The “tofu” identity crisis

I have a sister who is twelve years younger than me. When she was very small, I once asked her, “What is your brother like?” Expecting a profound or flattering answer, I was crushed when she simply lisped, “You like to eat tofu.”

She wasn’t wrong, but if I were to be defined solely by my favorite foods, I had plenty of other preferences I would have liked her to mention! I had hoped for something a bit more… characteristic, something that would vividly conjure up my actual personality. Of course, looking back, I realize I shouldn’t have expected such a sophisticated biographical sketch from a child who hadn’t even started elementary school. Still, her innocent remark triggered a realization: it is incredibly difficult to define yourself from the inside.

The same goes for culture. You don’t notice the water you swim in until you jump into a different pool. This is why I believe being multi-lingual is like having a second soul; it allows you to look back at your own culture from the outside.

The noise that becomes a language

When I worked as a translator, onomatopoeia was my greatest nightmare. Japanese is said to have the largest collection of these sound-mimicking words in the world. Sometimes, we even conduct entire conversations using nothing but onomatopoeia. For instance, when trying a new dessert, one might ask, “Is it mochi-mochi (chewy)?” and the other replies, “More like fuwa-fuwa (fluffy).” We understand each other perfectly without a single “real” noun or verb.

Even more bizarrely, we even have an onomatopoeia for silence: “Shiiin.” I know it’s logically inconsistent to have a “sound” for silence, but in Japan, we hear the weight of the air itself.

There is a fascinating study by a Japanese professor who attended a medical conference in Cuba. During a presentation, he found himself distracted by the “noise” of insects outside. He leaned over to the man sitting next to him and whispered, “The insects are loud, aren’t they?” The man looked at him blankly and replied, “I don’t hear anything.” The professor’s research later revealed that Japanese and Polynesian people process the sounds of insects in the left hemisphere of the brain—the side responsible for language. What the rest of the world hears as “noise,” we hear as a conversation.

The art of the modern ninja

This isn’t a matter of race; it’s a matter of language. Anyone raised with Japanese as their mother tongue develops this “Ninja-like” ability to decode the natural world. Our language is wired to treat the vibrations of nature as meaningful information.

As a furniture manufacturer at CondeHouse, this makes me think: If we can hear the “voice” of an insect, surely we can hear the “voice” of a tree. When our craftsmen select a piece of Hokkaido wood, they aren’t just looking at a raw material. They are listening. They sense the tension in the grain, the history in the knots, and the “silent language” of the timber. Our furniture is not designed by logic alone; it is “heard” into existence. We aren’t just making chairs; we are translating the voice of the forest into a form you can sit on.

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If Japanese people hear the voice of insects as a language, then our “Hatsune Miku Art Chair” is a symphony. It combines the digital voice of a modern icon with the ancient, silent voice of Hokkaido wood. This chair is designed for those who can hear the “Shiiin”—the beautiful sound of silence and the subtle whispers of high-end craftsmanship. Why not bring home a piece that speaks to your “Ninja ears”? It’s more than a chair; it’s a conversation between nature and culture, waiting for you to listen.

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