by Jamie Cotton
When I think back to the first time I modeled in Japan, I realize
how awkward and amusing the experience was. The occasion was a workshop consisting of
about twenty photographers who had been attracted by a chance to shoot a beautiful and
talented American model. They spoke about four words of English between them--which was
twice the amount of Japanese I knew. So, we bowed and gestured a lot, and I
decided I would simply "do my thing," and they would follow.
However, when I struck my typical American glamour poses, the shutters were silent. "Move slowly," someone recommended, so I moved very slowly from one pose to the next. Surprisingly, the shutters started clicking during transitional movements and stopped when I arrived at what I thought to be an attractive position. Regardless of my continual confusion, the photographers seemed to think the shoot was successful, so I was content.
As I came to know more about Japanese ideas and became more entrenched in the culture, I began to understand what they saw in the in between, unrehearsed form of movement. Just as much of what we look for when doing a figure shoot is influenced by Western ideas of beauty and sensuality, so the Japanese shoot the figure according to a sensibility in which they have been steeped for thousands of years. Exploring some classic Eastern art forms can give us insight into modern Japanese figure photography.
Often, when I modeled for Japanese art classes, the instructor would begin with an exercise in which the subject holds a pose for five seconds or less, and the student must attempt to capture the essence of the figure in that instant. The result, if successful, is a single stroke of the brush that beautifully and effectively conveys the human form in all of its profound complexities. Traditional Japanese calligraphy, at its finest, attempts to achieve a similar end. Much of the Japanese language is made up of Chinese symbols; one or two symbols represents a word. The Japanese discipline of calligraphy beautifully articulates each stroke of the pen so the singular symbol becomes a profound art. Similarly, the poetic form of Haiku seeks to reduce language to a simple form with a grace and elegance that allows a few words to speak volumes about the human soul. This same idea of stripping something to its beautiful essence can be seen in much Japanese figure photography.
Rather than glamorize the figure, much of the Japanese work I've experienced seeks to reduce the figure to its simplest element. Thus, the grace of an everyday movement exemplifies the human form and its universality. It's not when the figure is posed and idealized that it becomes most beautiful, but rather when it is basic, simplified, reduced to realism, that its true beauty is revealed.
There's a dance form in Japan known as Buto. It's a slow--torturously slow--form of movement which engages constant tension within the body of the dancer. The reaction of most Westerners is discomfort. The dancer's body is continually contorted and seemingly brutalized as the dancer never allows it to flow freely across the stage. Movements are jerky and abrupt; limbs are crooked and clenched; muscles are taut and misaligned. Nonetheless, if Western viewers are able to disregard the apparent pain of this highly disciplined dance, they can start to see the fascinating beauty in the manipulated form.
Traditional Japanese theater also has a tendency to discomfit Western thinkers. Dramatic make-up enhances the horrible expressions of the performers. The masks which are often used are frightening and overdone. Story lines appear overwhelmingly tragic and tortured to a Western sentimentality that seeks to hide behind a facade of happiness. The Japanese see a beauty in sadness and tension which seems to be lost in the West. Again, these elements can be seen in Japanese figure art.
As I moved slowly from one modeling position to the next, when I felt most awkward, the shutters clicked the fastest. As I did more Japanese shoots, I pushed myself to let go of my ideas of beauty and glamour and form myself into shapes which were more free form and bizarre. I found a whole new grace in these movements, plus a new appreciation for the diversity of the human form.
I also began to realize that the Japanese photographers liked me to add elements of human emotion. I had previously believed the figure always needed to appear strong and invulnerable, because to present it any other way might be degrading. In Japan, I started to experiment with portraying different emotions in front of the lens. Sadness, fear, anxiety, sensuality... the power of these emotions is enhanced when the figure is unclothed and can communicate profoundly through the form--regardless of whether the face is shown. In contrast to my original objection, I didn't feel vulnerable but strangely empowered by portraying these emotions. This action allowed me to claim these emotions and not be ashamed of them. I think we have a tendency to not want the world to see our weaknesses, rather than to realize we're whole and beautiful only when we express a full range of emotionality.
The time I spent in Japan was enlightening and enjoyable. I found the Japanese to be friendly and interesting people entrenched in traditions that were thousands of years old. They adhered to a way of thinking and understanding that challenged and changed many of my perceptions about art and life. By exploring some traditional Japanese art forms, I was able to better comprehend the modern Japanese photographers and their specific sentimentalities in regards to the nude. My new understandings helped me to become a better model and ultimately a better person.