On business in the provinces, unenthused about drinking alone in some cramped, cheap hotel room, I hesitantly open the door of a local “snack” establishment. I am no longer young, and no longer intimidated by high-class restaurants of any variety, yet that moment on entering an unfamiliar bar in an unfamiliar town still gives me the jitters.

Indispensable to every such bar is, firstly, a middle-aged Mama-san, followed by booze, a karaoke machine and those suits. I’m talking power-suit shoulder pads, wasp-waisted double-breasted tops, a tantalizing glimpse of a lace bustier and the ubiquitous miniskirt and heels - bold lines and bold colors reminiscent of Gaultier or Thierry Mugler or “body-con” high priest Azzedine Alaïa in the halcyon ’80s, mobilized in a calculated display of bold femininity.
(…)

Kyoichi Tsuzuki  @ARTiT