which marketed the popular Lait brand. Together, these two controlled nearly half the market. Shiseido distinguished itself by targeting sophisticated urban consumers and positioning itself as a high-end label.

Shinzo, an accomplished photographer with a wide circle of cosmopolitan friends, made visual branding a priority. Thus, Shiseido established an in-house design department that created the “Shiseido style”: a visual identity inspired by Parisian fashion magazines and French art movements like Art Nouveau and Art Deco. Like its Osaka rival Nakayama Taiyōdō, it embraced the allure of the modern girl and Western imagery.

By 1919, Shiseido had elevated its advertising department, trademarked its now-iconic hanatsubaki (camellia) logo (created by designer Fukuhara Shinzo), and incorporated arabesque motifs into packaging and advertising, inspired by both Art Nouveau and the stylized work of Aubrey Beardsley. Designer Yabe Sue was a key force behind this aesthetic, building the foundation of early Shiseido style. It emphasized its prime Ginza origins and location, a marketing advantage at a time when the ward represented the country at its most aspirational and modern.

Not even the devastating Great Kantō Earthquake could shake Shiseido's commitment to the area. Two months after the incident, Shiseido reopened in a temporary barracks-style building designed by painter Kawashima Riichirō.

The company also invested heavily in its marketing department attracting top creative talents. Not shy about stealing talents from rivals, it hired Fumino Yamano in 1929 (Showa 4), who had spent six years at Nakayama Taiyōdō. An illustrator and designer with a sharp eye for girls’ culture, he'd stay at Shiseido till the late '60s, helping define its advertising for decades.

In 1918 (Taishō 7), It also brought Matsumoto Noboru and Misu Yutaka from Mitsukoshi at a time when the department store was one of the country's biggest tastemakers.

Matsumoto strengthened the marketing team, while Yutaka, known as an advocate for modern beauty, became a public voice, publishing in women’s magazines, writing guides on fashion, hairstyling, and makeup, and launching Shiseido Monthly, the firm’s flagship magazine.

In 1921 (Taishō 10), Yutaka also opened three new public-facing departments: beauty, hairdressing, and children’s clothing. The beauty section offered personalized consultations, while the hairdressing department sought to modernize entrenched habits. At the time, washing hair was considered unhygienic, and Japanese women used heavy oils with limited styling options. To change this, Shiseido brought in American stylist Helen Grossman, who trained local hairdressers in Western techniques.

Together, Grossman, Yutaka, and Yabe toured Japan with “New Hairdressing and Beauty Lectures,” introducing eyebrow shaping, professional nail care, and the revolutionary hooded hair dryer. From these innovations emerged the mimi kakushi (ear-covering) bob, a quintessential Taishō-era look and the haircut that defined the "modern girl".

Yabe captured its spirit in a 1925 (Taishō 14) issue of Shiseido Monthly:

A woman with her hair in a European style, no matter what else she wears, is clearly someone who understands modern culture and is a pioneer. A woman with a Japanese hairstyle is unable to break away from customs that go against the modern world and is either not awakened or lacking determination, courage, or something else.

For Yabe, the bob wasn’t just a haircut, it was modern culture itself. By branding it as the embodiment of the “modern,” the most powerful buzzword of the era, he made it the signature style of fashionable women. Its popularity quickly spread beyond trendsetters, giving Japanese women an accessible entry point into Western fashion at a time when abandoning traditional dress still felt audacious.

The success of the children’s clothing department followed a similar logic. Dressing children in Western styles allowed mothers who feared being judged for abandoning the kimono to indulge modern tastes in a socially acceptable way. To further foster loyalty, Shiseido launched Ohisama, a magazine for mothers and children featuring reader-submitted poems, essays, and drawings.

By 1924 (Taishō 13), the company was branching into fragrance with Ginza, a high-end perfume boldly marketed as “far superior to Coty fragrance,” then the darling of Paris and one of the most desirable and fashionable imported cosmetics in Japan. The following year, a new flagship store designed by architect Maeda Kenjirō opened, housing not only the pharmacy and cosmetics counters but also a photo studio, florist, and expanded soda fountain.

In 1928 (Shōwa 3), that soda fountain evolved into the Shiseido Ice Cream Parlour, soon only Shiseido Parlour, a full-fledged Western-style restaurant. By 1931 (Shōwa 6), it was one of Tokyo’s hottest spots, serving croquettes, consommé, chicken rice, omelet rice, and curry to artists, intellectuals, and mogas alike. With its Art Deco interiors and custom Okura Pottery tableware, it was as much about being seen as about the food.

Some of the sought-after novelties offered to Shiseido’s loyal customers who were part of the Hanatsubaki-kai program.

High-end cosmetics, a fashionable Western-style restaurant, and a cosmopolitan brand image gave Shiseido the perfect bridge between East and West. It catered to an affluent clientele drawn to imported products, pairing Western typography and names with its Japanese identity to enhance the aura of foreign luxury.

Still, Shiseido was a minor player compared to its rivals at a time when Taiyōdō and Hirao Sanpei Shōten were the undisputed market leaders. Its upscale urban strategy limited rural reach, where most Japanese still lived. Shiseido was for sophisticated city women at a time when most women were poor and living at the countryside. An attempt to remediate that with the launch of a low-cost line, Ginza Cosmetics, in 1933 (Shōwa 8), failed. Instead, the company recalculated and doubled down on cultivating loyalty among its core urban audience.

This strategy crystallized in the Hanatsubaki-kai, a membership club named after its camellia logo. Customers mailed in packaging coupons for membership cards, vanity gifts, personalized skincare tips, and subscriptions to Hanatsubaki magazine. With beauty tutorials, seasonal advice, etiquette features, and contributions from top writers and illustrators, the publication embodied Shiseido’s philosophy and aesthetic ideals. By the early 1940s (Shōwa 15–20), tens of thousands of women in major cities like Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya were members, cementing Shiseido’s aspirational image.

Shiseido’s prewar ads often evoked Western imagery and glamour.

Then came the war. Operations halted, innovation stopped, and Shiseido, like the rest of the country, shifted to austerity and propaganda. Yet after the defeat, with Japan in ruins and morale low, women craved glamour again after years of poverty, drab clothes and rationing. And Shiseido was ready to deliver.

A major reason it rebounded so quickly post-war was its groundbreaking chain-store system it had pioneered more than two decades earlier, starting in 1924 (Taisho 13).

At the time, cosmetics were plagued by “dumping”: manufacturers sold to wholesalers, who sold to retailers, who undercut each other in price wars. The post–World War I downturn and the Great Kantō Earthquake only deepened the problem, and even giants like Nakayama Taiyōdō and Hirao Sanpei Shōten failed to stabilize the market. Shiseido’s solution was to bypass wholesalers, contract directly with retailers, and supply only those under agreement. In return, the company dispatched beauty consultants to give skincare advice and demonstrations, while sales reps ensured next-day delivery and distributed promotional materials. Regional wholesalers that remained were tasked with enforcing fixed prices and keeping stock consistent.

By the end of the Meiji era, Shiseido had secured its place in Tokyo. It rose through the subsequent Taishō, when it pioneered the chain-store system, and early Shōwa years, when it strengthened its branding and marketing force.

But only after the war did it emerge as Japan’s leading cosmetics brand. While rivals faltered, Shiseido’s chain-store system, loyalty clubs, Miss Shiseido beauty consultants, and glamorous advertising carried it through the devastation. Its identity as a sophisticated label for urban women now perfectly matched the mood of a nation eager to rebuild and turn a new leaf.

The sophisticated urban women who once seemed unattainable became a more democratic archetype as Japan’s economy expanded during the postwar reconstruction and “economic miracle.” By the late 1960s, the majority of the country consisted of the very audience Shiseido had targeted since the Meiji era: the urban middle class aspiring to elegance and status.

The iconic post-war billboard with movie star Setsuko Hara was seen by many women as permission to wear makeup and stylish clothes once again. At a time when colorful photography was still very rare, the black and white photo was artificially colored by Shiseido.

A watershed moment came in early 1946, when the recovery took on a powerful symbol. Japan was still in ruins, Ginza scarred by bombings, when Shiseido unveiled a huge color billboard above the rubble. In the ad, movie star Setsuko Hara, who just a decade earlier advertised Hirao Sanpei Shoten's Lait Cream, looked upward with a smile, beside the words: “Looking for the future.”

In no time, Japan would discover that the future it was seeking was embodied by Shiseido itself.

From Meiji reforms to Art Deco dreams: the story behind Japan’s first beauty boom.

Inventing the Modern Girl.

Josei was a women’s magazine affiliated with Nakayama Taiyōdō (Club Cosmetics). While it aimed for literary prestige rather than serving as an advertorial, every back cover featured a Club Cosmetics ad. At the height of Japan’s “modernity” craze, the company often showcased women styled in Western, moga-like fashion. Josei’s own aesthetic echoed these ads, pursuing a sense of European sophistication. With its Art Deco flair, fashion plate–inspired covers, and a distinctive logo font so influential it was later used extensively in silent films, Josei left a lasting mark on Japanese visual culture. Much of its visual identity was envisioned by designer Yamana Fumio. (image source)

In Japan, the katakana word “コスメ” (kosume), borrowed from “cosmetics,” has become the colloquial go-to term for all things beauty. Look closer, though, and you’ll still find the older, more formal “化粧品” (keshōhin) in use. While both translate to “cosmetics,” their nuance differs. Keshōhin carries a more formal, utilitarian tone and historically referred to a wide range of beauty and hygiene products, including items like soap and tooth powder. Kosume, on the other hand, has taken on a more fashionable edge, shorthand for makeup and trend-driven beauty. This linguistic split hints at a deeper story: how Japan’s modern beauty industry took root during the Meiji era (1868–1912), when Western imports such as scented soap and tooth powder first entered the market.

Some beauty practices were hardly new. Face powders, for instance, had been a staple of Japanese aesthetics for centuries. But what changed in Meiji was the chemistry, branding, and packaging. Imported goods, which arrived with the Meiji revolution which opened the country to the world, carried the aura of Western modernity and sophistication, encouraging Japanese companies to reimagine their own offerings. At the same time, a government eager to project a modern national image pushed through sweeping reforms: in 1870 (Meiji 3), it banned time-honored customs like teeth blackening (ohaguro) and eyebrow shaving (hikimayu), practices tied to noblewomen, geisha, and entertainers. These weren’t just cosmetic changes but part of a larger campaign to align Japan with Western norms. As those traditions faded, a new domestic cosmetics industry began to bloom, fusing local heritage with global influence.

By the end of the Meiji era, the best selling cosmetic items were known as the "Four Great Dominants": Lion toothpaste by Kobayashi Tomijiro Shoten (the company later renamed Lion after its popular product), the first lead-free, healthy face powder Misono by Ito Kochoen, Lait face cream by Hirao Sanpei Shoten, and Club Araiko, Japan's first sophisticated cleansing powder by Nakayama Taiyodo.

Papilio cosmetics caused quite a stir with their minimalist, modern branding designed by Shigejiro Sano.

The Misono white powder line, launched in 1904 (Meiji 37) by Tokyo-based Itō Kochōen, was revolutionary thanks to its lead-free formula, becoming one of the first major commercial successes of the era. But it was also the first to fall behind: once safer ingredients became the industry standard, Misono’s competitive edge vanished and the brand quickly lost relevance. A 1926 (Taishō 15) rebrand under the slogan “New cosmetics born to rival the modern age—new packaging, outstanding quality” tried to revive its fortunes, but it failed to keep pace with competitors.

Itō Kochōen briefly regained momentum in 1935 (Shōwa 10) with the successful launch of the Papilio line (from the French papillon, meaning butterfly). Its Poudre de Papilio powders offered a wider range of shades than its competitors, driving strong sales. Prestigious Western-style painter and designer Shigejirō Sano oversaw the marketing and introduced sleek packaging with modern French branding, which caused quite a stir. Another notable contributor to the brand's marketing was designer Yasujirō Hanamori, who later rose to prominence as a women’s magazine editor but at the time worked in Papilio’s branding, helping to reshape the company’s image. Yet even these efforts weren’t enough to restore Itō Kochōen’s former status as a market leader.

The Lait line from Hirao Sanpei Shōten was a major hit from the late Meiji era through the early Shōwa years, competing with Nakayama Taiyōdō’s Club Cosmetics for market leadership. Their cute packaging made quite a splash. My personal favorite is the round-shaped paper box for Poudre de Lait.

But while Itō struggled to hold its ground, two other rivals, Hirao Sanpei Shoten and Nakayama Taiyōdō, were rapidly seizing the market through bold marketing and continuous product development.

Hirao Sanpei Shoten was founded by Hirao Sanpei in 1878 (Meiji 11) as Gakyōdō, a medicine store in Kanda, Tokyo, selling over-the-counter remedies and toiletries. Part of a prosperous family who had served as official merchants for the Tokugawa Shogunate, he soon began developing his own products for the shop. His first blockbuster came with Komachi-sui, one of the earliest domestically produced Western-style eau de toilettes. The product expanded nationwide, reportedly becoming the first cosmetic advertised in newspapers, and the shop relocated to a more fashionable location in Nihonbashi, which also became the company’s headquarters.

In 1883 (Meiji 16), Sanpei’s prestige rose further when he became an official purveyor to the Imperial Household with his Peony Perfume (Botan Kōsui). In 1891 (Meiji 24), with the business now established across Japan, he introduced Diamond Toothpaste, one of the country’s first mass-marketed toothpastes and a pioneer in using a Western-style name.

Diamond Toothpaste led the market briefly before being overtaken by Lion Toothpaste, which went on to revolutionize the category after its launch in 1896 (Meiji 29). Hirao Sanpei’s death the following year opened the path for his rival’s rise and left the company on uncertain footing.

His son Kan’ichi succeeded him as the second Hirao Sanpei. To revitalize the business, he traveled to Europe in 1900 (Meiji 33) to study cosmetics manufacturing. The trip inspired the company’s next major success: the Lait skincare line, launched with the groundbreaking Lait Cream in 1909. Its first powdered product, Lait Face Powder, followed the next year. In 1917, the brand introduced Lait Food lotion under the slogan “Gently Whitens the Skin.” It was soon followed by Lait Merry, a cutting-edge cream–powder hybrid that served as both skincare and makeup. The Lait line reaffirmed Hirao Sanpei Shoten as one of the titans of the cosmetic world.

Based in Tokyo, Hirao Sanpei Shoten and its hit Lait line were often pitted against Osaka’s Nakayama Taiyōdō and its popular Club Cosmetic products.

Founded by Taichi Nakayama as a wholesale cosmetic business in the port city of Kobe, Nakayama Taiyōdō rose to national prominence after the release of Club Washing Powder in 1906 (Meiji 39). Other hit products, such as Club White Powder and Katei Soap, soon followed. In 1918, the company moved its headquarters to Kansai’s largest metropolis, Osaka, where it built a state-of-the-art factory.

By the 1920s (Taishō), the two brands dominated the market, inspiring the catchphrase “Lait from the East, Club from the West.” The phrase playfully echoed a 1920 (Taishō 9) remark by Diet member Nagai Ryūtarō: “In the West there is Lenin, in the East there is Prime Minister Hara Takashi.” Their rivalry reflected the broader cultural and economic tension between Tokyo and Osaka during so-called Dai-Ōsaka Jidai (Great Osaka Era), when Osaka briefly outshone Tokyo as Japan’s leading urban hub.

By the early 1910s, Fumiko Kametaka was one of Japan’s first professional women illustrators, producing advertising art for Hirao Sanpei Shoten, the Tokyo company behind the Lait brand. Kametaka’s ads, dating from 1914 onward, feel strikingly modern: charming portraits of women with side parts, low chignons, and early “actress-style” buns that anticipated modan gāru imagery. Her illustrations not only helped define Lait’s visual identity but also mark a key moment when women began shaping the aesthetics of Japan’s modern beauty industry. (source)

Their rivalry wasn’t just fierce, it occasionally turned litigious. In 1924 (Taishō 13), Hirao took Nakayama to court over the launch of a beauty serum called Katei Food, claiming it infringed on one of their own blockbuster products, Lait Food. Lait Food was billed as Japan’s first-ever beauty serum, marketed with the promise to “Gently Whiten the Skin,” and the item that had cemented Nakayama’s dominance in the cream category. But the bad blood went back even further.

In 1914 (Taisho 3) , a large-scale industrial and cultural exposition, the Tokyo Taisho Exhibition, was held in Tokyo’s Ueno Park, meant to showcase Japan’s modernization, technology, and national identity during the Taishō era. At the highly-publicized event, Hirao’s Blanc de Lait powder was awarded top honors as the most cutting-edge powdered cosmetic.

Nakayama Taiyōdō—then the undisputed leader in powdered cosmetics, who placed second at the expo—fired back in the press, accusing the award of being rigged. After all, Hirao Sanpei himself had served on the judging committee. Their protest ran as an advertisement published in major newspapers:

“Club’s reputation surpasses all gold medals. A person is judged by their character; a product, by its quality. Club face powder, Club toothpaste, and Club cleansing powder have earned more than a dozen gold medals, but they are not childish products that rely on awards to sell. (...) Some have received gold medals despite poor quality, thanks to favoritism. There are even those who, while acting as judges, awarded gold medals to their own products.”

More than playing defense, Nakayama Taiyōdō mastered the art of spectacle. In 1906 (Meiji 39), Nakayama successfully secured space at Mitsukoshi department store, which had previously only carried imported cosmetics. This positioned Club as an affordable yet aspirational brand, further bolstered by its use within the Imperial Household. To celebrate, they released a promotional photograph featuring a group of geisha—an arresting visual, since photographic ads were still rare and women of such status rarely endorsed commercial products.

In 1910 (Meiji 43), they took it further, buying a second-hand Ford and painting it with Club Cosmetics ads. Since cars were still a novelty in Japan, its appearances on Osaka’s streets caused a sensation. They later launched aerial and balloon ads over Tokyo and Osaka, raising the bar for brand visibility.

The huge success of Nakayama Taiyōdō’s products also owed much to the genius of its founder, Taichi Nakayama, who revolutionized advertising. Above: a striking photo-gravure of geishas and noblewomen announcing the arrival of Club Cosmetics at Mitsukoshi—then still primarily a kimono store. Other innovations included the sensational car advertisements that paraded through the streets of Osaka (left), and large street billboards installed across both Kansai and Kantō (right). At center, a Club Cosmetics sign crowns the grand Dōjima Building in Osaka, marking the opening of one of the two Nakayama Culture Research Institute branches established to celebrate the company’s 20th anniversary. (source)

While Lion’s Kobayashi Shoten entertained top clients with sumo events and Hirao Shoten hosted theater presentations at Meijiza and Kabukiza, Nakayama outshone them once again. Instead of inviting VIPs, it held public lotteries to choose event guests — an approach that felt modern and democratic. Hirao Shoten quickly responded, forming a partnership with the highly influential Teigeki, the Imperial Theater. Under this arrangement, women who purchased Lait products were offered discounted matinee tickets on the designated “Lait Day.” The brand also featured leading actresses from the theater in its advertisements.

Movie and theater stars frequently appeared in Club Cosmetics ads as well. The Osaka-based company often featured actresses from the Kansai scene, either from local revues or Kyoto’s Shochiku studio — though top performers occasionally appeared in ads for both rival companies. Sumako Matsui, Japan’s first major female stage star from the Meiji era, is said to have been used by both brands.

Through its partnership with the Toho conglomerate and other ventures, Hirao Sanpei Shoten wove the glamour of the entertainment world into its marketing. Top, left to right: three ads for Lait Cream featuring movie stars — the first two with Setsuko Hara and the third with Hideko Takamine. Bottom, left to right: a 1936 ad proudly declaring “All Toho stars are passionate fans of Lait Cream!”; a 1935 advertorial for Lait Face Powder highlighting the “Lait Ladies Powder Room” at the Tokyo Takarazuka Theater; and a 1928 Lait Face Powder ad featuring silent film star Chieko Matsui.

Despite their distinct Osaka and Tokyo roots, the two companies operated vigorously across both metropolitan areas, maintaining factories and distribution centers in each. Nakayama Taiyōdō, for instance, marked its 20th anniversary with the opening of its glamorous Beauty Institutes in Osaka and Tokyo’s Marunouchi Building, offering dermatology consultations, spa treatments, and beauty lessons.

This Osaka–Tokyo interplay deepened as Kansai-based visionary entrepreneur Ichizō Kobayashi expanded his entertainment ventures into the capital. When he founded Toho, he partnered with the local Hirao Shoten group. Toho would go on to manage most Kabuki performances in Tokyo, take control of the Imperial Theater, and open the Tokyo Takarazuka Theater — the Kanto counterpart to its phenomenally successful Kansai all-female revue — as well as the Toho film studio. Hirao Sanpei Shoten became deeply intertwined with this cultural empire, paying for product placement in Kabuki plays, maintaining a Lait-sponsored powder room at the Tokyo Takarazuka Theater, and securing exclusive access to Toho movie stars.

For the launch of its Lait Sopra skincare lotion, Hirao Sanpei Shoten adopted the catchy slogan “Soprano for your ears, Sopra for your hands” and organized a 23-date tour featuring the immensely popular soprano Nagai Ikuko.

Bridging commerce, beauty, and culture was central to both companies’ vision of modernity. At Taiyōdō, a key figure i Toyozō Nakayama — the company’s vice president, younger brother of the founder, and a modernist himself. Through Nakayama’s in-house publishing arm, he sought to connect directly with Japan’s youth. At the heart of this cultural project was the rise of Hanshin modernism, a movement rooted in the Hanshin region and stretching from Osaka to the cosmopolitan port city of Kōbe.

Hirao Sanpei Shoten, meanwhile, drew on the visual arts to express its own modern sophistication. The company commissioned some of Japan’s most celebrated painters — Tsuguharu Foujita, Yumeji Takehisa, and Sentarō Iwata — to design posters for Lait products.

Club Cosmetics' “Twin Beauty” logo symbolizes the brand's philosophy — delivering not just outer beauty, but inner balance and well-being, based on founder Taichi Nakayama’s ideals of coexistence and mutual prosperity.

Despite their trailblazing contributions to Japan’s beauty culture, only one of the Four Great Dominants would survive as a contemporary corporate powerhouse, and it was neither Taiyōdō nor Sanpei. Instead, the one that still stands as one of Japan’s most prominent consumer goods conglomerates is Lion, whose focus on practical goods like toothpaste and soap ensured long-term success.

Hirao Sanpei Shoten folded after its post-war bid for corporate reorganization was denied. Nakayama Taiyōdō, too, went into liquidation in 1954 (Shōwa 29), but unlike Hirao, it successfully restructured and reemerged in 1971 (Shōwa 46) under the name Club Cosmetics. The brand still exists today, though its golden age has long passed.

Fascinatingly, even at the peak of their popularity in the Roaring ’20s (Taishō/early Shōwa), some argued Lait and Club were already beginning to feel outdated. Their bestselling powders catered to a pale, matte aesthetic rooted in traditional ideals just as the moga (modern girl) look was rising: bold red lips, defined eyes, Western flair.

On the left, a Créme de Lait poster designed by Reika Sawa, one of the rare women notoriety in the Japanese advertisement world in the early Showa years. After making her name with Hirao Sanpei Shoten, she moved to Shiseido, where she was part of Shinzo Fukuhara's team. She'd return to Hirao Sanpai later and, postwar, she was hired by Kosé, which went on to become one of the market leaders in Japan. On the right, a 1938 ad designed by the influential Japanese-French painter Tsuguharu Foujita.

Yet these companies knew how to pivot—not always through their products, but through their pioneering approach to advertising and publishing. Through glossy pamphlets, department store demonstrations, and stylish packaging, they helped popularize a modern, aspirational beauty ideal grounded in Art Deco, French chic, and European luxury combined with a unique Japanese sensibility. They created pamphlets and books that became learning tools for women: how to apply makeup, how to dress, how to embody a new kind of femininity. More so than through the streets, the “modern girl” aesthetic came alive through their ads and visual language.

At the time, most Japanese women still wore traditional clothing. Cosmetic ads did feature women in this style, but just as often they showcased moga (modern girls) or paintings of glamorous Western women — as seen in several Nakayama Taiyōdō campaigns above. (source)

In many ways, they didn’t just sell products, they helped shape what it meant to be fashionable (aka oshare). They laid the groundwork for what would become Japan’s oshare culture.

And while Hirao and Nakayama dominated the beauty scene during the Taishō and early Shōwa eras, a quiet contender was already rising in the background. One that would eventually become synonymous with Japanese cosmetics: Shiseido.

To be continued...

Her life defied every rule of what an early Showa woman was expected to be—yet instead of a cautionary tale, she became a legend.

Inventing the Modern Girl

The Life and Style of Uno Chiyo (Part 1)

Chiyo Uno photographed in 1933 in the editorial office of Style magazine.

The Tumultuous Style Years

As I mentioned in a previous post, the arrival of AnAn transformed Japanese fashion and media forever. It was a magazine not meant to be read, but seen—a visual experience. Inspired by the French magazine Elle, it broke away from its European roots to create something distinctly Japanese, paving the way for the fashion media that would dominate consumer culture for decades.

But nearly thirty years earlier, Uno Chiyo had already blazed that trail. Fueled by her passion for fashion and makeup—and influenced by French magazines like Vogue and Jardin des Modes—she launched her own publication: Style. It was early days. The magazine was printed in black and white, the first issue had fewer than 40 pages, and Japan didn’t even have a ready-to-wear industry yet. But Style brimmed with aspiration and allure: photos of international and domestic movie stars, geishas and socialites, elegant dresses from France, exquisite Japanese kimonos, and beauty and fashion advice penned by Uno and her collaborators. One of those collaborators was her new boyfriend, Takeo Kitahara.

If Uno’s relationship with Ozaki—just one year her junior—had raised eyebrows, imagine the reaction when she appeared with Kitahara, a full decade younger. But that too became part of her lore. In a society obsessed with youth—where aging, especially for women, is often framed as decline—being with a younger man carries a powerful message: you’re still desirable. While relationships between older men and younger women have long been normalized in Japan, older women dating younger men remain uncommon in real life—but common fantasy fodder in female-oriented media, from romance novels to manga and TV dramas.

Kitahara, the younger man in question, was a journalist and aspiring author with growing acclaim. He supported Uno’s work, helped manage the magazine, and Style quickly found a loyal readership. By 1939, the two married at a huge reception at the Imperial Hotel.

But war soon engulfed the nation. Style shut down. Kitahara was drafted as a war correspondent. Uno relocated to the countryside for shelter. And in 1945, as Japan surrendered, a new era began—for the country and for Uno.

Above: the prewar edition of Style. At the time, it was standard for text to be read right to left—hence the original logo’s orientation. The covers were created by none other than the renowned Japanese-French artist Tsuguharu Foujita. Below: the postwar revival. Now featuring a left-to-right logo in line with modern conventions, the magazine adopted a more commercial look, with glamorous paintings of Western women gracing the covers. This new visual identity was crafted by Foujita’s protégé, Misao Takano.

Together, Uno and Kitahara wasted no time. They relaunched Style, and postwar women—starved for glamour after years of austerity—embraced it. The magazine was a hit, and cash began pouring in. While much of the country struggled with poverty in the wake of defeat, the couple found themselves flush with money. They began constructing a lavish mansion, rumored to be one of the most expensive private homes in Japan at the time. They also built a new office for Style in Ginza, opening a kimono boutique on the ground floor where Uno sold pieces from her own line. After the war, she had gradually returned to traditional Japanese dress—and now, she was turning that shift into another successful business. Success, fame and a handsome younger husband, Uno seemed to have it all.

And that’s when things got gossipy.

In 1949, writer and media insider Inoue Tomochiro published a novel called Zeppeki (The Precipice), which many quickly recognized as a thinly veiled roman à clef about Uno and Kitahara. In the book, a younger man with literary ambitions is married to a wealthy, successful older woman who spends lavishly to prop up his career. She’s deeply insecure about her appearance, secretly undergoing plastic surgery to maintain her youthful looks, and lives in constant fear that he’ll leave her for some anonymous café waitress. The man, meanwhile, is a flirt and a serial womanizer.

Uno and Kitahara were livid about how they were portrayed to sell books. Uno, in particular, was enraged by the insinuations of plastic surgery—especially in a country where cosmetic procedures were taboo and rarely discussed in public. She firmly denied ever going under the knife. Still, the novel offered a tantalizing glimpse into what might have been the darker side of Uno’s world. In her own books, she had always been open, very vulnerable—but the narrative was hers to shape, always artful and ultimately flattering. Whether Zeppeki was grounded in fact or simply malicious gossip remains unclear, but it offered something new: a glimpse of the other side—Uno as the aging woman, not the ageless icon.

Takeo Kitahara and Uno Chiya together in a visit to Shanghai, China.

Speculations aside, Uno’s glamorous life began to unravel. In the mid-1950s, Japan’s tax authorities raided Style’s offices and uncovered serious financial irregularities. The penalties were crushing. She and Kitahara were suddenly drowning in debt. Their assets had to be sold, and in 1959, the magazine went bankrupt. Their marriage also crumbled. They began living separately. But the weight of their shared debt kept them bound together. It wasn’t until 1963—after years of financial strain—that the final payment was made. The next year, they officially divorced. Kitahara quickly married again to a woman he met – where else? – at a Ginza café (she went on to become an accomplished actress).

Yet it wasn’t all gloom and doom. In 1956, “Confessions of Love” became a theatrical movie. After nearly a decade of a slow-paced serialization in literary magazines, Uno published Ohan, the novel widely considered her masterpiece. Unlike her earlier, semi-autobiographical works, Ohan turned inward and backward—drawing from her hometown and childhood memories to tell the story of a morally fraught man caught between his wife and a geisha. 

The reception was immediate and glowing. The revered critic Kobayashi Hideo—often dubbed “the god of criticism”—praised it upon publication. That December, Ohan won the prestigious Noma Literary Prize. The following year, it received the Women Writers' Prize and was adapted into two stage productions: one at Tokyo’s esteemed Kabukiza Theatre, and another in bunraku (traditional Japanese puppet theater) at the Bunraku Theatre in Osaka. In 1961, it became her first work to be translated into English.

Meanwhile, her kimono line was thriving, and as Uno aged, she leaned fully into traditional Japanese dress. After playing an important role in disseminating and popularizing Western fashion, she returned to the silhouettes of her youth and made kimonos her signature once again.

Living Solo

Throughout her public life, Uno’s image, work, and even fashion were often shaped by the men around her. But after divorcing Kitahara, she never remarried—and never looked back. Instead, she threw herself into her work, no longer playing the part of dutiful wife or seductive muse. By conventional Japanese standards, her path might have been seen as a failure: no husband, no children. But Uno, ever the iconoclast, made it clear she didn’t need a traditional family to feel complete. She forged a wildly fascinating life on her own terms—filled with creative reinvention, romantic drama, and a career that would make her a legend.

By the 1970s, Uno had become an elder stateswoman of letters—and she began receiving her flowers. She was honored with the Women’s Literature Prize, the Japan Art Academy Prize, and inducted into the prestigious Arts Academy. She was recognized with an Order of the Sacred Treasure. In 1977, a monumental project began: the republication of her complete works, cementing her place in the literary canon.

Cherry blossoms were Chiyo Uno’s signature. They became the motif of her brand, adorned many of her kimono designs, and surrounded her at her funeral. Above, she stands beside one of Japan’s oldest sakura trees—an ancient bloom she helped preserve in Gifu Prefecture.

That November, just before her 80th birthday, a grand launch event for the Uno Chiyo Support Group was held in her hometown of Iwakuni. She was celebrated with great fanfare and gave a speech honoring the city in tribute. Around the same time, she helped save a 1,500-year-old cherry tree in Gifu Prefecture through a fundraising campaign, earning her the affectionate title of patron saint of the tree—and of Gifu. The motif of scattering cherry blossoms, inspired partly by this story, became the signature symbol of her kimono brand.

It all felt like a grand farewell—a final tribute to a cultural icon stepping into her twilight years. But in true Chiyo Uno fashion, it was anything but an ending. It was the prelude to her next act: the Chiyo Uno boom of the following decade.

Chiyo Uno Boom

In 1982, as she approached her 85th birthday, Chiyo Uno showed no signs of slowing down. That year, she was awarded the prestigious Kikuchi Kan Prize and began serializing her autobiography, Ikite Iku Watashi ("The Way I Live"), in the Mainichi Shimbun—one of the highest-circulation newspapers in Japan and the world. When the book was released the following year, it became a sensation.

Part of that success came from Uno finally embracing a medium she had long resisted: television. She had always balked at the idea—worried that her 84-year-old skin might not survive the unforgiving scrutiny of high-resolution cameras. But when a close friend persuaded her to film a segment for NHK at her mountain home in Nasu, she was pleasantly surprised by the results. That led her to accept a long-standing invitation to appear on Tetsuko no Heya, the beloved and influential afternoon talk show hosted by Tetsuko Kuroyanagi.

Her appearance made waves. With disarming charm, Uno spoke openly about her many love affairs, all while promoting her signature philosophy of positivity. Tetsuko later called her one of her all-time favorite guests, amused at how Uno could describe sleeping with men as casually as someone recounting an afternoon nap.

Thanks to the combined power of newspapers, television, and a life story that captivated the nation, Ikite Iku Watashi became one of Japan’s top bestsellers in 1983, surpassing 1 million copies sold. And with that, Uno became a household name for an entirely new generation.

Now at ease in front of the camera, she began appearing frequently on TV, dressed in her signature kimonos, sharing life lessons and anecdotes from her extraordinary past. Her successful kimono brand expanded into ceramics, scarves, and handkerchiefs. Fans marveled at her radiant, wrinkle-free skin—which she attributed to using oil—prompting the launch of the Uno Chiyo Skincare Oil, which became a hit product.

After turning 80, Chiyo Uno became more prolific than ever. At the height of the “Chiyo Uno boom,” she published a steady stream of books—including cookbooks. (image source)

Beyond fiction and essays, Uno now wrote advice books, cookbooks, and kimono style guides, steadily building herself into a full-fledged lifestyle brand. Her old work was republished. She even started a serialized column in Croissant magazine, which was aimed at sophisticated women in their 30s who had “graduated” from the more youth-oriented AnAn, published by the same company.

Croissant offered elegant photographic essays on interior design, cooking, and beauty—content tailored for the chic, adult woman. Notably, unlike its sister title, Western fashion took a backseat, reflecting how, in 1980s Japan, it was still viewed as a pursuit for the young. A view Uno herself embraced, considering she had left her stylish Western clothes behind.

Uno's work continued to thrive in other media. After a string of stage and television adaptations throughout the ’60s and ’70s, her novel Ohan was adapted into a major film in 1984 starring acclaimed actress Sayuri Yoshinaga. That same year, Ikite Iku Watashi was turned into a prime-time drama starring Yukiyo Toake, and would be adapted again in 1991 as a daytime series. Ikite Iku Watashi would also be staged in the mid-80s at the Imperial Theater.

Ikite Iku Watashi, Chiyo’s 1983 autobiography, became a massive success and was adapted into a primetime TV drama the following year, with acclaimed actress Yukiyo Toake in the lead role. Chiyo herself made special appearances in the series—delivering a documentary-style introduction in the first episode and reappearing in the final scene. Although she had long been wary of television, by then she had already become a familiar and beloved presence on Japanese TV.

To mark her 88th birthday in 1985, Uno hosted a lavish celebration at Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel, welcoming over 500 guests from the literary and entertainment worlds. The event, directed by filmmaker Jin Tatsumura, received wide media coverage. Uno arrived wearing a furisode kimono of her own design—a playful choice, as furisode are traditionally worn by unmarried young women. She made two more outfit changes during the evening, each time appearing in a kimono she had designed herself.

In 1989, the long-running Shōwa era came to an end. Through marriages and divorces, wars and economic upheaval, Uno had managed to stay relevant through it all. And she entered the Heisei era with fresh accolades: in 1990, she was named a Person of Cultural Merit by the Emperor; the following year, she was declared an honorary citizen of her hometown, Iwakuni.

A year later, in 1992, a widely successful retrospective of her work opened at Takashimaya Department Store in Nihonbashi, Tokyo. Uno was there on the opening day wearing one of her signature cherry blossom kimonos to greet visitors. She had just turned 95, and her hometown held a tribute in her honor, erecting a memorial in her name.

Uno passed away in 1996 at the age of 99, having lived life entirely on her own terms. Her funeral was as grand as the life she led. Following a wake and private ceremony at the Kirigaya Funeral Hall in Tokyo’s Shinagawa district, over 1,400 mourners gathered for a public farewell at the Aoyama Funeral Hall. A month later, 900 more attended a final, show-stopping tribute in her hometown of Iwakuni.

She was born in the Meiji period, rose to prominence in the Taishō era (1912–1926), reinvented herself constantly throughout the Shōwa years (1926–1989), and took her final bow in Heisei (1989–2019). But Chiyo Uno’s story didn’t end there. Nearly three decades after her death, she’s still very much alive in the cultural imagination. In May 2025, public broadcaster NHK announced that Blossom, the upcoming morning drama for the second half of 2026, will be based on her life—a major honor, as the asadora remains Japan’s most-watched and most prestigious television program.

Even now, Uno continues to captivate Japan. And that’s why she's arguably the country’s most iconic—and most successful—moga.

The Secret of her Success

Uno Chiyo was instrumental in shaping what we now recognize as Japanese girls’ oshare (stylish) culture. The term josei sakka—“woman writer”—was a buzzword that eventually faded from use, but Uno was one of the reasons so many women from that era dared to dream of literary careers. Thanks to this, female writers occupy a central place in Japan’s publishing world, no longer considered a separate category. Uno’s work stood at the crossroads of intellect and femininity: she had both the girlish sensibility and the literary chops to produce writing that was highbrow and commercial at once.

Her contributions to fashion were just as significant. Beyond being a fashion icon in her own right, Uno launched Japan’s first fashion magazine dedicated to Western-style clothing, helping lay the groundwork for the visually driven fashion media that would explode in postwar Japan.

As a kimono designer, her success was equally striking. In her pieces, Uno aimed to translate the three-dimensional structure of Western clothing into the two-dimensional format of traditional kimono. Observers have noted how Issey Miyake, one of Japan’s most celebrated fashion designers, later reversed that idea—adapting flatness and folding into modern garments. It may not be a coincidence: Uno and Miyake were close friends and penpals.

Then there were the cherry blossoms. Sakura weren’t just her trademark motif, they became central to her designs. She often broke with convention by incorporating sakura into kimono meant to be worn outside the spring season, challenging the unwritten rules of seasonal style. Her connection to cherry blossoms was deeply personal: not only was it the flower of her hometown, but, as noted before, she had once helped raise funds to preserve one of the oldest sakura trees in Japan, located in Gifu Prefecture. She was also fascinated by the folktale Hanasaka Jiisan, or The Old Man Who Made the Dead Trees Blossom.

Uno’s evolving fashion sense mirrors the evolution of Japanese fashion itself, especially when seen through the lens of contemporary subcultures. If we consider modern girls as the precursors to gyaru (and I believe we should), the parallels become uncanny. As a young woman, Uno described her style as dekodeko: bold makeup, extravagant hair, and flashy kimonos, an aesthetic that would fit an early-2000s gyaru perfectly. After 1930, following her relationship with Tōgō Seiji, she pivoted to a more refined “Parisian chic,” a look that later became emblematic of the Very wife archetype: the elegant, understated homemaker portrayed in Very magazine, Japan’s bible for the upper-class suburban woman. Eventually, Uno arrived at the aesthetic ideal of iki (粋)—a term that transcends the simplistic “chic” and signals a refined, stylish elegance marked by effortlessness and grace.

But Uno’s love of fashion and makeup wasn’t just surface-level. It was intimately tied to her vulnerabilities. Her carefully cultivated image was a mask—and she knew it.

In an excerpt of the 1936 essay titled Woman and Mirror (「女と鏡」), published in Fujin Kōron and later translated by Rebecca Copeland in The Made-Up Author: Writer as Woman in the Works of Uno Chiyo, she wrote:

A white canvas, waiting for someone to assign a role to me… A stage director always hovers nearby, assigning me roles—sometimes a jōruri (puppet theater) performer, sometimes ‘Shanghai Lily,’ sometimes a virtuous wife, sometimes a diva. I have six or seven faces. All of them are fake. All of them are masks. I carry a lipstick and powder puff wherever I go. If I try to take the mask off, there’s nothing underneath but flesh stuck to it.

Uno’s literary persona was a mask. Yes, she was a formidable writer—but her longevity as a public figure was just as much about her ability to mold and market herself in step with what readers and Japanese society expected. From the 1920s through the 1960s, she danced between two roles: the bold “modern woman” and the obedient, traditional wife. By the 1980s, her true independence—often veiled during her prime—shone through as her bold personality became her trademark.

In 1987, Phyllis Birnbaum—the translator of Confessions of Love—profiled Uno for The New Yorker. The two attended a new stage production of Ohan at Tokyo’s Teikoku Theater. Flipping through the playbill, Uno offered a wry observation: “It says here I only married famous men. But the truth is that they became famous because I married them.”

Above, Shizuka Ishibashi is announced as the lead in Blossom, NHK’s upcoming fall 2026 morning drama based on the life of Uno Chiyo. As the most-watched show on Japanese television, the asadora will introduce Chiyo’s extraordinary journey—spanning the Meiji, Taisho, Showa, and Heisei eras—to a new Reiwa generation.

Back in the 1930s, critics had praised her supposed womanly traits. “Ozaki’s obedient wife,” some mused, “asking his permission before doing anything.” Others declared, “She loved Ozaki more than her art.” But by the 1980s, Uno was openly dismissive of those narratives: “that’s ridiculous. I never loved a husband more than my art. Never”, she said to Birnbaum.

She went even further writing in a 1984 book:

I cannot recall, in any of my marriages, ever begging or wheedling my husband for anything. I do not remember ever flinging my arms around his knees and collapsing in tears. I handled everything related to our livelihood without consulting him—and most of it I managed fairly well. It was always better if he simply stood by and let me take care of things. But can a man find such a woman sweet and lovable? I suppose I always knew that what a man really loves is a woman who bursts into tears over the silliest little thing. And perhaps I don’t even need to say it—after they left me, every single one of my husbands found that sort of sweet little woman. I, too, was a woman. But my mother had graced me with a man’s spirit—a spirit I could never, no matter how hard I tried, shake loose.

Much of Uno’s work falls under the category of atakushi shōsetsu—a form often translated as “I-novel,” though the label can be misleading. These works aren’t always in the first person, nor do they conform to Western notions of fiction. Instead, they claim to recount an author’s lived experience with minimal fictional mediation. But in practice, they allow for embellishment, contradiction, and emotional re-scripting. They are not so much records as re-creations.

Uno transformed major life events—especially her heartbreaks and divorces—into atakushi shōsetsu, which is why moments in her life story can’t always be taken at face value. For instance, as I recounted, she often claimed that the only thing she regretted leaving behind after her first divorce was her favorite set of dishes. But elsewhere, she expressed remorse, acknowledging that it had been a selfish way to end things with a man she had truly loved. From her discovery of make-up to how she met her first (technically second) husband, there's also several different, often conflicting stories scattered through her work.

Her story with Tōgō is also riddled with contradictions. She famously claimed she met him just after his suicide attempt, his neck still bandaged, the blood still soaked into his tatami. In reality, their meeting happened nearly a year later.

Rebecca Copeland, who deeply admired Uno and eventually became close to her, recounted in her blog an early conversation with her literary idol:

“Sensei, you write that you decided to meet the famous painter Tōgō Seiji because you were serializing a newspaper novel and wanted to include a scene about a suicide.” “Oh yes,” she began immediately launching into the narrative she had told countless times before. “He had just survived a love suicide attempt and I was eager to hear his experiences.” “And then,” I continued, “when you spent the night with him, you say you slept on his futon which was still stained with the blood from that attempt.” “That’s right! When I saw that, I was all the more inclined to stay with him as a result. You see, I was that sort of woman.” “But Sensei, according to the timeline, his suicide attempt was on March 30, 1929 and you didn’t start serializing your novel until December of that year. You met Tōgō in the spring of 1930. Are you saying he kept the bloody futon for over a year?” “Rebecca-san!” Fujie-san interjected sharply. “Uno Sensei is a shōsetsu-ka, a shōsetsu-ka! She’s a novelist!”

(Fujie-san by the way is Fujie Atsuko, Chiyo’s personal assistant, close friend and literary agent, who inherited Uno’s state)

Which brings us back to our original question: if mogas were considered social delinquents, why was Uno—who embodied so many of the traits people feared in modern girls—so widely respected, even at the height of the moga panic?

Of course, her literary talent and financial success helped shield her. But more than that, mogas were criticized because they were seen as caricatures—shallow, rebellious, frivolous. Uno, through her book, could prove herself as more than that. She was a fully realized woman who owned her contradictions and made no apologies for who she was. In many ways, that’s exactly why Japanese society embraced her: she didn’t challenge its contradictions; she embodied them. She was both modern and traditional, both an independent city woman and a nostalgic figure of rural femininity.

Japan is often described as a collectivist society—and to a degree, it is. But it's also deeply competitive and capitalistic, where individuality and ambition are quietly rewarded, so long as they don’t disrupt the social fabric. Unlike writers who aligned with leftist movements or feminist circles like Raichō Hiratsuka’s Atarashii Onna, Uno didn’t pursue a collective mission. Those who did arguably changed history—but they also ruffled feathers, challenged harmony, and remain polarizing to this day. Raichō, for instance, may hold a prominent place in feminist history, but she’s unlikely to ever be the subject of an NHK asadora. Uno, on the other hand, lived on her own terms while still fitting—just enough—within the mainstream. Above all, she was apolitical, not out of calculation but because she was wholly focused on herself and her work.

Take the Pacific War. While many literary figures supported the imperial cause—traveling to the frontlines, writing propaganda—Uno stayed mostly silent. She didn’t accompany her drafted husband, nor did she join other women writers like Fumiko Hayashi at the front. Not out of protest, but simply because, as she put it, war wasn’t part of her world. She wasn’t for or against it—it just didn’t concern her. That, too, is revealing. Her focus never wavered from her craft and her life.

Her refusal to take a confrontational stance was, in its own way, politically significant. Raichō’s activism, while groundbreaking, often lacked class intersectionality; as a highly educated woman from elite circles, she didn’t always connect with broader segments of society. Uno, by contrast, had mass appeal. Her life offered an alternative to the Confucian “Wise Wife, Good Mother” ideal—and simply by living that way, she showed Japanese women that there were other paths. That, too, was an important form of liberation.

And for all her self-focus, Uno wasn’t cold or arrogant. She was warm, witty, and deeply practical. Even in her eighties, she stuck to her personal mantra with conviction: “I believe that cheerfulness is a virtue, and melancholy a sin.”

Her life defied every rule of what an early Showa woman was expected to be—yet instead of a cautionary tale, she became a legend.

Inventing the Modern Girl

Chiyo Uno photographed in 1932 wearing a kimono of her own design.

Uno Chiyo probably wouldn’t have described herself using something as vulgar as the 1920s label of “Modern Girl.” And yet, at the height of her career, she embodied many of the traits most harshly criticized in the moga. Her love life was scandalous, drifting from one man to the next. She was fiercely independent and bohemian, worlds away from the Confucian ideal of the “Good Wife, Wise Mother” that structured Japanese society. But not in a political or intellectual sense—she never cast herself as a progressive or a woman fighting for rights. She cut her hair short, adored makeup, took pride in her appearance, and had an unshakable love for fashion. In many ways, she represented everything society claimed to despise in these so-called delinquent women. And yet, she was beloved—eventually enshrined as a cultural icon.

Chiyo's First Transformation

Chiyo was born in 1897 in the rural town of Iwakuni, in Yamaguchi Prefecture. Her mother died when she was very young, and she was sent to live with her father’s relatives—an affluent family that had made its fortune in sake brewing. When her father later remarried a much younger woman, Chiyo returned to his household.

Despite his privileged background, Uno’s father was a reckless playboy who squandered the family fortune on drinking and gambling. And he wasn’t the charming kind—he ruled the household with a heavy hand, especially over Chiyo and her five younger half-siblings. Ironically, it was her young stepmother—the type fairytales usually cast as villains—with whom Chiyo formed a warm, almost sisterly bond.

At 14, with his health failing, her father arranged for her to marry her cousin—the son of her stepmother’s sister. The marriage fell apart in just ten days and was never consummated; he had no desire to marry and avoided the family home—where Uno waited—like the plague. A few years later, her father passed away. With the strict figure she had once obeyed without question now gone, Chiyo felt free for the first time.

Around that time, Chiyo—who had grown up thinking she was ugly—discovered the transformative power of makeup. Her father had often mocked her dark complexion, telling her no one would ever want to marry her. She avoided mirrors entirely, convinced there was nothing worth seeing. But one day, stepping out of a hot bath, the mirror was fogged with steam. As it cleared, she caught sight of a pretty girl staring back at her. For a moment, she didn’t recognize her own reflection. That fleeting moment changed everything. Though she still disliked her skin tone, she realized she could use white powder to soften and reshape her appearance. That was the beginning of her lifelong love affair with cosmetics.

She would later say that, once she’d learned a few tricks, she quickly became popular—that her transformation from an ugly duckling to a swan came down to nothing more than technique. It’s a story that would go on to resonate with generations of fashion-conscious Japanese women. In many ways, Uno Chiyo’s personal narrative prefigured the core promise of every Japanese fashion magazine: with the right products and enough effort, you too can become beautiful. It also echoed the ever-present ganbarou spirit—do your best, and beauty will follow.

A century before gyarus perfected their tan skin, false lashes, and circle lenses—or hostesses mastered the art of illusion with hairpieces and highlighter—Chiyo was already spending 45 minutes a day on her face. In one of her many autobiographies, she details her routine: after washing her face, she’d apply a beauty cream from Club Cosmetics— one of the most influential cosmetic brand at the time—then blend in Club’s white cream powder all the way down to her neck. She’d warm a large peony brush with hot water, gently sweep it across her face to set the powder, then dab off the excess with a dry glaze cloth. She finished the look with rouge on her cheeks, lipstick, and carefully drawn eyebrows—done with a scorched matchstick, since brow pencils weren’t yet common.

And just like that, she became a gorgeous young lady, turning heads everywhere she went. At that point in her life, Chiyo was happy—confident in her looks, close to her stepmother and siblings, and finally in control of the image she presented to the world.

Chiyo Uno’s First Scandal

Next, Chiyo set her sights on something more than beauty—she needed money. With her father no longer in the picture, her (step)mother worked tirelessly to support the family, and Chiyo, the older sibling, had to help. Instead of going to high school, she took a job as a substitute teacher at the local elementary school—one of the few respectable professions available to women in her town. And, as with everything she committed to, she excelled. Her students adored her, and she found genuine satisfaction in the work.

But Chiyo was never meant to be a demure wallflower. She arrived at school in flamboyant kimonos, her skin glowing with makeup, radiating the confidence of someone who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen. Naturally, it didn’t go unnoticed—and not everyone was pleased.

Then came the scandal. Chiyo developed a crush on a fellow teacher and, in true Chiyo fashion, decided to boldly pursue him. Staff romances were strictly forbidden, and gossip spread quickly. To head off a full-blown scandal, the principal informed her that she would have to go. To save face, the school told students she was moving to Tokyo at the end of the term. She was expected to bow out quietly.

But Chiyo was never one to exit quietly. On her final day, she arrived in an outfit that, by her own admission, was wildly inappropriate for a teacher—her hair styled like a geisha’s, tied with a pink ribbon, her look meticulously polished to perfection. All she wanted was for the man she liked to look at her and think, “Isn’t she pretty? Isn’t she cute?”

The principal, stunned by her appearance, panicked. He hid her in the janitor’s closet, insisting she couldn’t appear in front of the children like that. And so, she never got to say goodbye.

Big hair, don't care: Second from the left, Chiyo with her voluminous hair during her substitute teacher days.

And yet, that anecdote—equal parts tragic, comic, and glamorous—is exactly why Chiyo continues to resonate with generations of Japanese women. She didn’t play by the rules. She ruffled feathers. But what girl hasn’t dreamed of walking into a room dressed to the nines just to make one person stop and stare? Who hasn’t fantasized about breaking every rule just to chase a crush? In so many ways, Chiyo lived out the impulses others were too afraid to act on. She was bold, unapologetic, and endlessly stylish—the kind of woman many secretly wish they could be.

To escape the fallout, Chiyo left for Seoul, Korea, where she found domestic work with a Japanese family. But her heart remained elsewhere. She continued writing love letters to the man she’d fallen for, only to be met with silence. When he finally replied, it was to end things. Chiyo—never one to tolerate ambiguity—returned to Japan to confront him face to face. He made his feelings clear: he wanted nothing to do with her. The encounter turned even more dramatic when he noticed she was carrying a knife—intended as a souvenir for her mother—and shoved her out violently.

She was heartbroken—for a moment. And then, just like that, she moved on.

The Breakout

Back in her hometown, she spotted a striking young man while walking through the city center. It was the younger brother of her former husband—the cousin she had married for ten days at the age of fourteen. Technically, they weren’t blood relatives, and in any case, the past was the past. They fell for each other quickly. He was six months older but, since he had pursued higher education, still in high school. When he was accepted into a prestigious university in Tokyo, they got permission from their families and moved to the capital together.

Life in Tokyo wasn’t easy. They had to work hard to get by. He took a job with the government, and she did whatever she could—tutoring, helping at a magazine, even waiting tables at a Western-style restaurant for a few weeks. That restaurant happened to sit across the street from the offices of Chūō Kōron, Japan’s most important literary magazine. It didn’t take long for Chiyo to charm the city’s intellectuals and editors that used the restaurant as an extension of the office. She worked there for barely two weeks, but left a strong enough impression to inspire characters in several stories—including one by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.

She never stayed at a job for more than a few weeks—too proud to endure the humiliations they often involved. She had bigger dreams: perhaps becoming an actress like her idol, Matsui Sumako. Or maybe a writer. That dream grew even stronger after rubbing shoulders with the creme de la creme of the literary world at the restaurant.

Despite her busy Tokyo life, duty called. Her partner finished school and took a job at a bank in Sapporo, so they moved north. There, she played the role of dutiful wife—until she saw a newspaper ad for a fiction contest. She’d always loved literature, had informally been part of literary projects and had been praised for her writing before. She entered. She won first place.

The winning story, Painted Face (Shifun no kao, 1921), is a subtle, layered portrait of a café jokyu invited to the horse races by a male patron. Lacking the proper outfit, she leans into makeup and rehearsed gestures to dazzle him. But once she arrives, her excitement curdles into insecurity as she’s outshined by a confident, glamorous woman at his side. It’s a tale brimming with the emotional complexity of Taishō-era womanhood.

Chiyo wasn’t surprised by her win—she had never lacked confidence in her talent—but she was stunned by the prize money. That’s when she realized: literature could pay. Really well.

Emboldened, she submitted a piece to Chūō Kōron—the very magazine headquartered across from the restaurant where she once worked, and one known for catapulting new authors to instant fame (it didn’t hurt that the editor had nursed a crush on her back when she waited his table). When she didn’t hear back, she hopped on a train to Tokyo to follow up in person. To her surprise, they had already published it—and handed her a generous royalty check on the spot. With money in hand, she spent the day shopping for the flashiest kimono she could find, then returned home in style. Her mother and siblings met her at the station in a rickshaw—an expensive and conspicuous form of transport in her hometown—and as they rolled through the streets, all eyes turned. Everyone saw it: Chiyo had made it. She gave her family a share of the winnings and headed back to Tokyo to thank the editor who had launched her career.

There, fate intervened again. The editor, Takita Chōin, greeted her with a smile: “What a coincidence! Look who’s here.” He introduced her to another young writer—Shirō Ozaki, who had taken second place in the contest she won. She thought he was cute. Sparks flew. A new romance began. And with that, Chiyo left Hokkaido behind. She never even returned to settle things with her (now ex-) husband.

When asked if she regretted how she left things, Chiyo admitted only one concern: the dishes she’d left in the sink. She had assumed she’d be back soon and feared the cold might crack them. But she never saw those dishes—or that life—again.

The Rise of a Stylish Modern Author

By 1923, she was divorced and living with Ozaki, who she would marry officially three years later. They moved to Magome, a quiet village on the outskirts of Tokyo, then known as a haven for writers and artists. Chiyo was one of them now—a published, paid, modern woman.

A young Uno Chiyo during her marriage with Ozaki.

Their whirlwind romance had already made the newspapers, turning them into a literary “it couple.” But it wasn’t just the speed of their relationship or the fact that she’d left a husband behind that caused a stir. Chiyo was a year older than Ozaki—a small gap, but enough to raise eyebrows in a society where older women with younger men were still taboo. Ever image-conscious, Chiyo wanted to do something to look younger. So she cut her hair.

It was the mid-1920s, and the bob was everywhere. Mogas—modern girls—were embracing it as a symbol of liberation, casting off centuries of long, untouched hair for a sleek, Westernized silhouette. The short cut came before Western clothes, before anything—it was the gateway to modern womanhood. Chiyo wasn’t the first to adopt it, but she was among the most influential. Her bold new look didn’t just shave a few years off her image—it set off a chain reaction in Magome. Other women followed suit, including, famously, the wife of poet Hagiwara Sakutarō, who chopped her hair, then, drunk on her new look and sense of freedom, eloped with an 18-year-old student—leaving her husband and children behind.

At first, married life in Magome was everything Chiyo had hoped for. She described their home as a “fashionable salon” where writers, poets, and artists gathered late into the night, drinking sake and gossiping about literature. But soon, Chiyo grew restless. She began taking trips to an onsen in Izu—both for a change of pace and to focus on her writing.

It was at that hot spring, popular with Tokyo’s literary glitterati, that she met Kajii Motojirō, a handsome young novelist with a delicate constitution—he had tuberculosis. And, as anyone familiar with Chiyo’s story might guess, she had a hard time resisting a pretty face.

In her profile of Chiyo Uno titled Modern Girls, writer and translator Phyllis Birnbaum quotes an unnamed Japanese writer friend who insisted Uno should be understood in the broader context of Japanese literature:

“Our fiction since The Tale of Genji always has a hero drifting from one woman to the next. Uno-san took the male role—she went from man to man. And you also sense that she didn’t choose them for their minds, but because they were handsome—just as men have always chosen women in our books.”

A lot of Chiyo’s works were semi-autobiographical. In her essays and stories, she gave readers front-row seats to a glamorous, impulsive, emotionally unfiltered life. She followed her whims. Her love life was guided purely by passion. And in doing so, she became a star among female readers across Japan—many of whom lived vicariously through her.

Now, Chiyo always insisted her relationship with Motojirō was platonic. She claimed she remained loyal to Ozaki, despite the two living apart. But rumors spread. And the whispers were enough for Ozaki to end things. In 1928, just as the Shōwa era was beginning, they divorced. Ozaki rebounded quickly and, in true mobo fashion, married a café jokyū he met at Ginza’s famed Café Lion.

Even so, Chiyo remained a positive figure in Ozaki’s life, as expected from the beloved heroine she represents in the public sphere. Decades later, he wrote:

“When I married Uno Chiyo, I was able to end my long life of wandering and enter a life where I could devote myself to writing. She was blessed with excellent qualities as a writer, but at the same time, as a housewife and wife, she was sincere and devoted. I can say that it was she who built the foundation of my life as a writer... Uno Chiyo opened my literary eyes. She cast a ray of light on my mind’s eye, which had no confidence and was wandering aimlessly through feelings of inaction. I would like to state that very clearly.” (Forty-Six Years of Novels, May 1964, Kodansha)

Bandages, Bloodstains and Parisian Chic

Uno Chiyo in 1936 alongisde some of the early Showa's most influential female authors: (from the left) Hayashi Fumiko, Sata Ineko, Uno Chiyo and Yoshiya Nobuko.

Newly single, Chiyo was poised to reinvent herself once again.

Around that time, a sensational scandal gripped Tokyo’s art world: the painter Seiji Tōgō, recently returned from France, had attempted a lovers’ suicide with his partner. They both survived—barely. His lover was committed to a mental institution by her wealthy family, and his reputation lay in ruins. In 1930s Japan, such acts, although almost a daily occurrence, were condemned as signs of madness, but they also carried an undeniable allure. Tragic, transgressive love had its own mystique. Chiyo was enthralled.

She was planning to include a lovers’ suicide in the novel she was writing and used it as a pretext to meet Tōgō for research. According to her later recollections, when they met, he still had a bandage wrapped around his neck—something she claimed “drove her mad.” He invited her to his home and showed her the bloodstained tatami. For Chiyo, it was irresistible. The encounter became an affair.

Their relationship burned bright. They built an elegant home together—borrowing money along the way—and Chiyo devoted herself to supporting his art, even sidelining her own writing to help him rebuild his reputation. But after four years, around 1934, Tōgō left her to reunite with the same woman he had once tried to die alongside.

While they were going through their separation, Chiyo was serializing Iro Zange (Confessions of Love), a novel that drew heavily from Tōgō’s real-life experiences. In it, she described his suicide attempt and personal struggles just as he had once recounted them to her—or so she claimed. And gossip sells. When the book was finally published in 1935, it became a massive bestseller—her most commercially successful work up to that point.

Besides giving her the biggest hit of her career, the relationship also transformed her style.

To please Tōgō, she abandoned the heavy white makeup and adopted instead a more natural face and “Parisian chic” way of dressing, making Western clothes a bigger part of her life. Her beauty routine—once a symbol of personal reinvention and beauty-as-armor—gave way to oil-based cosmetics and a subtler, more European look. Tōgō, in turn, began wearing kimono to please her.

Which is why Uno Chiyo is a perfect embodiment of the moga—the “modern girl.” She lived its contradictions. She loved makeup, fashion, and independence, but deep down, she remained traditional. She cut her hair to look younger for Ozaki. She embraced Western clothes for Tōgō. She didn’t start trends—but she made them fashionable. She wasn’t radical; she was romantic, aspirational, and unapologetically feminine.

This set her apart from the atarashii onna—the “New Women” of the previous generation. Figures like Raichō Hiratsuka, the anarchist feminist who founded Seito, wore Western clothes as early as 1919—over a decade before Chiyo—not for style, but as a political act. Hiratsuka fought to remake society and demand equality between the sexes.

Uno admired and was inspired by Raichō—but she didn’t follow her path. She wasn’t trying to overthrow the system; she simply wanted to live beautifully within it. She divorced, pursued what she wanted, and succeeded in a male-dominated world—always with an eye toward romance, beauty, and joy.

As Barbara Sato notes, Uno’s readership stretched far beyond Tokyo’s literary elite. Her fans included rural housewives bound by duty, tending clay stoves and enduring daily battles with in-laws. Raichō spoke of revolution. Chiyo offered escape—a path to personal transformation through beauty, style, and emotion.

Uno wasn’t a feminist writer. Her early heroines didn’t seek liberation—they sought romantic fulfillment. For them, success meant being desired, not independent. In that sense, Uno, like most of Japanese society, was conservative. But she made her conservatism glamorous. She chose handsome, accomplished men. She was meticulous about her appearance—not out of vanity, but because beauty was her joy. “Not dressing up is worse than stealing,” she once said. She never appeared without makeup and went to the salon weekly. Fashion and cosmetics weren’t superficial—they were tanoshisa, pure delight.

Like any true moga, she adored movie stars. Her idol was American actress Kay Francis, and by the late 1930s, Uno’s famously shaped eyebrows were a clear homage. But by being an oshare girl, Uno also reshaped what it meant to be a woman writer (joryū sakka). In the Taisho era, literature was a men’s club. By the Showa era, that had changed so much that beloved TV host Tetsuko Kuroyanagi recalled that, alongside actress, being a josei sakka had become one of the most desirable professions. Chiyo helped make it that stylish.

And speaking of stylish professions—what did she do after breaking up with Togo? She launched a fashion magazine, of course.

To be continued…

How Japan's 1920s modern girls sparked a century of style, scandal and cultural anxiety.

The early 2000s were a defining era in Japanese fashion, when a kaleidoscope of style tribes captured global attention and brought new energy to the streets of Tokyo. In Shibuya, tanned gyarus reimagined school uniforms as fashion statements—pairing shortened skirts with loose socks, dyed hair, and platform shoes. Harajuku, meanwhile, became a technicolor runway where young trendsetters showcased eclectic looks sourced from indie boutiques. And in the upscale neighborhoods of Omotesando and Ginza, chic office ladies draped in luxury brands spent freely on themselves, reinforcing Japan’s status as a global fashion capital.

These vibrant subcultures didn’t emerge in a vacuum. They were born from the wave of consumerism that followed Japan’s postwar boom—but their origins stretch even further back. Nearly 80 years earlier, the mogas—modern girls of the Taisho era—were already rewriting fashion rules, offering an early glimpse of the youth-driven style revolutions to come.

The Rise of the Mogas

Unlike the fashion tribes of early 2000s Japan, the mogas—short for "modern girls"—were not a uniquely Japanese phenomenon. They were part of a broader global movement in the 1920s, when women around the world began defying patriarchal norms and embracing pleasure, independence, and self-expression.

The 1920s lacked the instant communication and global connectivity we take for granted today, yet the rise of mass media and a period of upward mobility sparked a remarkably synchronized cultural shift. Across continents, women began asserting themselves as modern consumers with their own tastes, hobbies, and desires. They wore makeup, had casual sex, danced to jazz, drove cars, and pursued pleasure—often without seeking male approval. In the U.S., amid the glitz and upheaval of the Roaring Twenties, and in the U.K., they were flappers, immortalized by stars like Joan Crawford and Clara Bow. In France, they were the garçonnes, stylish women who idolized Coco Chanel. In Germany, the neue Frauen emerged, while in China, the modeng xiaojie—modern misses—flaunted the latest trends.

A viral picture of a group of modern girls strolling around Tokyo in the '20s (picture by Kagayama Kyoyo)

As in other parts of the world, Japan experienced its own wave of cultural transformation during the Taishō era—short-lived, yet culturally significant and with lasting influence. Urbanization and the rise of print media and mass advertising gave birth to a new consumer culture. Urban women of that period—now beneficiaries of the Meiji reforms that introduced universal education—came of age in a society that, for a brief moment, leaned toward liberalism and democratic ideals. Before long, rising nationalism and militarism swept that openness away. It was in this fleeting interwar window that the moga, or “modern girl,” emerged.

Influenced by American and French movie stars and fashion icons, mogas strolled through city streets sporting bobbed hair, high heels, red lips, penciled eyebrows, and eyes accented with shadow and liner—outfits and styling that reflected the latest Western trends. Their look marked a sharp break from the traditional image of Japanese women in kimonos and formal hairstyles.

To the rural majority, these women were unsettling. To nationalist critics, they symbolized moral decay brought on by Western decadence and frivolity. To left-wing intellectuals, they were vapid and obsessed with consumerism. But mogas weren’t interested in provoking debate or engaging in politics—they simply didn’t care. Much like today’s oshare girls, they wanted to enjoy life: to wear cute clothes, experiment with makeup, dine in stylish restaurants, hang out at cafés, fall in love, and immerse themselves in pop culture—especially jazz and American films. Their rebellion was rooted not in ideology, but in pleasure and consumerism.

The Naomi Phenomenon

Like the gyaru of the 2000s, mogas were often associated with debauchery—illicit affairs, alcohol, cigarettes, and a carefree attitude that defied traditional norms. Their image was further cemented in the public imagination with the massive success of Jun'ichirō Tanizaki’s 1925 novel Chijin no Ai (literally A Fool’s Love, published in English as Naomi).

Tanizaki’s book tells the story of Naomi, a seductive working-class teenager, and Jōji, a bland but financially secure salaryman who narrates the story. He meets the 15-year-old Naomi at the Akasaka coffee shop where she works and quickly falls under her spell. Determined to groom and educate her into the perfect modern woman, the 28-year-old Jōji instead finds himself completely dominated by her.

Naomi is a textbook moga: she’s not especially educated or intellectually curious, but she adores trends, Western fashion, going to the movies, and flipping through foreign magazines she can’t even read. With her haafu (mixed-race) features, Western name, and magnetic beauty, which the narrator compares to American silent movie star Mary Pickford, she knows exactly how to weaponize her appearance to get what she wants.

During the Meiji and early Taishō periods, Akasaka—where Naomi works in Chijin no Ai—vied with Ginza as one of Tokyo’s most modern districts. By the time the novel was published, however, Ginza had surged far ahead, especially after its post–Great Kantō Earthquake reconstruction cemented its status as Japan’s trendsetting epicenter. Originally shaped by European influences, Ginza entered the early Shōwa era under the sway of American culture, with jazz and Hollywood films defining the zeitgeist. It boasted the city’s most fashionable cafés, restaurants, and boutiques, along with three major department stores—Mitsukoshi, Matsuya, and Matsuzakaya. If you were looking for the latest Western goods, from chewing gum to imported cigarettes, Ginza was the place to be. The photo above captures a stylish madam in 1933 shopping for imported cigarettes at a Ginza tobacconist (source). At the time, mobos and mogas favored British-style rollies like Cherry or Airship, but the truly affluent—like the woman pictured—opted for U.S.-imported Camels or luxury brands like Abdullah from the U.K. Below left, a tinted postcard shows prewar Ginza Boulevard with its iconic Hattori clock tower. On the right, a 1932 Shufu no Tomo postcard captures a row of luxury taxicabs lined up in the neighborhood—a striking image from a time when cars were still a rare sight. Shufu no Tomo was a huge-selling magazine geared towards the traditional houewive (the title means Housewife's Friend) proving that even them were dreaming of Ginza (source)

In many ways, Naomi—like the mogas themselves—represents the collision of East and West. In a country where female submission was expected, Tanizaki painted her as a devilish woman who mastered the art of playing innocent while bending men to her will. The novel frames her as an antagonist: she’s terrible at housework and cooking, she’s selfish, untrustworthy, sexually promiscuous, and uninterested in studying. But what she lacks in traditional virtues, she makes up for in manipulative charm and irresistible beauty.

Despite her role as a kind of villain, it’s Naomi’s charisma that made Chijin no Ai a cultural phenomenon. She might not be “good,” but she’s captivating—and that allure becomes a strength. The novel reflects the ideals of aestheticism, a late 19th-century European art movement that prized beauty above all else. Tanizaki, heavily influenced by this philosophy, treats Naomi’s looks not just as superficial appeal but as a force of power.

So powerful was her image that it gave rise to a term of its own: Naomism, coined to describe women who shared Naomi’s traits. Her free-spirited femme fatale style turned her into a muse for women across Japan. Though Naomi fits into a recognizable international archetype—one that might read as cliché today—it’s striking that Chijin no Ai was published nearly two decades before Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, another novel centered on obsession, youth, and control, told through the eyes of an unreliable (and creepy) older man. While the two works differ in tone, style, and cultural context, both complicate the reader’s sympathies and deliberately blur the lines between victim and manipulator, control and submission. In Japan, the figure Naomi embodies—the koakuma, or “little devil”—is a lasting archetype, celebrated and imitated in literature and pop culture, especially among women who saw in her a subversive kind of power.

For many young women in 1920s Japan, Naomi’s character offered something aspirational. She was from a modest background—proof that the moga lifestyle was within reach. She wasn’t particularly clever, but her beauty allowed her to live on her own terms, ignoring social expectations with little consequence. In Chijin no Ai, beauty becomes freedom. Even today, that message resonates in a country where appearance and presentation—especially for women—continue to carry enormous weight.

The novel also explores another deep-rooted aspect of Japanese culture: sadomasochism. While in the West, S&M is often confined to sexual subcultures, in Japan, it plays a more general role in discussions around relationships and power dynamics. It’s common to categorize personalities as either S (dominant) or M (submissive), with men traditionally expected to take the dominant role. Jōji, like Tanizaki himself, is portrayed as a clear masochist, entranced by Naomi’s control.

In many respects, Tanizaki was a “modern boy” in his own right—a bohemian drawn to Western aesthetics and cosmopolitan life. This fascination came into full bloom during his years in Yokohama, one of Japan’s most international port cities. After the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake devastated Tokyo and the surrounding region, Tanizaki relocated to Kansai, once again choosing to be near a cosmopolitan port town—Kobe—and building a Western-style house during the Great Osaka Era. His home, of course, was in the Hanshin suburb of Ashiya.

That move to Kansai also explains why Chijin no Ai, though set in Tokyo, was first serialized in an Osaka newspaper. While the story was an instant hit, it scandalized many of the Asahi Shimbun's older readers, prompting the paper to cancel the serialization. A few months later, the magazine Josei (“Woman”), aimed at the moga demographic, picked it up—and there, it thrived. Shortly after its conclusion, the full novel was published in book form.

The novel’s run in Josei highlights several key elements that fueled the moga movement: the rise of mass media, the rapid growth of magazine publishing, and the increasing power of advertising. With newspaper circulations in the millions, ideas and images spread more quickly than ever. Josei was one of several magazines aimed at the new female consumer, and it played a major role in promoting moga-style fashion and attitudes across the country.

Not coincidentally, the magazine’s parent company was part of a conglomerate that had a vested interest in the moga boom: its fortune was built on cosmetics. Despite the connection, Josei’s editor and contributors prided themselves on the magazine’s distance from commercialism.

As for Tanizaki, he remains one of the most celebrated authors of the Taishō and early Shōwa eras. Fascinated by modernity and trends, and inspired by his surroundings in Ashiya, he went on to write what is widely considered his masterpiece, Sasameyuki (The Makioka Sisters). Set among Osaka’s noble Hanshin elite, the novel explores the tension between modern life and Japanese tradition. One of the younger Makioka sisters embodies the “modern girl” ideal—yet, coming from a privileged background and possessing a very different temperament than the Naomi of Tanizaki’s earlier novella, she brings her own complexities to the clash of cultures.

Ginza Streets and Media Dreams: The Mythologizing of the Moga

The moga boom took off in the mid-1920s, in the years following the Great Kanto Earthquake. Around this time, the modern girl became a hot topic in newspapers and magazines, with writers, essayists, and intellectuals eagerly debating what she represented. Was she a symbol of liberation or a product of frivolity—driven by consumerism and a desire to please men? Did she signal progress, or was she a sign of cultural decline?

Launched in 1922 at the height of the Taishō era, Josei was published by Platonsha, a subsidiary of Osaka-based Club Cosmetics—then Japan’s largest cosmetics company. Unlike bestsellers like Shufu no Tomo or Fujin Sekai, which focused on beauty tips and homemaking, Josei followed in the footsteps of Fujin Kōron, featuring essays, debates, and literature from some of the era’s top intellectuals (mostly men, of course). It also played a key role in popularizing the term and image of the “modern girl” (modan gāru), making it a cultural archetype of the time. Its striking art deco covers and logo—designed by Rokuro Yama—left a lasting mark on Japanese graphic design. Though the magazine claimed to rise above commercialism, its pages were filled with advertorials for Club’s best-selling products. It folded in 1928 amid the early Shōwa recession.

According to the media, modern girls could be found in cities across Japan. But they were especially visible in central Tokyo’s booming districts—most famously Ginza, with its chic cafés and boutiques, but also in Akasaka and Marunouchi. Besides Ginza cafés, dance halls and boutiques and Akasaka cinemas, The Marunouchi Building was also said to be a hub for these young women. Many of them worked there in clerical jobs, using their newfound disposable income to enjoy fashion, entertainment, and nightlife. The building itself became a symbol of modern Tokyo—and even housed one of Japan’s first luxury salons, run by Aiko Yamano (more on her later). 

The moga appeared in films, literature, and in advertisements. Yet despite her visibility, she was often portrayed in a negative light: as hedonistic, deviant, and sometimes even as a sex worker. There was certainly a fascination with her, even admiration—but it was frequently overshadowed by suspicion and moral judgment. Magazines like Josei—which serialized Naomi—devoted countless pages to dissecting her image, as did other popular women’s titles. In fact, it was Kitazawa Shūichi, a frequent Josei collaborator,  who brought the “Modern Girl” term to Japan, inspired by the women he met while living abroad in England.

But amid all this commentary, a question began to emerge: was the moga a real social figure—or merely a media invention?

Café Culture, Jokyū Glamour, and the Mizu Shōbai Blueprint

The “moga” often portrayed in the media is a working class girl who decided to engage in consumerism, trends and fashion. But, in many senses, this woman didn’t really exist. Mostly because it’s not like women in entry-level jobs on extremely low wages could afford this lifestyle.

In Murakami Nobuhiko’s Career Women of the Taishō Era (1983) Torii Shizuko, a Japanese-language typist (born 1909) who worked in the Yaesu Building said: *“People raved that the Marunouchi Building was a fashion mecca, but I never understood why. We wore kimono with service smocks and hardly any make-up. Almost everyone was supporting parents or siblings.”

“Modern girl” and “career woman” were two parallel and often overlapping phenomena that unsettled the public and sparked widespread commentary. The media frequently conflated them, giving the impression that all young working women were mogas. But most office workers didn’t fit the mold at all.

Even the very magazines that helped popularize the moga myth occasionally admitted that the real thing was hard to find. A telling anecdote in Josei’s March 1928 issue describes a visit from a friend from the countryside, eager to spot one of these glamorous city women:

Last year, at the peak of the modern girl craze, a friend from my rural hometown came to Tokyo and begged me, ‘Please show me one of those modern girls! We went to Ginza—the real deal, they say—and then to a couple of cafés, which were supposedly the real real deal. But we didn’t see a single woman who matched the stereotype from novels and magazines. He left bitterly disappointed. Even now, if you stand at a corner in Ginza and try counting how many stylish women pass by, you’ll find barely one in a thousand.

Sometimes Josei or the magazine run by the cosmetics giant Shiseido would observe women outside department stores or in Ginza and would conclude only a tiny minority had Western hairstyles and clothes. Plus, what we could easily forget by observing the flashy department stores in city centers and fashionable districts is that, during the 20s and 30s, Japan was still predominantly an agrarian society, with most women living in rural areas either as homemakers or agricultural labourers.

Still, it’s absolutely true that urban Japan in the 1920s was bursting with life and was the ideal environment for this urban subculture to emerge. “Modern” and “modernism” were basically buzzwords of that era with modern architecture, modern hobbies, modern films, etc. being all the rage. That, in itself, is a reason why so many intellectuals distrusted “modern girls”: because the word “modern” at the time was perceived by many of them as something to describe progressive, innovative movements and the “mogas” were new but they weren’t particularly progressive, instead being seen as hedonistic fashion victims.

Either way, women with proclivity for the new had plenty of things to do and places to go if they had the money and the time: flashy department stores, restaurants with Western cuisine and sweets, the opera, cinemas with the latest movies, dance halls with the latest jazz. Instead of looking up to the traditional geishas or women from noble, traditional families, there were now movie stars from both Japan and the West. After the success of Takarazuka in the West of Japan, all-female revues were also all the rage and spread across the country, with the most notable Takarazuka rival being the Kanto-based Shochiku Kagekidan with their own grand theater in the Tokyo district of Akasaka. The SKD wasn’t as female-targeted as Takarazuka but it was still popular with them.

In the midst of all of this, things associated with “mogas” – short hair, makeup, Western clothes, hedonistic hobbies – were permeating women’s culture as a whole. Plus, the “moga” archetype was also a great way to hack products, used by department stores and often seen in advertisement for a wide range of products.

Unlike the passive, refined “bijin” imagery of earlier ads, these young women embodied dynamism and the modern urban spirit.

But the ads told a distorted story. Mogas were everywhere in print, yet in real life they remained a small, urban minority. Their visibility in media far outweighed their actual numbers. Yes, they did exist. But to what extent?

As Barbara Hamill Sato puts it in The New Japanese Women, the “source materials” on the modern girl -- media reports from the 20s and 30s -- don’t actually tell us what these women were really like. What they do reveal is the conceptual framework through which intellectuals interpreted them. The so-called modan gāru was not a subject in her own right, but rather an object defined within a cultural phenomenon—one mediated by the discourse of the intellectual class via mass media.

Café Printemps (left) sparked Ginza’s café boom, followed by Café Lion, which popularized the now-iconic café jokyū (waitress), and Café Paulista, known for its Brazilian coffee and still in operation today. These pioneering spots offered more than just coffee—they served Western alcohol, food, and sweets, creating an atmosphere of modern indulgence. Their success opened the floodgates for countless others, from cafés owned by movie stars to more provocative establishments backed by Osaka capital and transplanted from the Kansai scene

And by the late 1920s, public perception of them had grown increasingly hostile. For a working-class woman to afford such a lifestyle, she would almost certainly need a man’s financial support. That reality fed the stereotype of the moga as manipulative, materialistic, or promiscuous—a “gold digger” in Western terms. Or worse, a prostitute. These anxieties would only intensify with the rise of the café girl, a new symbol of female independence—and moral panic.

At the time, Ginza was the place to be — a fashionable playground for the youth, where gin-bura (a Taishō-era slang term meaning “aimlessly strolling around Ginza”) became a popular pastime. Cafés were already a potent symbol of the modernist wave sweeping through the neighborhood — with their Western-style food, coffee, and liquor, they embodied the allure of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. They attracted urban dwellers, especially mobos (modern boys — the male counterpart to the moga, far more common but far less scrutinized), who were eager to sample Western sophistication. For young women, cafés offered a rare opportunity: you didn’t need formal education or special skills to work there, and the job came with a far more glamorous and stylish image than factory or farm work. As a result, working as a café waitress (女給, jokyū) became a popular profession. In the public imagination, mogas and jokyū — clad in their signature white aprons — became deeply intertwined, a connection famously embodied by the character Naomi in Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s Chijin no Ai.

Establishments like Café Lion, Café Paulista, and Café Printemps in Ginza gained reputations for hiring beautiful young women — part of the appeal alongside the food and drinks. While customers, especially mobos, flocked to admire the waitresses, strict rules kept everything platonic. Any violation of these boundaries often led to immediate dismissal.

Then came the newly opened Café Tiger, which flipped the script by hiring these dismissed waitresses specifically to flirt, chat, and even sit on customers’ laps. The concept was an instant hit, sparking a wave of similar cafés across the city. Amid the broader ero-guro-nansensu (erotic-grotesque-nonsense) boom, even more risqué cafés — many inspired by or imported from Kansai, where things were even rowdier — began to appear, offering increasingly explicit services.

In many ways, the café jokyū became the prototype for a postwar staple of Japanese nightlife: the hostess. The parallels are striking — a mix of glamour and the murky underworld of the mizu shōbai; the promise of financial independence for working-class girls who happened to be young and beautiful. And just as hostesses in the 2000s were often seen as post-gyaru, the café jokyū was often cast as a kind of moga. This association, of course, only reinforced the public’s tendency to view mogas — and by extension, these women — as marginal figures or even delinquents.

Elite Mogas

The mogas of the 1920s stood in sharp contrast to the earlier atarashii onna—the "New Women" who emerged in the prior decade. That earlier generation was radical, politically driven, and fiercely committed to women's liberation. Most were highly educated, from prominent families and influenced by the pioneering feminist magazine Seito (Bluestocking), founded by writer and intellectual Hiratsuka Raichō.

By comparison, the Modern Girls—or moga—were less overtly political. They were mostly ordinary young women pursuing personal freedom, financial independence, and modern lifestyles, often without aligning themselves with any broader feminist ideology. This more casual embrace of modernity provoked sharp criticism from earlier feminists like Hiratsuka herself. She scoffed at the moga’s Americanized style—“skirts down to the knee, pale silk stockings, small shoes with high heels, hair barbered daringly short at the nape so that the neck is completely exposed, and make-up modeled on film actresses, especially the vividly red lips”—as little more than surface-level rebellion. “It seems that anyone, given enough money and leisure, could become one in an instant,” she remarked, dismissing them as a fad lacking substance. Her critique echoed a common view among highbrow intellectuals of the time.

Traditional and modern collided in Ginza, as a woman in Western dress passed by two friends in traditional kimonos—still the most common attire at the time.

Shuichi Kitazawa, who coined the term “modern girl” after encountering liberated women in England, offered a more idealistic take. To him, the moga wasn’t a feminist, but “a woman who never considered herself a slave to men, who asserts her own desires and acts freely to honor herself.” Yet that vision was aspirational at best. In a deeply patriarchal society like Japan, most working women had few viable paths to independence. For the average girl, true freedom remained out of reach.

This disconnect helps explain why the moga ideal, though controversial, found firmer footing among women of the elite. In upper-class circles, “modern girls” weren’t such a radical departure. As far back as the Meiji period, affluent women had already begun incorporating Western fashion—like corsets and bustled skirts—into their wardrobes for formal events. Such styles were available at department stores like Mitsukoshi but remained impractical and out of reach for everyday wear. It wasn’t until the 1920s, with simpler silhouettes and lighter fabrics, that Western clothing became more accessible.

By the time the moga craze took hold in magazines and media, wealthier women were already well-versed in Western fashion. More importantly, they had the time, money, and social insulation to explore the “modern girl” lifestyle on their own terms—without the stigma or financial pressures faced by working-class women. In many ways, they were the closest realization of the free-spirited moga Kitazawa imagined.

A 1936 roundtable in Fujin Kōron, one of the most influential women’s magazines of the era, titled "Why I Won’t Get Married: A Discussion of the Troubles of Marriage”, captured this dynamic. It featured unmarried women from intellectual and artistic families—Ayame Tsuda, daughter of the nihonga painter Seihō Tsuda; Yoshiko Nii, daughter of critic Itaru Nii; and Ema Togawa, daughter of English literature scholar Shūkotsu Togawa. Many were graduates of the prestigious Bunka Gakuin. These women, by their own admission, didn’t need to work to put food in their table. They could afford to enjoy the freedom, style, and leisurely pursuits associated with the moga life—shopping and dining in Ginza, pursuing hobbies, and delaying or outright rejecting marriage. They belonged to the ojōsama class—daughters of high-status families—and couldn’t be lumped in with working-class mogas as delinquents.

Early café culture, with its emphasis on café jokyū (waitresses), was largely male-oriented—women were there to work, not to linger. But that changed quickly as modern girls began flocking to cafés and food parlors as customers, driving the popularity of Western-inspired sweets like fruit cakes and ice cream. Sembikiya, now a luxury fruit retailer still prominent today, opened its Ginza fruit parlor at the end of the Meiji era and gained momentum through the Taishō and Shōwa periods. With offerings like strawberry shortcake, banana shortbread, fruit parfaits, and punch, Sembikiya—alongside department store restaurants—became one of the first eateries in Ginza where an unaccompanied woman could be at ease. Not long after, a rival emerged in Shinjuku: Takano. Though the area was still transitioning from its rural past, it quickly developed into Japan’s busiest hub, and Takano grew alongside it, becoming a landmark of the area. Like Sembikiya, it embraced the new taste for indulgence, and continues to serve fruit-centered treats to this day.

They were women like Toshiko Yamawaki, a Western-style painter, fashion illustrator, and researcher who came from a wealthy family and led a thoroughly modern life. In 1929, she participated in a “Beauty Roundtable” published by Mainichi Shimbun, one of Japan’s largest newspapers, alongside literary critic and translator Itaru Nii—one of the first intellectuals to popularize the term modern girl in Japan.

In the discussion, Yamawaki voiced her discomfort with how the label had become superficial and stigmatizing:

That word modern girl, you know... In Japan, the image of a model or modern girl is nothing like the modèle in France. Personally, I feel so sad that Mr. Nii helped popularize the term. It breaks my heart. Even just walking down the street, people immediately call me a modern girl—and that makes me incredibly sad.

To this, Nii responded:

Put on a slightly fashionable Western outfit, get your hair and makeup done at Mrs. Yamano’s salon, carry a handbag, and stroll through Ginza—just like that, you’re labeled a modern girl. But when it comes to a person’s inner spirit, it’s not that simple. Society tends to define modern girls by surface appearances—short hair, Western clothes—rather than substance.

Their exchange laid bare a persistent tension: the divide between what critics and intellectuals believed the modern girl ought to represent and how she was perceived in popular culture. And yet, the very mention of Mrs. Yamano served as a subtle reminder that not all “media approved” modern girls came from elite backgrounds.

If we’re talking about success in financial terms, a number of Ginza café jokyū (waitresses) achieved the so-called fairytale ending by marrying wealthy or intellectual men. Some of them were also famous actresses, singers and performers. Others, however, made their own fortune -- as famous actresses, singers, performers or, like Yamano, through their entrepreneurship. These entrepreneurial mogas capitalized on their “modernity” and became so successful that they were ultimately embraced—even respected—by conservative Japanese society.

Many of them were hairdressers like Mrs. Yamano, aka Aiko Yamano, who also took part in the Mainichi's Beauty Roundtable alongside Yamawaki and Nii.

Driven by a longing for the West, Aiko endured great hardship to live and study in the United States, where she mastered modern hairstyling and cosmetology techniques. After the Great Kantō Earthquake, she returned to Japan with cutting-edge methods like the perm and the Marcel wave. These quickly became fashion staples among Tokyo’s stylish women, and Yamano’s salon—located in the Marunouchi Building—became a massive success.

Her influence grew rapidly. She became a media fixture and used her platform to bring further innovation to Japan. One of her most ambitious ventures was the founding of the Japan Mannequin Club, an agency that supplied fashion models—then called “mannequins”—to department stores. These women were hired to promote products and demonstrate beauty ideals. The job was glamorous and high-paying—though, of course, only available to the very beautiful—and quickly became one of the few aspirational careers open to women at the time.

Among Yamano’s apprentices was Aguri Yoshiuki, who went on to open her own highly successful chain, the Yamanote Beauty Salon. Yamano even mentioned her former student’s salon during the Mainichi Shimbun's Beauty Roundtable:

“There’s that beauty salon in front of Ichigaya-mitsuke—it was designed by Mr. Murayama (Tomoyoshi), I hear. It’s quite a unique building. I went inside and was impressed by how cleverly the small space was used. A very smart layout.”

The Dadaist-style building, designed by Tomoyoshi Murayama and later demolished after the war, was almost certainly influenced by Aguri’s husband, the Dadaist poet and writer Eisuke Yoshiuki.

Then there were figures like Fumiko Hayashi, who carved her own path through the literary world. Unlike the typical moga, Hayashi wasn’t particularly obsessed with fashion or makeup. Plain-looking, she did work as a waitress—but not in the glamorous Ginza, rather in Shinjuku, which at the time was still a rough, recently developed area with rural traces. Her résumé included jobs as a nanny, maid, street vendor, factory hand, office clerk, and newspaper worker—she took whatever she could to survive.

Hayashi came to Tokyo not just chasing a man (although that too), but chasing the city itself. She was drawn to the thrill, the possibility, the sheer scale of life in the capital. She jumped from man to man, job to job, always searching for that sense of vitality—and even in poverty, she was enamored with the modernity the city offered. She befriended writers and intellectuals, attended literary gatherings, and threw herself into the excitement of Tokyo life.

She chronicled her experiences in her breakout work “Hōrōki” (A Wanderer’s Record). While presented in diary form, it reads like a scrapbook—combining diary entries, letters, poems, and tanka. Her prose crackles with life: slang, colloquialisms, katakana loanwords, onomatopoeia, and punchy sentence fragments. It embodied the rawness and thrill of Tokyo in the 1920s. The book became a massive bestseller, beloved by both critics and the public, and transformed Hayashi into a wealthy, respected literary figure embraced by the establishment. In many ways, she exemplified how a woman without status or elite education could still thrive by leaning into her modern sensibilities.

By the 1920s and 1930s, Japan had one of the largest literary markets in the world. While not as groundbreaking as Europe’s, Japan’s readership was deeply engaged—highbrow literature wasn’t just confined to city elites. Serialized fiction by major authors filled the pages of mass-market newspapers, and literary magazines were read widely. A career in literature wasn’t just prestigious—it was profitable and could catapult someone into the mainstream.

It’s no wonder, then, that Chiyo Uno—perhaps the most iconic moga of all—also rose through the literary world. Uno became a powerhouse not only in writing, but also in fashion and beauty. Yet what made her so fascinating was that she embodied many of the traits most criticized in modern girls: her obsession with clothes and cosmetics, her romantic entanglements, and her unabashedly scandalous lifestyle. By all accounts, she could have been dismissed as a social outcast. But instead, she became a celebrated figure—one of the most respected women in Japanese cultural history.

How a post-quake migration, booming industry, and bold urban planning briefly made Kansai the heart of modern pre-war Japan.

The many faces of Osaka, Kansai's economic hub.

Japan has a deep-rooted culture of regional identity, and perhaps no contrast captures this better than the enduring rivalry between its two most populous and economically powerful regions.

To the east lies Kantō, anchored by Tokyo—the nation’s political, financial, and cultural capital. The region includes Japan’s two most populous prefectures, Tokyo and Kanagawa, home to major urban centers like the refined port city of Yokohama and the industrial hub of Kawasaki. Surrounding these are the sprawling suburbs of Saitama and Chiba, as well as more rural areas like Gunma, Tochigi, and Ibaraki.

To the west is Kansai, comprising seven prefectures including Osaka, the region’s commercial powerhouse; Kyoto, the historic former imperial capital; and Hyōgo, where the elegant and cosmopolitan port city of Kobe is located. While Kansai can’t match Kantō in population or overall economic scale, it holds its own through cultural richness, historical prestige, and a distinctly vibrant identity.

Because while Tokyo may seem to have everything, it lacks the easygoing wit of Osaka—the birthplace of manzai comedy and headquarters of entertainment juggernaut Yoshimoto Kogyo—the stylish flair of Kobe, and the timeless sophistication of Kyoto.

That’s why Kansai-jin, the people of Kansai, are fiercely proud of their region, their dialect (Kansai-ben), their cuisine, their customs, and their local stars. One such icon is Emiko Kaminuma, the undisputed queen of Kansai TV, whose shows air almost exclusively within the region. Even small details, like escalator etiquette, reinforce Kansai’s independent spirit—you stand on the left and pass on the right, the opposite of Tokyo.

Kansai is also home to the headquarters of some of Japan’s most influential companies—Panasonic, Nintendo, Suntory, Wacoal, and Takeda Pharmaceutical, among others. And while its contribution to Japan’s GDP is significant, even Kansai locals will admit that Tokyo’s economic dominance is overwhelming. Today, there's no real contest.

But that wasn’t always the case. For centuries, Kansai—home to the ancient capitals of Nara and Kyoto, and the mercantile hub of Osaka—was Japan’s political, cultural, and economic heart. By the early 1600s, however, power shifted east: the Tokugawa shogunate made Edo its seat of government, and over the next two centuries the city grew into the largest metropolis in the world, with more than a million residents. Edo was more urban, populous, and consumer-driven than Kyoto or Osaka, though the emperor still resided in Kyoto and Osaka remained the nation’s commercial kitchen. It was only after the Meiji Restoration in 1868, when the emperor moved east and Edo was renamed Tokyo, that Japan’s political and symbolic capital were unified in one place. From the late 19th century onward, Tokyo expanded rapidly, eventually eclipsing Kansai as the nation’s dominant center.

And yet, for a fleeting moment during the transition from the culturally significant but short-lived Taishō era (1912–1926) to the early years of Shōwa (which began in 1926), it looked as if Kansai might reclaim its crown. Industry boomed, cities modernized, and a sense of cosmopolitan energy swept through the region. This brief but brilliant resurgence became known as the Great Osaka Era—a golden age when the west dared to dream of leading Japan once again.

How Kansai Built the Future: Inside the Great Osaka Era

Some of the iconic Osaka buildings from the Dai Osaka Era: (l–r) the Nankai Building in Namba, home to the Takashimaya Department Store; the courtyard of the iconic Semba Building; Osaka City Hall; the Sumitomo Mitsui Banking Corporation head office; and the Art Deco Shibakawa Building.

Even before the natural disaster that devastated Japan’s capital, Osaka remained the country’s economic engine—more industrialized and more densely populated than Tokyo, even if it no longer led in total population. While Tokyo had grown into the nation’s political and administrative heart, Osaka continued to dominate commerce and manufacturing. Then, on September 1, 1923, the Great Kantō Earthquake struck. Tokyo and Yokohama were reduced to rubble, traumatizing their populations and leaving millions without homes, water, electricity, or reliable transportation for months.

In the aftermath, many fled to other major cities—most notably Kansai, where some of Tokyo’s elite brought their capital, expertise, and ambitions. The influx only accelerated a transformation already underway. What followed was the Great Osaka Era (大大阪時代, Dai Ōsaka Jidai)—a surge of expansion and modernization that unfolded during the pivotal shift from the culturally vibrant Taishō era to the early years of Shōwa. In this moment, despite Tokyo’s rapid rise, Kansai briefly seemed poised to define Japan’s urban future.

By 1925, Osaka annexed 44 neighboring towns and villages, more than doubling its size and becoming Japan’s largest city by both area and population. With that expansion came an ambitious transformation: modern infrastructure, civic planning, and transportation projects redefined the city. During that period, it also built Japan’s first municipal-run subway in 1933, integrating it with department stores and office basements—laying the foundation for the underground shopping arcades that would become a defining feature of Japanese cities in the decades that followed.

The imposing concourse of Hankyu Umeda Station in 1922 which also served as the entrance for the Hankyu Umeda Department Store. It retained its grand architecture for decades — seen above in 1985 and 2001 — before finally closing in 2005 for the Hankyu Department Store’s renovation.

At the same time, Kansai’s private railway companies revolutionized urban development. Electrified, high-speed interurban lines connected Osaka to Kobe, Kyoto, and beyond. The Hanshin corridor—named by combining the second kanji of Osaka (大阪), “阪”, and the first kanji of Kobe (神戸), “神”, into Hanshin (阪神)—became a showcase of transit-oriented development, pioneering Japan’s commuter culture and suburban expansion.

In other words, railway companies like Hanshin and Hankyu didn’t just build train lines— inspired by Hankyu’s Ichizo Kobayashi’s pioneering spirit, they created entire lifestyle ecosystems. Along their routes, they developed department stores (Hankyu Umeda Department Store was Japan’s first full-scale department store integrated with a station), theaters (such as the Hankyu owned Grand Takarazuka Theater), residential neighborhoods, seaside resorts , cultural spaces, and hotels—including the luxurious Koshien Hotel, designed by William Merrell Vories. Hanshin also built family leisure attractions like Hanshin Park—an amusement park and zoo located near Koshien Stadium, which itself was constructed to host the National High School Baseball Championship and later became home to the Hanshin Tigers, the region’s beloved professional baseball team. This seamless integration of transit, commerce, and leisure formed a Kansai-born model that Tokyo would later emulate.

Hankyu Umeda Department Store in 1933.

In fact, this approach became the blueprint for modern urban Japan. In Tokyo, Tokyu Corporation applied the same strategy to build Shibuya into a retail and cultural hub, and later helped bring Tokyo Disneyland to Chiba. Other railway companies—like Odakyu, Seibu, JR East, and Keio—turned Shinjuku into Japan’s largest commercial district (and by some metrics, the world’s busiest), while doing the same for Ikebukuro, Ginza, Yūrakuchō, and other core neighborhoods.

Back in Kansai, the railways also developed an affluent suburban belt known as the Hanshinkan suburbs, which included areas like Ashiya and Takarazuka. These communities featured Western-style villas, golf courses, and cultural institutions, and remain among Japan’s most prestigious addresses to this day.

Alongside Hankyu Umeda, Osaka’s luxurious department stores flourished during this time. In 1922, Daimaru Shinsaibashi was rebuilt in a striking Art Deco style. The following year, Matsuzakaya—originally from Nagoya—expanded into Osaka, opening a grand Western-style building in the same district. Takashimaya’s current Namba flagship opened in 1932. Together, these developments helped turn Namba and Shinsaibashi into major commercial centers, while Dōtonbori—glowing with neon signs, cinema palaces, and food stalls—became the face of modern Osaka nightlife.

Midosuji Station when it opened in 1933.

Just a few blocks away, Midōsuji Boulevard emerged as the city’s premier high-end shopping street, with the Midōsuji metro line—still Osaka’s most important—running directly beneath it.

Outside Osaka, both Kyoto and Kobe experienced parallel growth. In Kyoto, the long-established Takashimaya store underwent aggressive renovation, while 1933 saw the opening of Fujii Daimaru, a more trend-focused department store aimed at modern women. In Kobe, Daimaru Motomachi catered to both Japanese elites and Western expatriates, and in 1935, Sogo Kobe opened and quickly became the city’s top retail destination. Kobe’s port was also massively expanded and, by the 1930s, had surpassed Yokohama to become Japan’s busiest international port.

Meanwhile, Kyoto invested in civic improvements of its own—expanding its streetcar network, widening roads, and reorganizing temple and shopping districts. Its women’s colleges and art schools flourished, reinforcing its role as Kansai’s intellectual and cultural counterweight to Osaka’s commercial dominance.

The Glico Running Man sign — a permanent ad for the Osaka-based confectionery company — is one of the city's most recognizable landmarks. It has illuminated the Dotonbori Canal since 1935, during the Great Osaka Era. On the left, the original sign; on the right, the current, instantly recognizable version.

While the entire Kansai region thrived, Osaka stood at the center. The city poured resources into modern infrastructure—waterworks, sewage systems, electric lighting, streetcars, and subways—laying the foundation for its modern identity. From its department stores and railway networks to the debut of its now-iconic neon signage—including the first Glico Man in 1935—Osaka as we know it today was born during the Great Osaka Era.

Yet beyond the numbers and construction, the era also marked a deeper shift. A new sensibility began to take hold—a modern, Western-influenced way of living that reshaped the architecture, fashion, and cultural rhythms of Kansai. It was in this moment that the region began to not only move differently, but to look, dress, and dream differently too.

Hanshikan Modernism

One consequence of the Great Osaka Era was the emergence of Hanshinkan Modernism—a lifestyle and cultural movement centered in the affluent Hanshinkan Belt, a string of planned suburbs developed along the railway corridor between Osaka and Kobe. Blending Kansai traditions with Western innovations in food, fashion, architecture, and leisure, it reflected the ambitions of a rising urban elite.

The city of Ashiya in Hyōgo Prefecture came to embody this ideal. Nestled between the Rokko mountains and the sea, it offered a picturesque, orderly, and distinctly modern enclave. With tree-lined boulevards and expansive villas inspired by European designs, Ashiya appealed to Kansai’s upper class as a symbol of refined suburban life. The area’s legacy endures: Ashiya remains one of Japan’s most exclusive addresses, with fashion magazines still romanticizing the aspirational lifestyle of the “Ashiya woman.”

A tree-lined street in Ashiya during the fall of 2024.

While Ashiya stood out, it was part of a broader trend. Suburbs throughout the Hanshinkan corridor flourished in the 1920s and ’30s, thanks to developers like Hanshin and Hankyu, who marketed suburban life as an escape from Osaka’s industrial grime—then known as “Smoke City.” These rail-linked enclaves promised clean air, green space, and modern comforts beyond the city’s limits.

The area also catered to sophisticated urban tastes. Jazz cafés and dance halls opened in quick succession, while in 1924, Hankyu launched the Takarazuka Grand Theater to draw visitors to the suburb of Takarazuka. Its all-female Takarazuka Revue was a modern counterpoint to the traditional all-male Tokyo-based Kabuki. The 4,100-seat theater dwarfed the capital's 1,100-seat Kabuki-za and became a cultural landmark.

Hotels, golf courses, and seaside resorts completed the picture of leisure and affluence. Sports like golf and tennis—then considered “modern”—spread across Japan after taking root among Hanshinkan’s wealthy residents.

When the Great Kantō Earthquake destroyed the Tokyo offices of Kinema Junpo, Japan's first and most important film magazine at the time, its editors relocated the editorial base to the Hanshin area, establishing outposts in Ashiya and Kohakuen.

The Hanshinkan region also became a magnet for artists. Western-style painters like Asano Menpu, Okamoto Toki, and Narashige Koide moved there after the 1923 Kantō earthquake, bringing with them influences from Cubism, Futurism, and Constructivism. Koide established a studio in Ashiya and mentored younger artists. Others who lived and worked in the area included Jirō Yoshihara, Jirō Kamiyama, and Saburō Hasegawa. Nihonga painter Kagaku Murakami relocated from Kyoto to Ashiya for health reasons, and Hayashi Shigeyoshi worked from nearby Sumiyoshi.

The original Koshien hotel and the Takarazua Grand Theater lobby as of 2020.

Perhaps the most famous cultural figure to settle in the region was Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, one of Japan’s greatest modern novelists. After the earthquake, he moved from Tokyo to Ashiya, where he found inspiration in the refined yet changing world around him. His masterpiece, The Makioka Sisters (細雪 / Sasameyuki), is set in this milieu, capturing the rhythms and anxieties of modern affluent Kansai life.

In 1931, Tanizaki reflected on Osaka and its people in his essay 『私が見た大阪人』 (The Osaka People as I Saw Them), offering a sharply observed—if at times ambivalent—glimpse of the era’s cultural shifts:

When I started this account, the goal was simple: to track Japan’s trend, fashion, and oshare culture from the postwar years—specifically after the dressmaking boom—through to the present.

But the deeper I dug, the clearer it became that prewar Japan wasn’t just a prelude—it was a vital part of the story.

Many of the consumer habits, aesthetic sensibilities, and lifestyle ideals we associate with modern Japan were already taking shape in the decades before World War II. And of course, the postwar era—especially during the dressmaking craze—had its own complex layers too.

Shoujo manga, comics for girls, played a pivotal role in shaping Japanese girls’ culture, and its dynamic evolution mirrors the prevailing trends and aspirations of the era. For many, this genre peaked in the 1970s. But why?

Part 1

Part 2

Follow the Trend

Before we move on to the third movement of the '70s, let's take a quick look at an essential characteristic of shoujo manga: its sensitivity to trends.

The early '70s were a confusing time for the industry. There was extreme freedom in certain corners, with Yukari Ichijo, Machiko Satonaka, and other prominent artists drawing very adult-like drama in shoujo magazines for very young girls. In contrast, there was also a lot of moralism. The fact manga wasn't taken very seriously meant magazines could get away with a lot since adults considered them terrible influences anyway. But, at the same time, since manga wasn't a respected medium, they were also prone to hysteria. Nothing illustrates this scenario better than the controversies surrounding "Harenchi Gakuen," the first full-length series by Go Nagai, who went on to become one of the most celebrated manga artists of the '70s.

Shameless! The nudity and erotic jokes in Go Nagai''s "Harenchi Gakuen" were a hit with kids and teens, scandalized parents and teachers, and made the shoujo industry chase after their own erotic hits.

Nagai, already a respected yet fledgling name in the industry, was recruited by Shueisha to be part of Shonen Jump's inaugural team in the late '60s. Jump, as any manga fan knows, is by far the biggest success story in manga's editorial history. However, back then, it was just a newcomer in a field dominated by Kodansha's Weekly Shonen Magazine and Shogakukan's Shonen Sunday. Go Nagai's series, whose translated name meant "Shameless High School," is Jump's initial smash hit and one of the titles behind its extraordinary ascent.

But "Harenchi Gakuen," a gag manga with erotic jokes, scandalized adults across the nation. The Japanese Parents and Teachers Association successfully led a Shonen Jump boycott, getting the magazine banned in several shops across the country and triggering a media circus. At the time, agitated journalists often accosted Go Nagai at airports and public events, aggressively pointing their mics at him, a consequence of manga-kas celebrity-like notoriety during that era.

Meanwhile, the reaction around "Harenchi Gakuen" did not intimidate other manga magazines. In fact, all of them were pursuing their own "harenchi"-like phenomenon and publishing stories with erotic dirty jokes. And yes, that included the manga magazines for little girls. In Ribon, male manga-ka Hikaru Yuzuki was responsible for the "dirty" manga series. At Weekly Margaret, Yuzuki also had a considerable hit with the high school comedy "Elite Kyousoukyoku," which, while not precisely "ecchi," had a tone reminiscent of Nagai's work. At Nakayoshi, the artist in charge of this type of content was none other than a pre-"Candy Candy" Yumiko Igarashi.

Before finding success with the smash hit "Candy Candy" manga, Yumiko Igarashi was the Nakayoshi artist in charge of recreating the "harenchi" phenomenon in the pages of the magazine. Above, in a good display of how public manga artists were in the '70s, Yumiko describes her panties as part of a Nakayoshi feature.

The "harenchi" phenomenon hinted at a shoujo field that wasn't yet wholly solidified and, therefore, was taking cues straight from the shonen segment, which would later become uncommon. But it also illustrates how the genre projects readers' dreams and preferences.

An example of this is one of Ribon's most popular series during the '70s, Yukko Yamamoto's "Miki to Apple Pie." Serialized between 1973 and 1976, this gag high school manga was full of absurd humor and nudity in the "Harenchi" vein. The twist is that it also had everything girls dreamed of. 

The "apple pie" in the title was a reference to the lead character's favorite dessert during the time the American apple pie had just arrived in Japan and was considered the trendiest sweet. Miki Miyazawa, a popular and beautiful girl who served as the proxy for readers and was loosely modeled after talento Aki Aizawa, also loved astrology and the horoscope, and the romantic lead was a transfer student named Hideki Nanjo, who was a carbon copy of Hideki Saijo, the biggest popstar heartthrob of the '70s. Basically, "Miki to Apple Pie"'s central premise was "What if the popstars girls go crazy for was your silly gorgeous classmate?".

In fact, a testament to Saijo's popularity was how many shoujo manga romantic partners of the era used him as a model. Besides "Miki to Apple Pie," inserts of him were present in Satonaka Machiko's "Spotlight," Shigeko Maehara's "Kimi Iro no Hibi," Mayumi Yoshida's "Lemon Hakusho," among others.

With nudity, slapstick humor, and numerous references to trends and pop culture, "Miki to Apple Pie" became a sensation in the pages of '70s Ribon. The romantic lead, Hideki Nanjo, modeled after heartthrob Hideki Saiji, frequently performed impromptu renditions of popular hits from stars like Agnes Chan, Finger Five, Momoe Yamaguchi, Junko Sakurada, and, of course, Hideki Saiji himself. Full of shockingly offensive and scatological jokes, very little was considered off-limits, making "Miki to Apple Pie" a quintessential example of the distinctive '70s shoujo manga published during the peak of the "Harenchi" boom. It also serves as a perfect time capsule of its era, satirizing and commenting on everything popular at the time—from iconic products like the Panasonic Quintrix television and memorable TV commercials to celebrities, the toilet paper shortage during the Oil Shock, the Discover Japan campaign, and the widespread teenage girls' fascination with horoscopes. This manga elevated shoujo manga's trend obsession to unprecedented heights and mixed it with absurdity.

Saijo is a relic of the past, but shoujo echoing the trends of its time is a timeless characteristic of the genre. That's why most shoujo artists are women who are close in age to their readers: this sensibility to girls' desires is a vital component of the market. From the way the characters look to how they dress to even the shape of their eyebrows, everything is supposed to reflect its time. Therefore, to successfully create shoujo, one has to understand how girls perceive themselves and also how they want to be perceived. How they dress and look, but also how and what they dream of looking and wearing. What they aspire to and, above all, what they find attractive in the opposite sex.

It was precisely that sensitivity and this unique sense of what girls want and dream of that led to the creation of what is now the number 1 shoujo manga trope: the high school romance starring an unassuming, ordinary heroine. Leading the way was another group of artists that, while not as internationally celebrated as the Year 24 Group, are definitely equally as crucial to shoujo history.

The Otometique Fervor

An "otometique" girl by Mutsu A-ko and some of the artist's popular furoku.

Yoshiko Nishitani, another of Shueisha's top shoujo artists of that era, is often credited as being the first to create a series around ordinary high school love. She did that in 1965's "Marie Lou," published in Weekly Margaret. "Marie Lou" was set in an American high school and had a very fashionable white girl as its lead. On her next manga, "Lemon to Sakuranbo" (Lemon and Cherries), she'd once again achieve immense success by bringing the teen romance closer to reality, using an ordinary Japanese high school as a backdrop.

While Nishitani pioneered this narrative style, the rise of more realistic, everyday stories gained momentum about a decade later. One catalyst for this was the "Otometique boom," a phenomenon that unfolded in the pages of Shueisha's Ribon magazine in the latter half of the '70s.

The term "Otometique" combines "otome," meaning "maiden" or a pure young girl, with the "-tique" (tikku in Japanese) suffix. A-ko Mutsu was the artist who spearheaded this movement.

A-ko made her debut in Ribon in 1971 at the age of 18. Her popularity skyrocketed four years later when her first short stories, led by "Tasogaredoki ni mitsuketa no" (What I Found at Twilight), were compiled into a tankobon that became a best-seller. This success elevated her status in Ribon, and soon her "otometique" style became the talk of the town.

Mutsu A-ko's art.

In contrast to the dramatic narratives of the "Satonaka-domain" faction, "otometique" stories adopted a more straightforward structure devoid of major plot twists and intense drama. Instead, they focused on modest love stories where the exhilarating moments were ordinary occurrences, like spotting a cute boy on the street or touching a crush's hand for the first time. While some stories included sad or supernatural elements, readers were captivated by the uncomplicated, heartwarming moments. 

Ako's heroines were ordinary, unassuming schoolgirls, often characterized by shyness and insecurity. Different from extraordinary characters like Lady Oscar from "BeruBara" or the iconic Madame Butterfly tennis star in "Ace wo Nerae," Ako's protagonists were life-sized. 

"Otometique" manga often incorporated romantic comedy tropes, such as chance encounters with cute guys on the way to school or the transformation into beauty after removing glasses. The happy endings typically featured a boy reciprocating the girl's love by accepting her as perfect and beautiful just as she was.

In otometique manga, girls were often in cute plaid and gingham check dresses and skirts, while boys were impeccably dressed in Ivy style, as seen in Mutsu Ako's art above.

While the stories may have seemed mundane, their distinctiveness lay in the meticulous attention to detail. As significant as the exploration of falling in love and discovering inner strength were all the visual details in "otometique" art. Girls had braids or long wavy hair and wore adorable clothes with plaids and gingham-check, as well as cute accessories. At a time when most Japanese girls still had Japanese-style rooms, "otometique" heroines had gorgeous Western-style rooms. They hung out in cozy cafes, made handmade goods, and ate tasty-looking sweets. Houses had French windows and balconies. Boys were tall, lean, with fluffy hair, and were always dressed impeccably in Ivy-style clothes. The "otometique" artists created an atmosphere that perfectly matched girls' aspirations at the time.

Girls often dreamed with having Western-style bedrooms like the ones in Otometique manga.

While Mutsu A-ko was the trailblazer, she was soon joined at the top by two other iconic artists, Yumiko Tabuchi, and Hideko Tachikake. Each of them had their quirks. Tabuchi, for example, often had college girls as her heroines, mirroring herself as a student at the elite, trendy Waseda University. While Tabuchi and A-ko preferred short stories, Tachikake had a penchant for longer series with a bit more drama. But they all had a similar aesthetic and relied on the charm of ordinary love.

The "otometique" phenomenon reflected the trends of the time and foreshadowed the emerging consumer culture that would swallow the country in the next decade. The sophisticated visuals attracted people of all ages, from elementary school-aged girls to highly educated women and men. Both the top public and private universities in Japan, Tokyo University and Waseda, respectively, had famous "otometique" clubs full of students who loved the genre and the style. The mangas were so trendy that they were often referred to as "Ivy mangas," in reference to the iconic Ivy style that was the catalyst of Japan's youth fashion, which was going through a second revival around that time.

While projecting an atmosphere that girls dreamed of, "otometique" also showcases '70s youth and girls' culture. Melancholic, simple love stories among young people were also the theme of the big folk hits of the time. Ivy or country fashion and long hair for men were the top fashion trends. Western-inspired ideals- in decoration, fashion, and musical taste- were pervasive. And creating subcultures and hobbies around consumption was the path society was taking. Simple life-sized stories as a narrative preference echoed the reality of Japan, which was stabilizing itself after decades of turbulence. These stories brought what the country was craving: comfort.

Above, a Mutsu A-ko's bedroom that lived in girls' imagination. Below, the room is recreated in a 2021 exhibition of Ako's art.

Meanwhile, the rise of consumer culture among young girls led to a "fancy goods" boom, with stores selling cute stationery, stickers, and small items popping up everywhere around the country. Illustrators and companies, eager to capitalize, spared no time in creating appealing mascots and drawings to adorn these goods, and it was in that period that Sanrio created Hello Kitty. 

Ribon and Nakayoshi, which were "furoku" magazines, also benefitted. Furoku are extra gifts that come with the purchase of the magazines. And the "otometique" boom meant Ribon could include "fancy goods" -- like notebooks, stickers, letter sets, and small paper goods readers could assemble -- with the illustration of these highly sought-after artists. Most girls around Japan could only dream of Western-style rooms, a closet full of cute Ivy fashion, trips to trendy cafes, and homes with French windows. But they could recreate a bit of this sophisticated atmosphere by having letter sets, notebooks, stickers, and small accessories with A-ko Mutsu, Hideko Tachikake, and Yumiko Tabuchi's art. These popular furokus and the "otometique" stories were critical for Ribon magazine to surpass 1 million copies in circulation.

Girls admired A-ko, Tabuchi, and Tachikake not only as artists creating heartfelt stories with attractive atmospheres but as personalities. The trio, who were in their late teens and early 20s, closely resonated with their fans due to their proximity in age and shared interests. The readers were moved when Ribon featured an article in which A-ko Mutsu had the opportunity to meet and interview her favorite singer, the rock star Kenji Sawada, a prominent teen idol of that era. The positive response was so overwhelming that, a few issues later, Hideko Tachikake, an avid folk music enthusiast, also had the chance to interview her idol, Kosetsu Minami, the lead singer of Kaguyahime.

An otometique girl by Yumiko Tabuchi (left) and a collection of furoku illustrated by her as seen on a 2021 exhibition on her art.

The popularity of "otometique" peaked in 1977. By 1981, the boom had almost faded, and A-ko, Tabuchi, and Tachikake published their last works on Ribon in 1985. Tabuchi and Tachikake married and semi-retired, while A-ko successfully transitioned to manga for adult women.

Despite the end of the style, "otometique" permeated every corner of Japanese society. Its furoku and atmosphere were one of the bases for the almighty "kawaii" culture which now rules the country. The life-sized heroines and focus on mundane love stories and everyday emotions went on to become one of the main characteristics of the shoujo manga industry.

The Iwadate Domain

For years, the influence of "otometique" has been downplayed, one of the reasons why the movement is almost undiscussed in the West. However, in the last few years, best-selling books reminiscing the style were published, and exhibitions of A-ko Mutsu and Yumiko Tabuchi's works were big hits across Japan. A-ko, who moved back from Tokyo to her hometown in Fukuoka and never stopped creating manga, was recognized by the local prefecture as an honorary citizen and gained a permanent museum in the area, signaling her importance to the industry.

But while the "otometique" phenomenon happened on the pages of Ribon magazine, Mutsu, Tabuchi, and Tachikake weren't the only three attracting a massive audience to this type of real-life love story.

Mariko Iwadate's work was extremely popular from the late '70s to the mid-2000s. Above, a collection of her work from her Margaret era.

Going back to the research of sociologist Shinji Miyadai, three domains divided '70s shoujo. There was the "Moto Hagio domain," which included the Year 24 artists. The Hagio domain was more highbrow and intellectually challenging, and many considered it an equivalent to literature, attracting the intellectual elite that sniffed at manga in general. It is by far the most discussed and debated '70s shoujo movement, as well as the most famous in the West, but it was the least commercially successful at the time. Then there was the "Machiko Satonaka domain," with emotionally driven stories full of drama, plot twists, and larger-than-life heroines. Most of the '70s best-selling shoujo series fall under this category, which includes the work of Yukari Ichijo and Ryoko Ikeda and sports manga like "Ace wo Nerae," among others.

Finally, there's the domain in which the "otometique" stories were created. And Miyadai doesn't name it after any of the Ribon artists, calling it the "Mariko Iwadate domain" instead.

In the Satonaka domain, the heroine served as a proxy for the reader in a fantastical world, while in the Iwadate domain, the heroine represented the reader in the real world. But, after all, who is the influential Iwadate?

Mariko Iwadate, who made her debut in 1973 at the age of 16, rose to prominence by embracing the "otometique" style during its peak in the late '70s. Similar to Ribon artists, Iwadate, who mostly worked for Weekly Margaret, captivated readers with her elegant and stylish art, featuring cute clothes, accessories, and intricate details.

Miyadai's choice to name the category after Iwadate rather than the genre pioneer A-ko Mutsu may be attributed to Iwadate's sustained success. After leaving Ribon in 1985, A-ko remained prolific and had a dedicated audience, but she couldn't replicate her peak. Iwadate's popularity, on the other hand, continued unabated even after she transitioned to adult women's manga. Iwadate's work, recognized for its emotional depth, became a significant inspiration for trailblazers like best-selling novelist Banana Yoshimoto and avant-garde manga artist Kyoko Okazaki. In 1993, when Miyadai wrote his book, Iwadate's fame and respect probably made her a more recognizable figure for readers to associate with the category.

Iwadate's soft girly art and story-telling made her extremely popular and influential.

Mariko Iwadate's narrative, especially her post-80s work, has a more psychological and mature element to it when compared to Ribon's artists. She, as an artist, bridged the gap between "otometique" and another highly influential "Iwadate domain" artist, Fusako Kuramochi.

Fusako Kuramochi, debuting while still a teen in the early '70s at Bessatsu Margaret (Betsuma), initially emulated her favorite artists, Moto Hagio and Keiko Takemiya, before finding her style—a realistic portrayal of romance with a substantial psychological element. Her success contributed to shaping Betsuma, alongside Ribon, as arguably the most influential and commercially thriving shoujo title -- the go-to magazine for high school rom-com.

Like the otometique artists, Fusako Kuramochi first gained prominence with short stories and one-shots. In 1979, she wrote her first series, "Oshiaberi Kaidan," in which each chapter depicted the life of a young girl from junior high to her graduation day. In 1980, she published "Itsumo poketto ni Chopin," a classical music manga that also dealt with growing up as a teenager in the city. From then on, she'd publish about two hit series every year in Betsuma before graduating successfully to adult women's manga in 1994.

Kuramochi's success was due to her great skill in portraying girls going through crushes, heartbreaks, and jealousy. The psychological elements struck a chord with readers and helped her create male romantic leads that were extremely popular.

Another component of Kuramochi's work was her sophistication, a result of her upbringing. Her father was the chairman of one of Japan's biggest printing companies, and she was raised in Shibuya, in the center of Tokyo, while attending an exclusive all-female institution. The fact she spent her youth in the middle of Tokyo's hustle and bustle meant she knew the capital well, and her works were full of references to trendy cafes, restaurants, nightspots, and neighborhoods. Her Betsuma work was published right before and during Japan's ostentatious Bubble years, so many chasing an exciting city life referred to her work. 

While her stories reflected the reality and aspirations of the Bubble years, Kuramochi's true gift lay in providing readers with a realistic depiction of growing up and falling in love, making her work immensely popular. In general, consumerism -- displayed through clothes, accessories, and decor -- isn't as crucial to her success as the three Ribon "otometique" artists.

While Fusako Kuramochi is part of the "Iwadate domain," you can argue that Kuramochi evolved into her own category, which was vital for the development of real-life love stories in shoujo in the '80s and '90s and the rise of other highly-influential artists like Ryo Ikuemi.

But going back to the three '70s movements, "otometique"/"Iwadate domain" was definitely the most influential one in steering shoujo manga in its current direction. On the other hand, all of these domains co-existed together and fed from each other. In 1977, during the "otometique" boom, Yukari Ichijo remained untouched as one of Ribon's most popular artists with her emotionally charged dramas. It was the success of Ichijo and other "Satonaka domain" artists that allowed the "Hagio domain" to debut and take risks. In turn, it was the "Hagio domain" that showed there were rewards for young risk-taking shoujo artists.

Yumiko Oshima, known for her girly art and sensitive story-telling, is the inspiration behind the otometique boom.

When asked which artist inspired them the most, both A-ko Mutsu and Mariko Iwadate gave the same answer: Yumiko Oshima. Oshima, known for her quirky love stories and girly art, is an artist who trained alongside Hagio and Takemiya at the Oizumi salon and rose as part of the "Year 24 group," publishing risk-taking manga in Shogakukan and Hakusensha's magazine after a brief stint in Weekly Margaret. In other words, despite the striking differences, the origin of the "Iwadate domain" is the "Hagio domain."

Shoujo manga, comics for girls, played a pivotal role in shaping Japanese girls’ culture, and its dynamic evolution mirrors the prevailing trends and aspirations of the era. For many, this genre peaked in the 1970s. But why?

Part 1

The Year of 24 Group

Some of the best-selling work by the Year 24 Artists (l-to-r): Yasuko Aoike's "From Eroica with Love," Ryoko Yamagishi's "Arabesque," Mineko Yamada's "Minori no Shoujo," Toshie Kihara's "Yomie no Ishibume," Yumiko Oshima's "The Star of Cottonland," Yuuko Kishi's "Tamasaburo."

Back in the early '70s, there was the prevailing notion that manga was for young kids. Despite the variety in themes, big magazines like Margaret, Shoujo Club, Nakayoshi, and Ribon were theoretically aimed at elementary school-aged girls.

In practice, the reality was more nuanced. Due to being published in Weekly Margaret, "The Rose of Versailles" was for kids. And it did very well with them. Yet, its revolutionary romance also appealed to broader audiences, exemplifying the crossover potential of shoujo manga. It was the title that opened the door for what is known as "the golden age of shoujo," which was further cemented by several other groundbreaking hits.

These hits widened the shoujo manga field, and soon, other editorial houses also wanted to cash in. Shogakukan, which published the powerful Weekly Shonen Sunday, entered the shoujo market in the late '60s. Shueisha and Shogakukan also partnered to form a keiretsu and open the Hakusensha publisher which deals mostly with shoujo manga.

That is the context in which a batch of artists known as "The Magnificent 24 Group" rose. And they were another key reason as to why '70s shoujo made such a mark. These manga-kas introduced themes such as sci-fi and homosexuality to the segment, revolutionized its art, further explored historical and terror narratives, and generally broke barriers of what was possible in shoujo manga. Their work was intellectually challenging, philosophical, and, above all, fundamental for male manga critics and connoisseurs to finally take shoujo seriously.

The Year 24 Group refers to the fact most artists were born around 1949, which is known as the year 24 of the Showa era in the Japanese calendar. These women came of age during the time artists like Hideko Mizuno were debuting and doing revolutionary work in the shoujo field, and they were eager to follow their lead. The success of unorthodox hits like "The Rose of Versailles" and the emergence of new magazines enabled them to be bold.

The two artists who led the movement are Moto Hagio and Keiko Takemiya. Their shared house in Tokyo, known as the Oizumi Salon, became a gathering place for several young artists keen on breaking new grounds for shoujo manga-kas. These women became the Year 24 group. But there were other two people, besides the artists themselves, who were just as crucial for their collective rise.

Firstly, there was Junya Yamamoto. Yamamoto was a young male editor at Shogakukan who had risen through the ranks of the successful Shonen Sunday weekly manga magazine. Noticing they were lagging behind Shueisha and Kodansha in the manga segment for their lack of a robust shoujo presence, the editorial house appointed Yamamoto to launch Shoujo Comic (known as Sho-Comi) in 1968 and Bessatsu Shoujo Comic (known as Betsucomi) in 1970. However, he quickly ran into an issue: most successful shoujo artists already had exclusive contracts with the competing houses, and aspiring names were vying for positions at the already established titles.

In 1969, the "God of manga," Osamu Tezuka, introduced Yamamoto to Keiko Takemiya, then a university student living in Tokushima City. Takemiya had spent her school years dreaming of becoming a manga-ka and participated extensively in the readers' corner section of COM. COM was an avant-garde manga magazine Tezuka founded to nourish young talents and publish stories without the typical restraints of more commercial shoujo and shonen publications. In her first year of college, Takemiya won a Shueisha's Weekly Margaret newcomer competition and had a work published in the magazine. Still, she was persuaded by her parents to focus on her studies instead and to leave manga as a side hobby.

Yamamoto, in turn, was impressed with her talent and convinced her to chase her dreams. Quickly, she found work in all three publishers and started simultaneously publishing in Kodansha, Shueisha, and Shogakukan's shoujo titles.

Meanwhile, Moto Hagio also grew up enamored with the manga world. During her college years, she had a work selected by Shueisha's Bessatsu Margaret (Betsuma) through a competition, but she could not find a fixed slot in the magazine. Then, she got introduced to Kodansha's Nakayoshi editors, who were impressed by her talent. While she did start publishing short stories there, editors rejected most of her submitted work as they did not fit the magazine's mold. One day, an editor introduced her to Takemiya, who, overworked while working for several magazines, was in dire need of an assistant. The two hit off, and Takemiya, who until then had her permanent residence in far away Tokuma City but was planning a move to Tokyo, proposed they both live together. She also decided to introduce Hagio to risk-taker editor Yamamoto, who, impressed by her talent, encouraged her to pursue her path instead of trying to fit into the expected shoujo template.

Then there was Norie Masuyama, who first became acquainted with Moto Hagio before becoming Takemiya's manager. Hagio was from Fukuoka, while Masuyama was from Tokyo, but due to their similar interests, they became penpals. When Hagio first moved to Tokyo, Masuyama hosted her in her home in Oizumi. Eventually, Hagio introduced Masuyama to Takemiya, and the three of them became close. Because both were artists from outside of Tokyo, Masuyama was the one who first circled the idea they should live together (something Yamamoto presciently warned it could turn into a problem), and she was the one who alerted them of a house in her Oizumi neighborhood being up for rent.

Keiko Takemiya and Moto Hagio, estranged since the late '70s, revealed details of their feud in autobiographic books: Takemiya's "Shonen no na wa Gilbert" (2019) and Hagio's "Ichidou kiri no Oizumi no Hanashi" (2021). The dispute, stemming from Takemiya accusing Hagio of plagiarism, was fueled by Takemiya's jealousy during a challenging creative and personal period. While Takemiya appears self-aware and analytical in her account, Hagio's book indicates she hasn't forgiven Keiko, revealing unresolved feelings. The publications triggered intense online debates.

Masuyama came from a sophisticated family that was very involved in arts and, from a young age, got familiarized with the world of music, literature, and movies. Her refined taste impressed Hagio and Takemiya. At a time when Japanese girls dreamed of Europe, Masuyama actually had friends living there and was up-to-date on the latest European trends. She also had a lot of knowledge of European cinema and literature.

As their rented house was old and rusty, Hagio and Takemiya started spending a lot of time at Masuayama's house across the street. She introduced them to films, songs, books, and paintings. It was Masuyama's taste -- including her interest in movies and books depicting gay romance and her desire for girls' comics to have bolder and riskier themes -- that helped to instill a passion in both artists to go further than the safe cliches usually depicted in shoujo works.

In 1970, editor Yamamoto convinced Takemiya to sign an exclusive contract with Shogakukan. The following year, Hagio also started publishing for Sho-comi and Betsucomi. Their work would attract a loyal fanbase, and aspiring manga-ka would flood their mailboxes. So Takemiya made a decision: to select female artists around her and Hagio's age to mentor and train at their shared home. Thus, the Oizumi Salon was born.

Despite attracting attention, Takemiya and Hagio's works were not always popular. In fact, they'd often rank last in readers' popularity polls, which tend to be all-deciding in manga magazines. But they persevered, and Yamamoto trusted them.

Keiko Takemiya aimed to establish herself with a top-rated series through "Pharaoh no Haka" (left) in order to garner the necessary respect from editors to write the series she wanted, "Kaze to ki no uta" (right). Despite her resolute efforts, "Pharaoh no Haka" never secured the top spot in Sho-comi's readers' poll, peaking at #2. Nevertheless, the series succeeded in elevating her fame and earning her the respect she sought.

In 1972, Hagio had an idea for a serial focused on a male European vampire. However, as she wasn't a famous artist, Yamamoto only allowed her to publish one-shots. So she came up with a plan: to write three interconnected standalone stories. To circumvent another restraint - shoujo editors' avoidance of male leads - she put the first story focus on Marybelle, Edgar's sister. Once Yamamoto realized what Hagio was doing, he was amused and allowed her to continue. And so, "The Poe Clan" series began. In 1974, Shogakukan finally started publishing their shoujo titles in compiled paperback format. In another proof of trust, Yamamoto chose Hagio's "The Poe Clan" as the first title of the Flower Comics imprint.

To everybody's surprise, "The Poe's Clan," in paperback format, was a groundbreaking success, almost instantaneously selling out its initial printing. At the time, Hagio had just started a new serialization, "The Heart of Thomas," a tragic gay love story set in an all-boys German school. As usual for her, the story wasn't all that popular with Sho-Comi's readership, and its lackluster results in the reader's poll almost got the series discontinued. But the notable success of "The Poe's Clan" tankobon assured editors, who allowed Hagio to continue the series. "The Heart of Thomas" went on to become another best-seller and a seminal shoujo title. It also attracted critical acclaim and a loyal fanbase to Moto Hagio, which in turn helped put the Year 24 artists -- who were pretty good at self-promotion -- in the spotlight.

Hagio, Takemiya, and several other "Year 24" authors drifted between being popular and underground. They had a sizable, loyal fanbase that followed them and turned several of their works into best-sellers. On the other hand, by finding a way around the usual shoujo traditions, they weren't particularly popular with the average shoujo reader, ordinary young girls across the country craving more traditional story-telling.

Their peculiar position forced them to be clever, so they could fulfill their creative desires as well as their editors' expectations, who were there to make sure the stories published were satisfying to the core readership. Takemiya wrote "Pharaoh no Haka," an Egypt-set romantic adventure, to be well-accepted so that she could then dedicate herself to doing what she truly wanted in "Kaze to Ki no Uta," a gay love story set in a 19th Century French boarding school.

Initially overlooked in popular shoujo magazines, Moto Hagio gained success with "The Poe Clan" in compiled format, launching Shogakukan's Flower Comics imprint. Over time, she became a highly respected manga artist, the only manga-ka alongside legendary filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki to receive a Person of Cultural Merit recognition. In 2016, marking 40 years of the conclusion of her first hit, she released a new "The Poe Clan" chapter in Flower magazine, selling out the increased print run of 50,000 copies in a day. This success marked a significant shift for Hagio, who, despite not being a major magazine seller in earlier years, became a valuable asset to the struggling magazine publishing industry decades later. Following the one-shot, she released three more chapters and, in 2022, began a new sequel series.

Besides Takemiya and Hagio, several other notable shoujo artists who went on to become huge names used to frequent the Oizumi Salon and were part of the "Year 24 group." In the early '70s, most published their work on Shogakukan's titles, which had a "free policy" on storytelling compared to Margaret, Shoujo Friend, Nakayoshi, and Ribon. Then, as Shogakukan started being more strict to properly compete with the market leaders, several moved to newly launched Hakusensha titles Hana to Yume and LaLa. Influential names that were part of the movement included Yumiko Oshima, Yasuko Aoike, and Ryoko Yamagashi, among several others. 

Despite their unorthodox preferences, they weren't necessarily trying to rebel against the system, they simply wanted to put out good quality work they believed in. Like other Japanese girls from that era, they were fascinated by Europe, and plenty of their stories took place on the continent. In 1972, Hagio, Takemiya, Yamagishi, and Masuyama made a 45-day trip to Europe, visiting the Soviet Republic, France, and several other countries, which had a profound impact on them. Still, their narratives were widely innovative. They often had male leads, introduced sci-fi, "boys' love," and other bolder genres to shoujo manga, and contributed to the evolution of shoujo illustration. Above all, this group of artists was the one who made clear to naysayers, once and for all, that shoujo manga is indeed an art form.

But while their influence in manga history is undisputed, other significant -- and much more commercial -- manga movements also shook the shoujo manga world during that decade.

A Need for Drama

When talking about '70s shoujo manga, it's common for minds to drift directly to iconic series from that time, like "Candy Candy" and "Rose of Versailles." But, unlike in present times, in that decade, the manga industry's focus wasn't on successful, long-running series but on the artists themselves.

As opposed to the struggling publishing marketing of today, major shoujo manga magazines all sold over 1 million copies during that decade. Manga in tankobon (standalone paperback) format was turning into a money-maker field, but being able to sell paperback was very much secondary compared to being a name capable of selling magazines. Keiko Takemiya and Moto Hagio, from the Amazing Year 24 Group, would go on to become household names and had best-selling series, but, at the time, they couldn't compete with the actual shoujo manga superstars who were the signboard artists of the Kodansha and Shueisha's shoujo titles, the ones who actually moved publications. These artists' work was the most significant indicator of what the mainstream readers wanted and aspired to back then.

In a December/1975 issue, weekly Josei Seven spotlights the new generation of superstar shoujo manga artists: (l-to-r) Moto Hagio, Machiko Satonaka, Ryoko Ikeda, Yukari Ichijo, Keiko Takemiya, and Ryoko Takahashi. While contemporary manga-kas are highly discreet about their lives and do not even tend to show their faces, in the '70s, they were treated like superstars, and, in the article, the manga-kas openly discuss their love life and details of their high incomes, including how much they had in the bank and how much they spent on rent and daily utilities. (image source)

For Kodansha, the top shoujo artist was definitely Machiko Satonaka, who won the Best New Artist competition in 1964, when she was still a freshman in high school. There have been several high-schoolers making their debut in the industry throughout the decades, but, as the first, Satonaka caused a media frenzy. Her ascent gave confidence to countless other young women -- from "Glass Mask"'s Suzue Michi to Keiko Takemiya (who also won a smaller prize in the same competition) -- to pursue their manga careers.

The attention surrounding Satonaka, who went on to become a public personality with TV hosting gigs and other appearances, is another interesting, nostalgic phenomenon. In the past, it was common for manga superstars to have a strong media presence. Nowadays, the norm is the complete opposite: for manga-kas to be highly private, no matter how famous their work is.

In any case, Satonaka quickly proved herself to be more than a sensational news story as she created extremely popular mangas for Kodansha shoujo titles like Shoujo Friend and Nakayoshi. Her style, widely accepted by readers, became symbolical of the story-telling the '70s girls craved: extremely dramatic with emotionally driven plots and lots of bombastic twists and developments.

In his book on subcultures and otaku culture, sociologist Shinji Miyadai notes that '70s shoujo manga can be divided into very few categories. There is the category the Year 24 artists dominated -- which he defines as the "Moto Hagio domain" -- of works with a lot of artistic value, up-to-par with literature. And then there's the far more commercially viable "Satonaka domain," which represented the mainstream taste.

In the "Satonaka category," the artist depicts a stormy life story as a proxy experience for the readers. Of course, there are universal elements of love, friendship, and insecurity that girls can directly relate to. Still, these stories provide adventures that readers could never experience in the real world. 

These facets of the "Satonaka domain" are present in almost all the best-selling, mainstream shoujo series of the '70s, like the revolutionary historical romance of "The Rose of Versailles," the dramatic rags-to-riches story of the beautiful orphan in "Candy Candy," and the rise of an ordinary girl to the top of the sports elite in "Ace wo Nerae." In all of these titles, you'll also spot other defining characteristics of '70s shoujo: the death of beloved characters and well-liked female characters with voluminous blonde hairs and huge, sparkling eyes (a legacy of Macoto Takahashi, the illustrator who, throughout the '50s, created the art that directly influenced subsequent shoujo history).

Yukari Ichijo was the most prominent Ribon signboard artist throughout the '70s, creating popular mangas like "Suna no Shiro" (left) and "Designer (right). Young girls across the country adored her work despite the adult drama in it.

Since these stories are extraordinary and dream-like, many of them use Europe or the US as their setting, another reflection of a time when Japanese youth dreamed with the West.

While Satonaka was Kodansha's star, Shueisha also had its top shoujo artists. For Margaret, it was Ryoko Ikeda who kept creating memorable dramatic manga after the conclusion of "The Rose of Versailles." Other classic '70s dramatic works published in the weekly included Kyoko Ariyoshi's ballet drama "Swan." Meanwhile, over at Ribon, no one shone brighter than Yukari Ichijo. Ichijo's works, which young girls across Japan devoured, contained a lot of adult drama with adult characters. Her 1974 manga, "Love Game," had a bed scene. One of her most celebrated works of the decade, "Suna no Shiro" (Sand Castle), dealt with incest. While Ichijo is the one who stood the test of time, another artist who also enjoyed great popularity in Ribon following this formula was Kei Nogami. 

These mangas served as an escape for girls, who left their ordinary school life behind for a few hours to embark on extraordinary adventures. In contrast, one of the main genres in contemporary shoujo is unassuming, everyday high school romance. How could the shoujo segment go through such a drastic transformation? The reasons for that also dates back to the 1970s.

Shoujo manga, comics for girls, played a pivotal role in shaping Japanese girls' culture, and its dynamic evolution mirrors the prevailing trends and aspirations of the era. For many, this genre peaked in the 1970s. But why?

Manga stands as one of Japan's primary cultural exports, deeply ingrained in the local culture and enjoyed by individuals of all ages and genders across various genres. Conventionally, manga is divided into two editorial segments: shonen (targeted at boys) and shoujo (targeted at girls). While shonen manga, propelled by hits like "Dragon Ball," "Slam Dunk," "Naruto," and "One Piece," has achieved global popularity, girls' comics, with their own international sensations such as "Sailor Moon," hold a crucial position in the market. The evolving landscape of girls' manga serves as a fascinating lens through which to observe the shifting fashionable aspirations and beauty ideals within Japanese society.

Shoujo manga has a rich history, dating back to the early 20th century. However, it truly gained recognition in its modern form in the late '50s and early '60s when prominent Japanese publishers introduced shoujo manga anthologies such as Kodansha's Nakayoshi and Shoujo Friend, as well as Shueisha's Ribon and Margaret. The acclaimed "godfather of manga," Osamu Tezuka, is often credited with creating the first modern shoujo, "The Princess Knight," in 1954, and the first shonen, "Astro Boy," in 1952.

A distinguishing feature of shoujo manga is that it is created by and for girls. But, in the '50s, this wasn't the case, and male artists dominated the shoujo field, which was considered an entryway to the manga business. By the 1960s, that would change as publishers recognized that women creators possessed a unique proficiency in crafting narratives centered around female experiences. Female manga-kas resonated with readers in a way that many male artists couldn't, marking a crucial shift in the landscape of shoujo manga.

The Volleyball Craze

A notable display of how shoujo could mirror societal trends unfolded in the '60s. In 1964, the Tokyo Olympics marked a new beginning for post-war Japan, and the female volleyball team, known as Toyo no Majou (the Oriental Witches), achieved stardom by clinching victory in the finals against the Soviet Republic. This triumph triggered a nationwide "volleyball boom," resonating particularly within the shoujo manga realm.

Shueisha's Ribon, historically the leader in the shoujo manga field, started publication in 1955. Still, the editorial house would only begin to make its series available in standalone tankobon format almost 15 years later through the now iconic Ribon Mascot Comics imprint. The first series to be made available by the imprint was Chikako Ide's "Viva Volleyball."

Simultaneously, over at Kodansha, Shoujo Friend was also eager to capitalize on the boom. Editors commissioned a title about the sport from illustrator Akira Mochizuki and novelist Shiro Jimbo. The final project, "Sign wa V," became a multimedia success, being quickly adapted into a live-action TV drama that achieved very high ratings.

While "Viva! Volleyball" and "Sign wa V" enjoyed success in their time, they did not etch themselves into the collective memory. The true shoujo sports manga blockbuster, a cross-generational classic universally known in Japan, is Chikako Urano's "Attack No. 1," serialized from 1968 to 1970 in Weekly Margaret.

It became the first shoujo manga title to surpass ten tankobon volumes (it had a total of 12 volumes), and it was forever immortalized thanks to its 1970 anime adaptation, which achieved high ratings on Japanese TV. Everything about "Attack No. 1"—from the original manga to the cartoon adaptation to the anime's theme song, which sold over 700k copies as a single—was a success.

The story of a high school girl trying to become the best player in her school, Japan, and eventually, the world became a phenomenon, setting the stage for the '70s "golden era of shoujo."

The Shoujo Lost Years

Until the '70s, manga carried the stigma of being a guilty pleasure, often viewed as a "poison" meant to dumb down young readers. Despite a few discerning individuals recognizing the medium's potential, manga critics, enthusiasts, and tastemakers — predominantly men — largely disregarded female-centric comics. Shoujo manga, despite its immense popularity, faced the harshest criticism.

Because society and critics downplayed shoujo, influential shoujo manga-kas from the '50s and '60s, such as Hideko Mizuno, do not enjoy the same level of recognition as their shonen counterparts from that era.

Hideko Mizuno and a page of one of her most celebrated works, "Fire."

Mizuno was one of the first women to create manga, worked as an assistant to Osamu Tezuka, and was behind several massive hits that had a significant impact on women in the '50s, '60s, and '70s. In fact, the most iconic shoujo manga-kas from the '70s golden period directly mention her as an influence. She fought to include romance -- now the essential element in girls' manga -- in her works back when such topics were deemed inappropriate by male editors.

Mizuno's repertoire was vast: she wrote mangas about little girls and their poneys, magic adventures, and romcoms based on Audrey Hepburn's movies, and she drew the first sex scene in a shoujo manga. The manga in question was "Fire," a teen-targeted manga featuring a rebellious American rocker, which broke new ground by having a male character as its focal point. Alongside other notable female artists from the '60s, Mizuno laid the groundwork for the '70s shoujo explosion, during which girls' comics took center stage.

In 1960's "Hoshi no Tategoto" (left,) Hideko Mizuno created the first shoujo love story. Serialized in Weekly Margaret between 1964 and 65, "Shiroi Troika," set during the Russian Revolution, was the first historical shoujo manga.

A contributing factor to this "golden period" was the emergence of several shoujo mangas as unstoppable hits, selling millions of copies and becoming cultural phenomena. These titles, considered masterpieces, continue to be read and known by multiple generations.

The BeruBara Boom

"Attack No. 1"'s success spread far and wide, forcing Japanese society to take note of the potential of the shoujo segment. Right after this historic success, Shueisha's Weekly Margaret hit the jackpot once again with another epoch-defining manga hit, Ryoko Ikeda's "The Rose of Versailles," which debuted in 1972. Set in the years preceding and during the French Revolution, it weaved together historical figures like Marie Antoinette and fictional ones, like the iconic Lady Oscar, a handsome noblewoman raised as a boy to succeed her father as the commander of the Royal Guard at the Palace of Versailles.

The first volume of the original comic had Marie Antoinette on the cover as Margaret's editors believed she'd be the favorite character. However, the androgynous Lady Oscar turned into a fan fave and the absolute star of the series, which is reflected on the cover of most rereleases since then, including the 2013 bunko version seen above.

When talking about shoujo manga classics from the '70s that are familiar to everyone in Japan, "Rose of Versailles" is probably the first name that comes to mind. It was a hit that really defined the era and impacted the country as a whole. While Marie Antoinette is seen around the world as a tragic, out-of-touch figure, in Japan, many women and girls see her as an aspirational historical fashion icon. While Sofia Coppola's 2006 film "Marie Antoinette" solidified this among younger generations, it was Ikeda's gentle portrait that made her a character loved by so many across all age groups.

When conceptualizing the story, Ikeda was heavily inspired by Stefan Zweig's "Marie Antoinette: The Portrait of an Average Woman," which she read while in high school. Once in college, in the late '60s, she, like millions of others, was heavily involved with the Marxist student movements. These references led to a historical romance that touched on heavy and revolutionary themes, which was atypical for a shoujo manga, a segment that, back then, was primarily catered to elementary school-aged girls.

Because of its unorthodox concept, Margaret's editors were unsure about the series. But right from the start, "BeruBara" (derived from the original Japanese title, "Berusaiyu no Bara"), serialized between 1972 and 1973, was an explosive hit, quickly turning into Weekly Margaret's most popular series. It was compiled in 10 tankobon volumes published, which sold tens of millions of copies. In fact, according to some stats, it is the best-selling '70s manga across all genres in total sales.

In 1974, after the original manga had finished its serialization, Takarazuka Revue, an all-female theatrical troupe, announced a stage adaptation of the story.

Posters of the first three Takarazuka adaptations, from between 1974 and 1975. Since then, the Revue has adapted the manga 11 times, with a new run scheduled for 2024.

The Revue was established in 1913 by the owner of Kansai's leading railway company, Hankyu, to boost tourism to the city of Takarazuka, his line's last stop. It was a huge success, and soon, the group had its own luxurious theater as well as its very exclusive academy where young ladies underwent an arduous audition process to become Takaraziennes. In 1934, a second Takarazuka theater opened in Tokyo. 

However, in the early 1970s, Takarazuka faced stagnation, with declining ticket sales attributed to the growing popularity of alternative entertainment forms such as cinema and television.

In 1973, Shinji Ueda, who had risen through the Takarazuka ranks as a director, made his debut as a playwriter in the company with a musical based on ancient Japanese history. While thinking about his next project, he decided to check out a manga popular with some Takarazuka fans, "Rose of Versailles," and he quickly realized it was the perfect theme for an adaptation. Lady Oscar, who had lady-like features but was also as handsome as a man, was the embodiment of the male role-playing Takaraziennes. Ueda reached out to Ryoko Ikeda, who, as an admirer of the troupe, quickly granted the rights.

But Ikeda and Ueda’s excitement wasn’t widely shared. Within the Takarazuka management, many were skeptical about staging a play based on something as “vulgar” as a manga. The project only moved forward thanks to the involvement of director Kazuo Hasegawa. Once one of Japan’s most famous movie stars, Hasegawa had joined Takarazuka as a director in what was considered a major coup, and once Ueda persuaded him to helm the project, the company had little choice but to proceed. Even so, fans of the original manga, fiercely protective of its characters, were deeply opposed to the idea of a live adaptation.

Amid this climate of distrust, the play opened at the end of August 1974 at the Takarazuka Grand Theater. The reaction after the first night was extremely positive. Soon, Takarazuka's "Rose of Versailles" was the hottest ticket in all of Japan, with the press breathlessly covering the "BeruBara boom" that led thousands of people to stand hours in line to get tickets to the coveted performances in Kansai and Tokyo. Ikeda herself was shocked by the media phenomenon when she returned from an overseas trip and had hundreds of reporters awaiting her at the airport.

A statue of Lady Oscar and Andre surrounded by rose bushes sits outside the Takarazuka Grand Theater in Hyogo, Japan.

The "BeruBara" media sensation single-handedly reversed Takarazuka's fortunes, leading to record-shattering ticket sales for the company. The Takarazuka Academy, which had seen declining applicants, suddenly became highly sought-after again, originating the saying "Todai in the East, Takarazuka in the West," comparing it to Tokyo University, the most prestigious university in Japan. The phrase underscored the desirability and prestige associated with a position at the troupe. 

Ultimately, the success of "The Rose of Versailles" propelled Takarazuka back to the pinnacle of the entertainment industry, a position it maintains to this day. The brand continues to hold great esteem among women of all ages in Japan, with Takarazuka's stage adaptations, derived from Broadway musicals, movies, novels, and shoujo manga, consistently selling out. Notably, various adaptations of "BeruBara" have collectively sold over 5 million tickets since 1974.

Following the manga and Takarazuka adaptation's explosive success, the anime debuted in 1979. While the anime received acclaim, Ikeda herself was not entirely satisfied, mainly due to the treatment of her favorite character, Andre, who played a significant role in the manga but had a minor presence in the animated version, which focused almost entirely on the manga's most popular character, Lady Oscar.

In 2013, celebrating Margaret's 50th anniversary, new special chapters of "BeruBara" were published. The first new story in 40 years resulted in Margaret magazine selling out across the country.

"BeruBara" remains a prominent franchise in Japan, spawning numerous licensed products, sequels, and spin-offs. Ryoko Ikeda, known for other successful series, continues to garner widespread respect and media attention. However, while almost everything related to "The Rose of Versailles" turned into a hit, there was an exception.

In March 1979, a few months before the anime premiere, a live-action film adaptation debuted with great fanfare. Fittingly for such a hot property, the movie was one of the most ambitious productions in Japanese cinema, with a substantial 1 billion yen budget. 

The Palace of Versailles granted permission to shoot in its interior. The filming was in English, with a European cast. The project was helmed by France's hottest movie director, Jacques Demy. Demy wasn't respected only in the West but also in Japan, where his two most important films, "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" (1964) and "The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967)," were also hits. In fact, to this day, both flicks remain popular among trend-conscious Japanese as examples of stylish oshare movies that fully capture aspirational girls' culture (alongside, among others, Sofia Coppola's "Marie Antoinette"). Demy, the mind behind dreamy, girly movies, seemed like the perfect choice to turn this blockbuster shoujo classic into a live-action film.

The movie had the backing of three gigantic domestic corporations: Toho, the leading Japanese movie distributor; Nihon Terebi (NTV), one of the main TV stations; and cosmetic giant Shiseido. NTV and Shiseido made sure the movie had one of the most extensive marketing campaigns Japan had ever witnessed. The TV station aired specials and segments on this grand production. Meanwhile, Shiseido made the star of the movie -- British actress Catriona McCall, who played Oscar -- the face of its spring campaign, promoting its new Red Rose lipstick. Catriona was plastered on billboards across the country, made media and department store appearances, and starred in luxurious TV spots.

On the left, Lady Oscar and Marie Antoinette adorn the cover of Margaret in 2016, over 40 years after the end of the original serialization. On the right, Oscar models Dolce & Gabanna new collection for high-end fashion magazine Spur in 2014, celebrating 40 years of the conclusion of the original manga.

Back then, Kanebo, the second biggest local cosmetic company, was in fierce competition with Shiseido. TV ads from both companies had a tremendous impact, propelling singles to the top of the charts, and there was a battle on which commercial would feature the biggest hit. But, in the spring of 79, the focus of the fight changed. As a response to the Catriona "Rose of Versailles" campaign, Kanebo also hired a British beauty, actress Olivia Hussey, and launched a "Super Rose lipstick" with the tagline "You are more beautiful than a rose." The cosmetics war was another proof of the chokehold "The Rose of Versailles" had in the decade.

But when the movie finally premiered, it was a flop. Critics hated it, and Japanese fans thought the adaptation was weak and lacked impact. Catriona, in particular, was criticized for not conveying Oscar's androgynous charm, which perfectly balanced masculinity and femininity. With the well-received anime premiering just a few months later, the expensive movie adaptation ended up being outshone and forgotten. It became only a costly footnote in the manga's history.

An exhibition in Tokyo celebrates 50 years of BeruBara in 2022.

(It's worth noting that Kanebo clearly won the CM war. While the Shiseido co-produced "Rose of Versaille" feature film flopped, the "You Are More Beautiful than a Rose" song Kanebo commissioned from singer Akira Fuse became a considerable hit).

Movie aside, "The Rose of Versailles" is one of Japan's most beloved comics. From its debut in 1971 to its film and anime adaptation in 1979, it remained front and center in the country's mind throughout the whole decade. Its impact was felt in different fields, from the cosmetic business to the publishing business, from live theater to TV. It also forever changed how shoujo manga was perceived and remains one of the country's most beloved properties.

Ace-Scoring Manga

The 1970s marked a turning point for shoujo manga, as it began to gain recognition beyond its traditional audience, propelled not just by critical acclaim but by commercial success. The era witnessed the emergence of several blockbusters that captured the public's imagination. Notable among them were Yoko Shoji's "Seito Shokun," a tale centered on the daily exploits of a mischievous high-schooler, and Waki Yamato's "Haikara-san ga Tooru," a love story set in the Meiji period featuring a tomboy with a lady-like demeanor. These manga were significant hits during their publication in Kodansha's Shoujo Friends, becoming best-selling titles with tens of millions of copies sold.

Some shoujo classics from the '70s are still in publication today, appealing to a diverse readership spanning multiple generations. Suzue Michi's "Glass Mask," serialized in Hana to Yume since 1976, remains a cultural phenomenon with 49 tankobon volumes, over 55 million copies sold, an anime adaptation, a live-action drama, and a stage play. Similarly, Chieko Hosokawa's "Crest of the Royal Family," chronicling the adventures of a young American girl transported to ancient Egypt, has been a consistent presence in Princess magazine since 1976, boasting 69 volumes and over 45 million copies sold to date.

But, when talking about definitive shoujo classics from the '70s, titles that were historical successes, influenced everything going forward, and are known by everyone, three titles come to mind. We already explored one of these, "The Rose of Versailles." One of the other three is "Ace wo Nerae."

Following the monumental success of "Attack No. 1," the prospects of another shoujo sports manga achieving similar heights of popularity seemed improbable. However, Weekly Margaret defied expectations once more in 1973 with the release of Suzumika Yamamoto's "Ace wo Nerae" ("Aim for the Ace"), a compelling narrative focused on tennis that swiftly captured the nation's attention.

Japan and tennis already had some prior history. The first Japanese Olympic medalist was a tennis player, Ichy Kumagae, in 1920. Emperor Akihito met his commoner wife, Michiko, at a tennis match, and they initially bonded over their love for the sport. But, in the 70s, the country was taken over by an unprecedented tennis boom. At high schools across the nation, tennis became the most popular after-school activity. Fashion magazines like JJ and Popeye dedicated pages and pages to "tennis fashion." At the same time, trendy young adults decked in clothes from sports brands populated Shibuya and other stylish districts in Tokyo.

There were several contributors to the tennis boom. But the remarkable success of "Ace wo Nerae," which first conquered girls before dominating the nation, played a part in it.

The manga follows the journey of Hiromi Oka, a high school student initially plagued by insecurities but propelled into the world of tennis through the encouragement of her coach. "Ace wo Nerae" portrays her growth from a hesitant newcomer to a world-class tennis player, navigating challenges and discovering hidden potential along the way.

From left to right: Madame Butterfly, lead character Hiromi Oka and coach Jin Murakata as depicted in the anime. Madame Butterfly, a wealthy teen girl who is gentle and a world-class tennis player, is a fan favorite character.

In 1973, "Ace wo Nerae" was adapted into an anime. Despite initial modest ratings, the anime gained popularity through reruns. Encouraged by this, NTV decided to remake the cartoon. The second adaptation, which debuted in 1978, was an immediate hit. Concurrently, Weekly Margaret revived the manga series, which, after being first finalized in 1975, ran again from 1978 to 1980, spanning a total of 18 volumes.

Since "Ace wo Nerae," several hit mangas focused on tennis -- both shoujo and shonen -- were published. But, thanks to the success of its anime and the intragenerational support for the manga, the original work by Suzumika Yamamoto is still considered one of the defining and most beloved works about the sport. Its role in propelling tennis culture as part of the oshare youth culture of the '70s also defines its impact.

Japan Wants Candy

Following the monumental multimedia success of "The Rose of Versailles" and "Ace wo Nerae," the third shoujo sensation of the '70s is "Candy Candy."

Initially published in Nakayoshi, the story started taking shape when editors at the magazine sought a work of literary excellence akin to beloved classics popular among girls, like "Heidi" and "Anne of Green Gables." They enlisted Keiko Nagita, writing under the pen name Kyoko Mizuki, and paired her with one of the magazine's most famous artists, Yumiko Igarashi. The collaborative effort resulted in the creation of "Candy Candy," centered around an American, blond, blue-eyed orphan named Candice "Candy" White Ardlay.

"Candy Candy" epitomized various shoujo directions prevalent in the '70s. The protagonist, a white girl with lustrous blonde hair, embodied the fascination with Western culture during a time when Japanese youth held a keen interest in Europe and the United States. The manga's narrative style, characterized by its dramatic tone and plot twists, also aligned with the prevalent storytelling preferences of the era.

Candy Candy was such a resounding success that it became the first manga to achieve an initial print run of over 1 million copies of one of its paperback compilations.

Debuting in 1975, "Candy Candy" swiftly captured the hearts of Nakayoshi's readers, leading to unprecedented success. The subsequent anime adaptation by Toei in the following year propelled the franchise into the realm of a cultural phenomenon, sending manga tankobon sales skyrocketing. The seventh volume of the "Candy Candy" compiled paperback reportedly became the first Japanese manga to achieve an initial print run of over 1 million copies. Additionally, Nakayoshi's sales surged, surpassing those of its historical rival, Shueisha's Ribon, for the first (and only) time.

The adventures of young Candy were also licensing gold. With over 100 licensed products, the "Candy Candy" doll alone sold 2 million units, solidifying Bandai's position as Japan's premier toymaker, a status it continues to uphold to this day. The resounding success of "Candy Candy" forged a lasting alliance between Kodansha's Nakayoshi, Toei Animation, and toymaker Bandai, which led to the iconic "Sailor Moon" franchise in the 1990s.

While "Candy Candy" concluded its run in 1979, its appeal extended far beyond its original target demographic of very young girls, captivating kids, teenagers, and adults alike, thus contributing significantly to the manga and anime's widespread acclaim and enduring popularity.

However, a protracted legal dispute between Igarashi and Nagita has prevented the commercialization of any "Candy Candy" related products since the late 1990s, including reprints of the manga and re-broadcasting of the anime. The lawsuit arose from Igarashi's unauthorized licensing of merchandise based on the franchise, falsely asserting sole ownership of the copyright. Although Igarashi was initially credited as the lead artist in Nakayoshi during the manga's publication, the court ultimately ruled in Nagita's favor, emphasizing that Igarashi's artistic foundation was built upon Nagita's written work.

A collection of "Candy Candy" freebies offered by Nakayoshi magazine in the '70s. During the publication of the series, Nakayoshi would eclipse Ribon's sales for the one and only time in its history, (image credit)

Consequently, any commercial exploitation of Yumiko Igarashi's "Candy Candy" artwork necessitates the approval of both Igarashi and Nagita, a challenging prospect given the existing feud. Nagita, on the other hand, can profit from "Candy Candy" as long as she doesn't include any illustrations, which allowed her to release a book sequel in 2010. However, due to the dispute, one of the most beloved works in Japanese manga history is currently out of print. The lawsuit also blocks the anime from being aired or distributed. But, despite the almost two-decades-long media ban, "Candy Candy" remains widely known and beloved across Japan, a testament to its staying power.

While smash hits like "Candy Candy," "Ace wo Nerae," "Rose of Versailles," "Seito Shokun," "Hikara-san ga Tooru," and "Glass Mask," among others were key pieces into shoujo finally earning the respect it deserved, the rise of a revolutionary group of artists during the '70s was another critical element in shoujo's rise: the Year of 24 Group.

The Harajuku district in Shibuya has gained international acclaim as a hub of Tokyo's youth culture and fashion scene. Its streets are lined with cafes, boutiques, and well-known fast fashion stores, drawing a constant stream of tourists, fashionistas, and teenagers. However, before the arrival of billionaire retailers, foreigners, and media attention, this area's early inhabitants were the ones who truly shaped its unique character.

'70s Harajuku (Part 1)

There's been a few books written about Harajuku and its culture in the '70s. Famed photographer Shinpei Asai wrote "Central Apartments Monogatari" (Central Apartments Tale), published in 2002. Futoshi Kimizuka interviewed some creative professionals who had offices in the building for 2004's "Central Apartments no asobi" (Walking through Central Apartments). Yasuko Takahashi, Japan's first stylist, wrote extensively about her experience working and playing in the neighborhood during that era in "Omotesando no Yakko-san" (Yakko-san from Omotesando, 2012) and "Toki no kakeru Yakko-san" (Yakko-san Who Leapt Through Time, 2015). In 2019, Non Nakamura, who started out as Yakko-san's assistant, compiled photographs and essays from influential figures of the time in "70s Harajuku Genfuukei."

This same Non Nakamura contributed what I consider to be some of the most insightful and readily available essays on this period through her "20th Century Girl" serialization in Mononcle. These essays are accessible for free on their website (in Japanese, though Google Translate provides a decent translation). Nakamura's series chronicles the culture of the 1970s in Harajuku and the broader oshare influences of that decade.

The first essay discusses how she owes her fateful meeting with Yakko-san to rock 'n' roll. Nakamura was a teen during the folk music era when rockstars had long hair, worn-out T-shirts, and bell-bottom denim. She wasn't particularly attracted to this type of fashion, so when she first saw glamorous-looking David Bowie in a magazine, she instantly fell in love with him. Her other passion was the band Carols. She passed by a poster of them, with their regent hairstyles, motorcycles, and leather jackets, on her way to her part-time job in Shinjuku and was remarkably attracted to them. After work, she ran to the record store and bought their then-just-released first single, "Louisiana." When she got home and dropped the needle on the record, the sound of rock 'n' roll took over her body, and she was utterly fascinated with the band. Soon after, she got a boyfriend who followed the regent hairstyle/leather jacket/motorcycle trend of the time.

Nakamura hated studying and wasn't interested in school clubs and activities. She'd fulfill her curiosity about the world by reading the dressmaking magazine Fukusou and admiring the avant-garde professionals that worked in it, such as the photographers (Saku Sawatari, Daitomo Yoshida, Osamu Nagahama), the illustrators (Ayumu Ohashi, Teruhiko Yumura, Yosuke Kawamura, Osamu Harada, Tamie Okumura), the models (Risa Akigawa, Brenda, Ichizo Koizumi), and the writers (Takeshi Matsuyama and Ken Sunayama).

One day, Yasuko Takahashi, aka Yakko-san, started a serialization in Fukusou. In her inaugural essay, she wrote that if she were a teen, she'd probably be chasing her rock 'n' roll dreams and dating a rocker dude her mom disapproved of. These words resonated deeply with Nakamura, who found school tiresome, yearned for an artsy and glamorous world, adored Carol and Bowie, and was dating a delinquent high school dropout who didn't earn her mother's favor. She felt seen and understood.

In her column, Yakko-san published plenty of photos of her daily life. To Nakamura's surprise, she was friends with the guys from Carol and also worked as a stylist for David Bowie. In the 17-year-old girl's eyes, she was the most incredible woman alive.

As she recounts in her second essay, her deep relationship with the Fukuso magazine team started a few months before Yakko-san's inaugural column in the October '73 issue. One day during the spring of her senior year, she felt compelled to write a letter to the magazine professing her love for it. She dreamed of being an illustrator, so she included a bunch of her doodles. To her surprise, the editorial team called her home a few months later and invited her to their office.

After school, she changed from her uniform to her favorite clothes (which included a shirt she bought from a London import shop in the basement of Central Apartments and a gingham skirt she made inspired by MiLK) and eagerly made her way to the meeting. The editors inquired about her clothing and life, and their comment, "I sensed something in you that was not Yojohan-ish," stuck with her.

To understand the context of this comment, we must go back in time to the folk music fever of the '70s, when yojohan (4 tatamis and a mat) folk was at its peak. Yojohan referred to small rooms where impoverished university students lived, often idealized in songs about young love and melancholy that dominated the charts. Nakamura was happy with the comment because, indeed, she didn't like the poor and humid vibe of said songs. She was drawn instead to dreamy pop and rock. 

The teen girl left the magazine's office that day with an invite to publish a double-spread page in the June issue, full of her illustrations and thoughts. It was quite an achievement for her.

Encouraged by this experience, she didn't hesitate to write Yakklp-san a letter. And to her astonishment, Yakko-san replied! Before she knew it, they had become penpals and engaged in lengthy phone conversations. Thus began a profound friendship between a 17-year-old high school student and a 34-year-old stylist at the pinnacle of her career.

Funnily enough, Yakko-san feared meeting Nakamura and disappointing her. To the 17-year-old, it was amusing that a grown woman who organized Japan's top designer Kansai Yamamoto's show in London Fashion Week and had the initiative to collaborate with world-famous figures such as T-Rex and David Bowie would be intimidated by her.

But, as she recounts in her third essay, they finally met. First, a quick 10-minute meeting in a Shibuya coffee shop. And then a proper encounter at the renowned Leon, where she also met other cool people she used to see in the magazines. Soon after, she became a frequent visitor to Yakko-san's small apartment in Harajuku.

Initially, she was taken aback by the apartment's minimalist and compact layout, as well as Yakko's sparse possessions. Yet, within the broader context, it made sense that a trend-savvy individual in 1973 lived this way. It was the year of the Oil Shock, the first post-war recession and frugality was in vogue. Books like "Jonathan Livingston Seagull," an anti-materialism allegory, and Alicia Bay Laurel's "Back to the Earth" became bestsellers, reflecting the shift towards a more modest lifestyle.

Amid the growing popularity of the back-to-the-land movement in the United States, minimalism and healthy living gained global momentum. It was Yakko-san who first introduced Nakamura to these ideas.

Through Yakko, Nakamura also learned about "natural food," a relatively unfamiliar concept in Japan at the time. While a foreign concept to most, natural food was all the rage in the vibrant neighborhood of Harajuku, and locals bought it from the market in the basement of the luxury Co-Op Olympia condo. Additionally, a delivery service offered pesticide-free vegetables, spearheaded by a former Leon patron who had forsaken a successful creative career to explore his passion for sustainable farming. Through these encounters, young Nakamura began to comprehend that life presented various paths, and fashion encompassed not only clothing but also a holistic lifestyle, including food and living habits.

The fourth installment focuses on Sayoko Yamaguchi, one of Japan's top models of the '70s, who had worldwide success and shared a close relationship with Yakko-san. Nakamura observed that during that era, the most prominent models were of mixed heritage (haafus), characterized by big eyes, long eyelashes, and wavy hair. Notably, Lisa Akigawa was one of the most renowned among them. In contrast, Yamaguchi stood apart with her almond-shaped eyes and black bob haircut. Her unique style served as an inspiration for many Japanese girls, fostering their self-confidence. Her signature eyeliner makeup and haircut were emulated by numerous admirers. While Yamaguchi enjoyed global fame at international fashion weeks, she became a familiar face to the Japanese public through her Shiseido commercials. She was among the numerous icons in fashion and culture closely connected to Yakko-san.

During the 1970s, Sayoko Yamaguchi was one of the faces of Shiseido cosmetics.

Another notable figure in this circle was the director Juzo Itami, whose tight relationship with Yakko-san was evident in his introduction to her first book, "Aisatsu no Nai no Nagadenwa" (Long Phone Conversation with no Greeting), published in 1976. This title offered one of the first comprehensive examinations of the "stylist" profession, which was relatively obscure in Japan then.

In the fifth essay, Nakamura writes how she found out about the profession through an article at AnAn, which briefly described a stylist as "people who lease clothes for fashion shoots, run around Harajuku with large bags, line the soles of model's shoes with duct tape, coordinate clothes, and attend shoots."

As she discovered through her work with Yakko-san, stylists do way more than that. And that was also what Itami tried to convey in the introduction to Yakko's book:

"I want to introduce my friend, Yasuko Takahashi. She is a first-class stylist. When making fashion editorials or commercials, a stylist can materialize a suitable house, the right interior design, or a place just like the one you're looking for out of thin air. At the same time, they also find props that are suitable for the location and source costumes. Depending on the situation, they will interact with the models and even advise on hair and make-up, so they must be genuinely knowledgeable. Collaborating with Yakko is, without exaggeration, a heavenly experience for me. She is a consummate professional. Once upon a time, when she couldn't find a suitable location, she wandered through town all night, shedding tears of frustration until she eventually discovered one. I mean, she's persistent. Her tenacity isn't limited to her professional life; in her case, she's unwavering in allowing her creativity to roam freely."

Yakko and Itami first met after being introduced by famed photographer Shinpei Asai, who had his office at Harajuku Central Apartments. The three of them worked together on a serialization Itami had at Shūkan Bunshun magazine in the sixties, which had Asai in charge of the photography and Takahashi doing the styling.

Takahashi was impressed by Itami's sensitivity to trends on a global scale. When she went to New York, he told her to buy a Yellow Pages-sized book, "Whole Earth Catalog," which inspired his weekly column. As covered here, "Whole Earth Catalog" was highly influential among Japanese media and creative types in the late 60s and early 70s, molding much of Japan's fashion culture.

But back to Non Nakamura's column, stylist was a novel occupation. She notes that stylists became highly sought after in the 80s, with the effects of the D.C. brand boom and the bubble economy. A diverse range of stylist roles emerged, including magazine stylists, advertising stylists, men's fashion stylists, and even specialists in props and food styling, each requiring unique skills and expertise. But back then, when Yakko-san was one of the few professionals doing this job, a stylist was in charge of everything, from the models and shooting locations to the costumes, dishes, houseplants, furniture, or anything else the shoot may need.

One day, Yakko asked Non to work as her assistant on a Noriyaki Yokosuka shoot. She promptly accepted, even though she had no idea who the photographer was. However, when she mentioned him to the boys in her design school, they were impressed and told her that he was the one who photographed Sayoko Yamaguchi's Shiseido posters, as well as doing the Parco ads. Parco, the Shibuya fashion building, had the buzziest campaigns in the country under Eiko Ishioka's art direction.

When she got to the shoot, the photographer asked her to get some poppy flowers. Faced with challenges in finding these specific flowers, Non embarked on a frantic quest, purchasing as many as she could to meet the photographer's expectations. However, to her astonishment, the photographer didn't even glance at the flowers. That's when she realized that being a stylist was a tough job.

David Bowie was the theme of two installments of the column. Yakko-san introduced him to legendary Japanese designer Kansai Yamamoto, who was behind some of his most legendary costumes, and they established a close working relationship in the 1970s. During her tenure as Yakko's assistant, Non had the opportunity to meet Bowie in a 1977 photoshoot in Harajuku. One of the photographs from that session, captured by Masayoshi Sukita, ultimately was used as the cover of Bowie's 12th studio album, "Heroes."

The cover of Bowie's 12th studio album, "Heroes," was shot in Harajuku. Yakko-san was the stylist.

She also dedicated a chapter to another one of her idols, Eikichi Yazawa, whom she met just a few weeks after Carol's farewell concert as he prepared to make his solo debut. She recounts that his charm so enchanted her that she realized she didn't actually love her boyfriend at the time, breaking up with him shortly after.

Nakamura watched Carol's final concert twice. Along with the rest of the country, she followed the telecast, aired a few days later. As she recounts, she and Yakko-san were working in Harajuku on a Saturday afternoon when the stylist took a look at her watch, said, "oh, it's starting soon," and rushed to a design office at Central Apartment that had a TV (minimalist Yakko-san didn't have one at her place).

But she also was one of the lucky few who actually were at the proper concert in Hibya Open Air, which she attended all dressed up in clothes from the trendy Creamy Soda boutique in Harajuku (the owner was notoriously close to Carol's members). Infected by the feral atmosphere, she ended up in the front row and even tried to invade the stage. She succeeded in getting her right foot in before being kicked out by the security guard. But here's a twist: the security was also a regular at Harajuku's Leon coffee shop.

In the 1970s, the hippiest motorcycling gang in Tokyo was The Cools. They were known for their cool styles, hung out with models and celebrities, and were always at Leon. Of course, like all of Japan's young bad boys, they were also big Carol fans. And they actually became close to the members. For their final show, the band wanted to mimic the Rolling Stones -- which had the Hell's Angels as security -- and they invited The Cools to escort them and guard the stage. 

After Carols disbanded, the Cools were actually hired by a major record label and became a proper rock band.

The Harajuku district in Shibuya has gained international acclaim as a hub of Tokyo's youth culture and fashion scene. Its streets are lined with cafes, boutiques, and well-known fast fashion stores, drawing a constant stream of tourists, fashionistas, and teenagers. However, before the arrival of billionaire retailers, foreigners, and media attention, this area's early inhabitants were the ones who truly shaped its unique character.

Several factors contributed to Harajuku evolving into a valuable and fashionable destination. Firstly, its location, accessible via the Yamanote Line and situated within the Shibuya ward, played a pivotal role. The vicinity surrounding Shibuya Station, located about 1.3 km north, has been a focal point for youth culture since the 1950s. Moreover, Minato-Aoyama, which borders Omotesando Avenue, has been developed as a fashionable place since VAN made it a hub for Ivy fashion, scattering its boutiques and facilities around the area in the '60s.

Another noteworthy aspect is the absence of certain establishments like sex shops, dingy bars, pachinko parlors, cabaret clubs, and love hotels. This is due to the city's designation of the area as an Education District, owing to the presence of the Jingumae Elementary School. Consequently, Harajuku maintains a safer and considerably less seedy atmosphere than other popular fashion and entertainment districts like Shinjuku, Ikebukuro, and the central part of Shibuya.

Despite this, Harajuku didn't become a famous, trendy area overnight. For decades, the district remained a quiet residential neighborhood with minimal activity, except for the annual influx of New Year's Day visitors who assembled at the Meiji Shrine. Yet, one distinguishing feature would set it apart: its international vibe.

In 1947, the construction of the Washington Heights complex, a vast housing facility for the US Armed Forces, transformed the landscape, prompting the emergence of local shops catering to international families, exemplified by the enduring Kiddy Land toy store. Kiddy Land, which still thrives today, became a beloved destination for the children of American soldiers and was the first shop in Japan to offer Barbie dolls.

Route 5, the fashionable drive-in eatery, photographed in 1965.

In 1964, Japanese authorities took back control of the land occupied by Washington Heights. The government repurposed the area and built Olympic facilities and athlete accommodations, further fueling investments in Harajuku. By 1966, the local nightlife began flourishing, primarily due to affluent teenagers cruising the streets in flashy American sports cars. They were drawn to cosmopolitan restaurants that kept their doors open late into the night, with Route 5, a drive-in eatery, being a notable hotspot. Right across the street from Route 5 stood an Adventist church, contributing to the area's foreign allure. 

Around that time, Harajuku garnered significant media attention with the completion of Olympia Co-Op, Japan's first luxury condominium development. But it was another residential building that shaped Harajuku's spirit...

Harajuku Central Apartments

Occupations like stylist, copywriter, designer, fashion photographer, and illustrator didn't gain recognition until the post-war period. They were referred to as the "katakana professions" due to their foreign origin and the fact their Japanese translations are loanwords, usually written in the Katakana syllabary. It wasn't until the 1980s, thanks to articles in magazines like AnAn and other fashion publications, that these professions became widely known among the Japanese public. However, starting in the '60s, more than a decade before becoming widespread, these creative individuals—already molding Japanese pop culture, fashion, and advertising—gathered in the Harajuku Central Apartments opposite the Jingumae crossing.

Central Apartments featured seven floors that accommodated offices, boutiques, and a café. The café that occupied part of the ground floor, Leon, achieved legendary status and was immortalized in fashion magazines as a meeting place for Japan's creative elite.

Harajuku Central Apartments photographed in 1980.

With the launch of magazines like AnAn, Non-no, and Popeye, which reported on Tokyo's fashionable districts, boutiques, and individuals, Harajuku gained recognition among trend-conscious individuals across Japan, and so did Leon, the trendiest coffee shop in Harajuku.

Unlike Chianti, the upscale Italian restaurant frequented by celebrities in the posh Nishiazabu area, Leon was accessible, unpretentious, and affordable. In fact, you could enjoy multiple cups of coffee for a fixed price, a rarity in Tokyo at the time. Nevertheless, its reputation as the haunt of Harajuku's most notable professionals made it an intimidating spot where few dared to venture.

The recurring theme in stories from young visitors to the area was, "I was just a kid from the countryside; there was no way I could summon the courage to enter." Even Tokyoites who weren't part of the inner circle kept their distance. However, Leon's large glass windows attracted the attention of passersby, who craned their necks and tried to catch a glimpse of celebrities and industry figures featured in magazines and on TV.

“LEON” in Harajuku/1972/Mike Nogami

Inside Leon, despite its no-frills décor and menu, it felt like entering a new world where only the most stylish individuals were welcomed. Everyone in the café dressed in the latest European and American fashion trends, and the music playing was the latest hits from London, New York City, or California. Since the café also served as an office for its customers, you could overhear Japan's most prominent fashion, music, and advertising professionals openly discussing their latest projects and loudly taking calls on the venue's pink telephone.

While the coffee shop served as Central Apartment's meeting place, it wasn't its only commercial facility. Harajuku's first boutique, Madame Nonnon, by legendary designer Taro Aramaki, opened in the building in 1964. It sold casual Parisian fashion, and its border (stripped) shirts were a big trend. (Even today, striped shirts remain a cherished staple of Parisian casual style in Japan, with trend-conscious women often sourcing them from the British brand St. James.). 

Madame Nonnon, considered by many as Japan's first boutique, shaped the exclusive aura of Central Apartments. Taro Aramaki was discerning in his clientele, only selling to those who matched the store's style. Prices were exceedingly high, and except for the striped shirts and a few select items, everything was either tailor-made or imported directly from Paris. Additionally, sizing was limited to XS, adding to the exclusivity.

Later, other retailers started occupying space in Harajuku Central Apartments, and the basement floor became a small shopping mall with stalls selling food and fashion items. But the biggest success story emerging out of the Central Apartments' shops is probably MILK.

The entrance of MILK's first boutique (left) and a glimpse inside Mademoiselle Nonnon, including its iconic border pieces, as part of an AnAn 1972 editorial (top right).

Under the direction of Hitomi Okawa, MILK initially sold women's clothes, mixing playfulness with the London punk aesthetic admired by the young designer. Eventually, the brand became a staple of Harajuku kawaii fashion with its girly designs and celebrity admirers. MILK influenced the rise of fashion tribes like the Gothic Lolitas and gained prominence, expanding nationwide. A men's line, MILKBOY, was launched in 1975.

MILK's flagship store is still in Harajuku, but not at Central Apartments. As a testament to how much the area has evolved and how things have drastically changed, the building met its demise in 1998. The place is now the site of the Tokyu Plaza shopping center. However, Harajuku owes a lot of its fashionable, creative cred to the existence of the legendary building, which brought some of the most avant-garde professionals to the area.

The Evolution of Harajuku

Harajuku has become so renowned that every facet of the district is well-known. There's Ura-Harajuku, the charming backstreets teeming with cafes and independent shops. There's the heart of Harajuku itself, which typically includes Cat Street and Takeshita Dori—lively thoroughfares packed with stores and food stalls catering to teenagers. You'll also find the bustling Meiji Dori and the iconic Jingumae Crossing, which doubles as the intersection of Omotesando. And, of course, there's Omotesando itself, the grand avenue lined with zelkova trees, home to the flagship stores of luxury brands that extend from the Meiji Shrine to the entrance of the stylish and equally lavish Aoyama-dori in the Minato ward.

In the '60s, however, there was no Ura-Harajuku, and Omotesando was just a tranquil and beautiful avenue with almost no buildings. Harajuku was a quiet, relaxing area of central Tokyo, catering mainly to its residents. While a few trend-savvy people gravitated towards the area due to its cosmopolitan air, it was a well-kept secret among them.

A fashionable girl walks in front of the Kiddy Land toy shop in Harajuku Kiddy Land in 1974/Alao Yokogi.

However, as the 1970s rolled in, AnAn magazine changed everything. The magazine frequently featured Harajuku alongside well-known Tokyo districts like Shibuya, Shinjuku, and Ginza. During this era, Harajuku hadn't yet embraced the youthful, inclusive vibrancy it enjoys today. Instead, it was an elegant adult enclave characterized by its upscale, intimidating boutiques, the accomplished creative professionals at Central Apartment, and the opulent Co-op Olympia and its wealthy residents.

After Mademoiselle Non-non, a wave of boutiques began to emerge. Model Mako opened the trendy MAKO BIS. London underground fashion, favored by the style-savvy, was available at Help and Suzuroku. Meanwhile, for those who preferred folk and boho-inspired garments, also trendy at the time, there was Violon and Hitotsume Kozou.

In 1970, BIGI, a women's ready-to-wear clothing brand founded by the husband and wife team of Takeo Kikuchi and Yoshie Inaba, opened its first store in Harajuku. Three years later, Rei Kawakubo inaugurated the first boutique of her now internationally renowned label, COMME des GARÇONS, in the same area. BIGI and COMME des GARÇONS, along with other brands created by emerging Japanese designers, set off the "DC Brand Boom," which would shape the domestic fashion scene in the following decade, a theme we will revisit later.

BEAMS, now one of Japan's largest retailers with stores nationwide, started in Harajuku in 1976 as a modest import store modeled after a UCLA dorm room. It quickly drew crowds searching for American brands featured in the MADE IN USA Catalog and Popeye magazine. During the same year, teenagers flocked to the neighborhood to shop at Cream Soda, a second-hand boutique known for its '50s-inspired rockabilly fashion, sparking a youth fashion craze. By 1977, a significant portion of Harajuku had been closed to vehicular traffic, transforming the area into what the Japanese refer to as a "pedestrian paradise." Stylish young people began congregating in the area to dance and flaunt their eye-catching outfits, mostly bought from the local Boutique Takenoko.

In 1978, a fashion building aimed at the youth market, LaForet Harajuku, opened at the Jingumae Crossing, just across from the Central Apartments. LaForet quickly gained fame as one of Tokyo's premier shopping destinations and continues to be a beloved fixture in the area today. Harajuku's transformation into a central hub for fashion was complete.