Though Mary Poppins never visited—the typical Tokyo home might have inspired her to sweep the lyrics of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious into a haiku.

One thing that does indeed ‘spark joy’ for us is a bag, or buckle, or both, from Cornelian Taurus by Daisuke Iwanaga–contender for the world’s most mystical company name, and purveyor of superb leather goods. Iwanaga creates objects that seem to beckon, not ask, to be held. One does not simply touch a piece of theirs, one feels it, and through that contact, the hundreds of hours spent tanning, dyeing, shaping, and sewing

In Tokyo, touch is also embraced through Butoh: part rebellion against Western idealism, part embodiment of the Earth itself. In ballet, one reaches for the heavens; in Butoh, the dancer’s feet go into the ground, and the body listens through its soles, shoes off, toes to tatami. If you have not already begun your apprenticeship in Butoh appreciation—which is lifelong and entirely inspiring—remove your slippers and begin with Kazuo Ōhno, its guiding spirit.

Kenya Hara, author of White, has a black belt in restraint. A curator, writer, and since 2002, the art director of MUJI, Hara appears to view the world through Ma: an appreciation of what is not seen.

Eager entrepreneurs, whose gaze often fixes on what comes next, would do well to study him. His book Designing Design remains a wellspring of projects wrought by integrity over passing trends, and reduction over mindless spectacle.

Perhaps though, Tokyo’s beauty lies not in what is seen, but in how it is seen—in the sensitivities that shape its inhabitants and their surrounds. Hara’s devotion to what is clearly invisible echoes in the surfaces of modernist painter Hideko Fukushima, whose abstract works capture silence; and in the distilled observations of Mayuzumi Madoka, who, through her haiku, polishes words into wisdom, tempered by humour. These same sensibilities influenced travellers, too, such as a young Charlotte Perriand, who designed, among other things, low tables and bamboo chairs, clearly enriched by her exposure to the city and its sensibilites

Fortunately, Tokyo is egalitarian when it comes to eating—delicious meals await down alleyways, in black lacquered bowls set atop wooden counters, their steam rising into anonymous faces, beneath the neon hum of vending machines such as Niikura Mansei in Chiyoda, which dispenses warm tonkatsu sandwiches, among the aisles of the ubiquitous Family Mart–(Kombu Onigiri is essential), or with Bon Taito, an unassuming restaurant serving Buddist Fucha Ryori, a cuisine that happens to be vegan.

Breakfast however—as is often the case—may offer the truest introduction to the national cuisine: a bowl of miso, plain rice (untouched by soy sauce so its subtleties can be heard, not drowned out), a modest piece of grilled salmon, and natto: that stringy, stubborn fermented soybean that may resist affection until, suddenly, it earns it.

Tail of the Mackerel

On a recent trip to Paris, when The Sensorialist sat down with Kaoru-san, architectural project manager for Aesop Japan, at Délicatessen Place (an exceptional wine bar) a fragrant fable was shared.

While preparing the architectural brief for what would become Aesop Nakameguro, Kaoru-san walked along the canal where the store would be located, looking for inspiration. What stopped her was not what she saw, but what she smelled: grilled mackerel: a scent of comfort, of childhood, of...lunch. Though she could not see its source, Karu-san imagined a grandmother bent over a hibachi, turning the fish with care.

In that moment she was carried aboard the aroma to the films of Yasujirō Ozu: those portraits of domestic grace and everyday ritual. From that vision the brief was born, composed in smoky reverie and later, on the 52nd floor of the Park Hyatt Tokyo, presented to Aesop’s founder, who circled a single word ‘domestic’ and offered an unequivocal ‘hai’. Simplicity, led by Shinichirō Ogata, cooked up the rest.

Kaoru-san, local resident and mackerel summoner noted earlier, once told The Sensorialist that Tokyo is a city built on transportation. For this reason, the steady grumble and glide of train tracks remains a defining sound—a rhythm of progress, of collective motion, of going somewhere, often sardine-like (she is very fond of fish), but together. Big Love Records, the long-standing site for sore ears in Harajuku, might ‘hear’ the city as the pop sounds of Aya Gloomy or Nana Yamato. And analogue acolytes down at Five G Music Technology, Tokyo’s legendary synthesiser emporium, might imagine it as something lifted from an Akira-esque reality. In this sense, how Tokyo sounds depends on what you choose to listen to—or for. At Aesop, it may be somewhere between Keith Jarrett’s Encore from Tokyo, Hako Yamasaki’s 'Sasurai' and of course, the late Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Bibō no Aozora, a piece that mirrors Tokyo’s inimitable ability to remain still, even while moving at great speed.