Balancing Her Beauty: Mari Katayama’s Self-Representations

Jinxue Wu

Jinxue Wu is in his last year of study at the Kenyon College in Ohio, USA, with a major in Art History and a minor in Philosophy. This paper articulates his academic interests in the representation of body and disability in contemporary art. His current research interest is on arts of modernity and modern life, specifically in the late 19th century Paris. Jinxue Wu is considering in pursuing further education in modern/postmodern art in near future.

Abstract

The human body is frequently represented in art; and “beauty and perfection” are perhaps the themes that are communicated even more frequently in representations of the body. In this paper we will look at the contemporary Japanese artist Mari Katayama, who was born with congenital tibial hemimelia and accepted amputation at the age of nine, and how her self-depictions in photographs challenge the aesthetics of the human body and the notion of “beautiful and perfect” bodies. Katayama creates this challenge to conventional aesthetics, this paper argues, in mainly two ways: by working with the existing canon of the “beautiful (female) body” to allow audiences to draw connections between her impaired body and the idea of beauty; and also by artistically editing her disabled body (through prosthesis, for example) to create brand new languages of bodily aesthetics and ideals.

Balancing Her Beauty: Mari Katayama’s Self-Representations

Even if when I was shocked by the state of my leg, but for my daughter who loves my leg, it was a precious leg, right? 

[…]

So if something bad happens, do you decide to just forget about the bad history? Do you try to love the place? You kinda have to decide to keep balance of two different things.

— excerpted from Katayama’s interview at the Penny Stamps Speaker Series in 2019.

By the late nineteenth century, the Ashio Copper Mine in Tochigi, Japan, was excessively exploited to support the ongoing modernization of Japan put into effect by the new “Meiji” government. The result of this exploitation was severe pollution of the minerals in the town of Ashio; folks living there suffered unimaginable pains due to lesions brought on by the pollution. “Balance” was the keyword when Katayama discussed the legacy of the copper mine pollution that flared up in Ashio, Japan, in the late nineteenth century. “Balance” here refers to perspectives. Katayama trenchantly asked the audience to think about the social reception of post-catastrophe Ashio. Should the residents in Ashio remain oblivious to the town’s disastrous history? Should they re-adjust themselves to love and appreciate their home again, even given the tremendous harm it caused to the people? “Balances”, ultimately, boil down to the choices one makes to “see” a situation, the flexible lens available for a fixed view. I think it is appropriate to resort to the very term “balance” as Mari Katayama has defined it for us to explore her works, and perhaps a little of her life as well. This essay will try to bring us to see how Katayama “visually reimagined disability”—particularly the aesthetics of it—through two different avenues, differently “balanced”; one relies more upon the circulating canon of beauty, using it as a shared epistemic ground for audiences to see Katayama’s “re-imagination” of disabled beauty; the other mode of re-imagining distances itself further from existing aesthetic fashion—it “does not seek to accept or to reject disability but to pursue disability as an aesthetic value in itself”, as disability scholar Tobin Siebers tells us. 

“Venus” is a frequent subject in the western canon of art history. Found its origin in Roman mythology, “Venus” in artwork is usually an emblem of love, sex, beauty, and fertility. Though Venus is represented in various ways in canonical paintings, there is one archetypal representation that is perhaps the most defining of her, especially from the period spanning from the Renaissance to Modernity. Take a look at Giorgione’s Dresden Venus (Figure 1). Resting amid a serene, idyllic background is a female nude, who is identified by the painting’s title as Venus. Her torso is slightly diagonal within the composition because she is reclining against a sloping couch that subtly elevates the figure on one end. Venus in Giorgione’s painting naps quietly, placidly, almost atemporally, yet at the same time in an extremely exposed fashion. Almost every surface of Venus’ nude body is presented to the audience: her reclining body is inclined to her right at a convenient angle, so that most of her frontal body is visible in the work; and in her pose, the lifted right arm daringly offers one of the most concealed human body part, the armpit, to the audience’s view. The only part of her body that Venus seems to conceal is her pubic area, but she does so less in a defensive manner, and more in name of courtesy and modesty. No intentional flirtation has occurred in Giorgione’s Venus—she is simply enjoying her leisure in an undisturbed sleep—but one might just as easily be erotically enticed sheerly by the available—even more than available, the superfluous—presentation of her nude body. 

Take a look at a very similar image painted by a colleague of Giorgione, Titian. In Titian’s famous work Venus of Urbino (see Figure 2), the subject is lounging upon several heaped pillows in almost the same way as in Giorgione’s work: the body is depicted as a sinuous diagonal; her right foot crisscrosses under her left one to find a fulcrum for her lower torso; and her right hand, again, lands gently on the “mountain of Venus”, in an appropriately virtuous gesture. A stark difference between the two Renaissance masters’ Venuses, however, is her state of being. Venus in Titian’s work is absolutely awake, staring ineluctably upon the audience, as if she is expecting, or has already received, some sort of response. The reciprocity of the gazes in Venus of Urbino is at the crux of the goddess’s sensuous titillation, at least for art historian Paul Barolsky from the University of Virginia:

Her (Venus’ of Urbino) fingers sink into the bunch of roses, some of which fall from her hand, as if the momentary loosening of her grasp suggests distraction at the very instant when she is lost in the gaze of the viewer. Scarcely remote or celestial, the goddess of love is intensely accessible, both physically and psychologically, as she and her admirer, the viewer, are lost in each other's gaze.

The exchange of gazes between Venus and viewers in Titian’s masterpiece thus forms the painting’s most romantic catalyst; it invites the audience to free Venus from her two-dimensional and mythological shackles, imagining her as a vivid being who is having an unabashed date with the viewers. The meeting of two pairs of eyes thus gives rise to the artwork’s erotic climax, by means of an intimate interpersonal encounter.

Now let’s return to a large photograph made by Mari Katayama, You’re mine #001 (see Figure 3).  When the photograph was materially produced in Lambda print and was exhibited in galleries, it measured 102 x 159 cm, a grandiose size that is comparable to Giorgione’s Dresden Venus, or to Titian’s Venus of Urbino. In Katayama’s large print, we see, for a third time, the familiar reclining posture that characterizes images of Venus. If we juxtapose You’re mine #001 with Titian’s Venus of Urbino, the similarity between the two images is striking: in Katayama’s self-portrait, the stacks of pillows and sheets that she lies against recall the boudoir setting of Titian’s Venus; the 3/4 profile display of Katayama’s body, like the Venus of Urbino, exhibits most of her frontal torso to the audience; and, though we do not see a bouquet of flaming red roses engulfing her finger, the flowers distill their most suggestive crimson into the nail polish on Katayama’s right hand. An echo of sensuousness or even sexuality we see in Titian’s Venus rings back in Katayama’s self-photograph. Strengthening the hint of erotica are the diaphanous and flesh-toned corset and stockings, whispering their codes of love to the enthralled viewers behind the frame.

Taking note of the eroticism that Katamaya’s self-portrait exudes, one is forced to confront the artist’s overt display of her own bodily impairment, which has been culturally assumed to undercut sexuality. Mari Katayama was born with a rare disease named tibial hemimelia. The condition halted her full development of the tibia, a supporting bone in the lower leg. In Katayama’s case, the disease also affected the formation of her left hand, resulting in a cleft hand with only two fingers. At the young age of nine, Katayama voluntarily amputated both of her legs, and has relied much on a prosthesis for mobility ever since. In You’re mine #001, we do not see any attempt by Katayama to conceal her body’s impairments. The flesh-to-ocher toned stockings outline the “irregular”, anti-utilitarian prosthesis Katayama chose to wear for this self-portrait, presenting her amputations without any ambiguity. A small, white, cylindrical gadget adheres closely to her stocking, contrasting its color with the deeper-toned background, warily marking an end to her artificial limb. We know that Katayama could have selected a pair of prostheses that approximate able-bodied legs, as she did in another self-portrayal made three years ago — I Have Child’s Feet (see Figure 4). But she refused to do so in the photograph discussed in this essay. Katamaya’s choice to highlight her disability in You’re mine #001 intersects interestingly with the piece’s glowing sensuousness, discussed above, and perhaps confuses or even counters it.  The first glance at the picture may attract the audience, but additional engagements with the artwork may cause audiences to recoil, through an invisible repelling force constructed by the (a)sexual culture of disability. Katayama in her self-portrait embodies a figure that is “simultaneously and compulsively fascinating and repulsive, enticing and sickening”, an unresolvable paradox of reactions. The tantalizing dual feelings the picture incites might be Katayama’s piquant request for audiences to ponder and interrogate the standard of “beauty” that culture has informed them. “What does this excite in me?” “What is it that really turns me on?”—these questions should be considered in tandem with “What is it that turns me off?”

Another trace of Katayama’s bodily impairments can further our interrogation of the definition of “beauty”. Look at Katayama’s cleft left hand, which nonchalantly rests on her left “thigh”. Though we see the hand in You’re mine #001 shares the same tendency as in the Venus of Urbino to approach her pubic area, Katayama’s hand is slightly displaced. Instead of covering up her private area, Katayama moves her hand a little to the side, allowing the erotic triangle to be available to the viewers’ gazes (though the corset hinders a direct view of Katayama’s body). The availability of such a private area, interestingly, is not prohibited but is fostered by Katayama’s hand. The two fingers land gently on the artist's left-leg prosthesis, curving back subtly and pointing back to her pubic area euphemistically, forming a corporeal arrow, inviting the audience to take a look at the point suggested. The visceral red applied to the sitter’s nails serves as the arrow’s most obvious attention-anchor, directing the viewers’ gazes to the “mountain” of sexuality. The visual journey to the summit of sexuality and attraction is guided ironically by a visible disability, a symbolism that negates the very destination of the journey. As the viewer follows the route of the journey, it is likely that he/she will be puzzled by the two irreconcilable landmarks, and is thus invited to think about the intricate relations between “bodily impairments”, “sexuality”, and “beauty”.

Katayama’s gaze in her self-portrayal is almost ineluctable from audience’s point of view. I used the same word (“ineluctable”) when discussing the engaging gaze of Titian’s Venus of Urbino. But Katayama’s gaze in her photograph is very different from that of Venus in the Renaissance piece. There is nothing in Katayama’s gaze that is disarmingly alluring, or modestly flirtatious, as we see in the case of Venus of Urbino. Katayama’s gaze is cold, indifferent, defiant, and, ultimately, interrogative; all of these attitudes are accentuated by the dark and thick eyeliner outlining her eyes. One might recall Katayama’s gaze — and perhaps her figure in general — in this photograph to that of Manet’s infamous Olympia (see Figure 5). Olympia’s gaze is “direct” and “uninflected”—says Charles Bernheimer from the Amherst College; and “arresting”, “shameless” and “undaunted”—as art writer Aline Damas describes it. When I was first introduced to Manet’s Olympia in a Survey of Art class, the professor tried to perform the mental monologue of Olympia by shouting out at the picture’s frame, “What are you looking at!?” The same question, I think, is asked by Katayama’s trenchantly interrogative gaze: “What are you looking at? A figure of beautiful attraction, or one of an uneasy repulsion? Or a confusing, yet telling, mix of the two?”

You’re mine #001, this paper argues, witnesses Katayama’s endeavor to suture two contradictory narratives into one photograph—one that recalls and one that refuses aesthetic attraction—in order to inspire the viewer to reflect on the existing canon of female beauty and its relation to, and exclusion of, the impaired body. Katayama wisely employed existing bodily aesthetics—the archetype of Venus, for example—to guide her audience to see her dually packed arguments. We cannot be perfectly certain that Venus—a figure stemming from the western art history canon—was intentionally cited in Katayama’s large photograph, but it is tempting to extrapolate so when we hear Katayama answering Finn Blythe’s question in an interview in March 2020:

Finn Blythe (from HERO Magazine): Much of your work alludes to specific periods in art history and the work of classical painters like Botticelli and Millais. How do these references add to the reading of your art?

Mari: I got along well with my grandfather and he often took me to museums, so I grew familiar with modern paintings as a child. I also majored in art history and aesthetics for my first degree, which may have influenced my thoughts. I think these experiences led me to question how culture is generated and what beauty really means.

Titian and Giorgione’s Venuses, just like the one by Botticelli that Katayama may reference in bystander 01 (see footnote 22), could serve as a tool for Katayama to question the cultural formation of female “beauty” in You’re mine #001, particularly for audiences with a western “period eye”. The imagery of Venus creates an epistemic bridge bringing the viewer closer to the complicated aesthetic discourses Katayama may have tried to construct in her photographic self-depiction. 

There are beautiful things that everyone agrees on, and there is another kind of beauty that acquires recognition
through the process of becoming beautiful, and the latter takes time.

— From Katayama’s interview with Finn Blythe

In the year 2003, Tatsuya Shimada, a graduate student from the Vantan Design Institute in Tokyo, Japan, was in busy preparation for his upcoming graduation show. He was searching for models for his show, specifically amateur artists with unconventional body types. In his online research, Shimada happened to find a potential model through a blog: Mari Katayama, aged 16, currently attending a commercial high school in Gunma, Japan. Both of her legs were amputated due to a tibial defect, and her left hand was also comprised of only two fingers. Shimada reached out to Katayama to see if she would be interested in modeling for his show. “It was a shocking encounter (with Shimada) when I was a teenager” Katayama recalled in 2016. But eventually she agreed to participate in Shimada’s runway show. For the show, Katayama was dressed in a fashion named “Caledonia (Celtic culture) of Harajuku (a district in Japan)”—a skirt adorned with pink floral ruffles, as well as grids and tassels; and, for accessories, a pile of heaped hats and a corsage made of bagpipes (see Figure 6). Shimada suggested that Katayama embellish her prostheses with patterns of fairies, but she politely declined—and painted them instead with whimsical, animated thistles (see Figure 7). “It was a mixture of beautiful colours with an element of the grotesque”, commented Shimada later. Before the show commenced, Katayama was concerned that she was not tall enough to match the show. Shortly after, however, she addressed her worry by increasing the length of her prostheses by 5 centimeters, which brought Katayama to 180 centimeters on the actual runway.

Perhaps it was at Shimada’s show that Katayama started to play with and design her prostheses habitually. A constant subject that she would decorate her “legs” was “intricate flower designs.” We know, however, that this decorative tradition did not start on a pleasant note: although Katayama thought her “newly tattooed” legs would claim her identity and attract some friendships, the painted legs further alienated her from other social groups. The social isolation, however, did not prove to be at all negative for Katayama; it reminded the artist that expression is more than verbal, and that her prostheses could also be an agent for self-expression. Adorned prosthesis for Katayama, as Alina Cohen suggests, could be an assertion that “her inventive possibilities are infinite”.

For another large photograph featuring herself, Katayama placed the viewers into an extremely complex visual world in beast (2016) (see Figure 8). The setting of the image is much like a boudoir. Vastly different from the minimalistic one we see in You’re mine #001, the space of beast is crowed by hand-made crafts including textiles, seashells, and glassware. The delicate objects that make up the painting’s composition, for an anonymous critic in ELEPHANT, orchestrate an erotic symphony. “It is impossible not to be seduced by the intricate adornments and embroidery that she creates. They are brimming with allure and the grotesque—in the best possible sense.” The corset Katayama wears in beast may also add to the photograph’s sensuous charge. Though partially concealed by another intricate white garment, we can tell from the corset’s color and pattern that it is very similar to the one Katamaya wears in You’re mine #001 (perhaps it is the same one!). An echo of the corset’s erotic appeal in You’re mine #001 thus rings back in beast. Amid the picture’s flowing sensuousness, in the foreground, a pair of florally painted prosthetic legs insert themselves into the pictorial conversation. The prostheses pose questions about their significance given their context. What symbolism could they play in the setting of erotica? Are they constituent parts of it? — Does Katayama’s prosthesis define the artwork’s sexual tone?

Sandie Yi, another differently-abled artist with cleft feet (the impairments of Yi’s feet are very similar to Katayama’s left hand), conducted a photo series called Can I Be Sexy for Once? In this series, Yi stands against a black background, and the camera focuses only on her feet and lower leg. Attached to Yi’s cleft feet are two stone-like objects; they are placed suitably in the crevices between her split toes. Fixing the stone-like objects to their places are two thin, black strings; the strings twine from the tips of Yi’s toes to her lower legs, in a crisscross fashion, until her legs and feet are locked by them. Analyzing Yi’s play on the stone-like objects, Amanda Cachia wrote that “the addition of inanimate objects […] emphasize the irregularity of the body in order to challenge perceptions of beauty and perfection.” The stone-like objects are the tools Yi used to claim her “self-defined ideals of beauty”; they carry an active aesthetic voice. Can we see the same kind of “voice” in the decorated prostheses in Katayama’s beast? Do the prostheses serve as a vehement disclaimer of Katayama’s self-conjured imagery of feminine attractiveness, one that remains utterly closed to outside voices and open only to herself? This paper will end here with a suggestive “yes”, hoping for further answers from me, Katayama, and scholars active in disability arts.

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