The bears of Hokkaido

Hokkaido, my home, is the kingdom of brown bears. When I was a kid, my father would take me deep into the mountains to fish. We’d explode firecrackers every few minutes to warn the bears of our presence. He always gave me one piece of advice: “If you encounter a bear, don’t run. Just play dead.”

Even as a child, I had my doubts. I thought, “Wait, how do we know this works? We can’t interview the people who tried it and died.” Later, I learned there’s a term for this: Survivorship Bias. This is why most business autobiographical books are useless. Success stories are often just a series of lucky accidents that the survivor misinterprets as “strategy.” The real experts on what doesn’t work are all dead, and they don’t write books.

However, I want to be clear: I am not dismissing the achievements of those lucky survivors. As the saying goes, “Fortune has only a forelock”—you have to take the risk and act to grab it. Those who took the gamble and won deserve our utmost respect. But let’s be honest: if those books in the business section truly contained a reproducible “formula,” the world would be overflowing with successful CEOs. The element of luck is undeniable. That’s why I believe winners should remain humble enough to admit, “In the end, I was lucky,” and we should look upon those who didn’t succeed with a warmer, more compassionate eye, knowing that the difference was often just a roll of the cosmic dice.

The architecture of amnesia

I think about survivorship bias every time I see a building being demolished in my city. To keep my commute interesting, I try to notice one new thing every day. But here is the terrifying part: the moment a building is leveled into an open lot, I forget what was there. I can’t even picture its color or shape.

The world belongs to the survivors. The things that disappear—rotary phones, VHS tapes, that old ramen shop on the corner—are erased from our collective memory with brutal efficiency. The open space where a building once stood is a silent reminder of the harsh reality: if you don’t survive, you never existed.

The 3D printer threat

Since 2015, we’ve seen the rise of 3D printing. It can print organs, it can print houses, and yes, it can print furniture. As a consumer, I find this technology exciting. But as a member of a traditional furniture manufacturer, I feel a chill.

Will we be the next “removed building”? Will the centuries-old craft of joinery be replaced by a nozzle spitting out plastic? If we just keep doing what we’ve always done, we are essentially “playing dead” in front of the bear of technological progress.

But I’ve decided to stop playing dead. We aren’t just survivors by luck; we are survivors by evolution. Unlike a 3D printer that follows a soulless code, we put human history and memory into our wood. Our goal is to create products that are so ingrained in your life that even if they were gone, the space they left behind would be impossible to forget. We are grabbing the forelock of fortune with both hands.

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Luck might help you survive, but it takes soul to remain unforgettable. Our “Hatsune Miku Art Chair” is a direct response to the “survivorship bias” of the digital age. It’s a piece that doesn’t rely on luck—it relies on the relentless marriage of cultural icon and human craftsmanship. In a world where 3D printers can churn out furniture by the thousands, this chair stands as a reminder that some things are worth preserving precisely because they are hard to make. Why not bring home a piece that was built to outlast the trends and remain a permanent landmark in your heart?

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Photo Credit: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/jun/13/warning-four-killed-bear-attacks-akita-japan

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