The “creepy” forest and the power of influence
Even if you’ve never set foot in Japan, you know Mt. Fuji. But did you know that the “Sea of Trees” (Aokigahara) at its base has a dark, lingering reputation as a suicide spot? Interestingly, this image didn’t exist until a popular TV drama in the 1960s cemented it in the national psyche. Before that, it was simply known as a place of breathtaking beauty.
I recently learned that Tom Felton, the actor who played Malfoy in Harry Potter, was reportedly disliked by fans all over the world, except in Japan. Japanese fans praised his “brilliant performance” and welcomed him warmly, a reaction so kind it supposedly saved him from slipping into a deep depression. This suggests that Japanese people have a strong tendency to separate fiction from reality. And yet, even though most Japanese people today—myself included—don’t even know the name of that 1960s TV drama, the “creepy” image of the forest remains burned into our minds. It is a strange, almost frightening mystery of how a single narrative can outlive its origin.
The magic of moss
I recently watched a video by an expert guide that completely flipped my perspective on this “creepy” forest. Look at the image above. Do you see the thick carpet of moss? It’s not just for decoration. The ground there is made of hard, dry lava. Without that moss acting as a natural sponge to hold water, the trees would die.
This taught me a vital lesson: Our impressions are fragile. The object itself (the forest) never changed, but the “guidance” (the TV drama vs. the ecological explanation) changed everything. In marketing—and in life—how you show something is often more important than what you are showing.
The sweet taste of “prohibited” coke
This philosophy brings me to a uniquely Japanese childhood experience: the “Educational School Trip.” Unlike regular school trips which are just for fun, these are serious missions to factories to “broaden our horizons.”
I remember visiting a Coca-Cola factory and a bread bakery. At the end of the tours, we were given a cold Coke and a piece of fresh, warm bread. You have to understand—in Japanese schools back then, eating or drinking anything other than water or school lunch was strictly forbidden. Sitting there, sipping a soda in the middle of a school day, felt wonderfully naughty. To this day, my impression of Coca-Cola is “the taste of freedom.”
Furniture dust vs. the future of a brand
My hometown, Asahikawa, is a world-famous furniture hub. Naturally, most local kids visit a furniture factory for their school trips. I’m sure I went once or twice, but my only memory is: “It’s a place filled with a lot of wood dust.” As a professional marketer now, I realize what a missed opportunity that was! These children are our future customers and craftsmen. If all they remember is dust, we’ve failed the “guidance” test. At CondeHouse, we want visitors to see more than just dust. We want them to see the “moss”—the invisible connections of craft and passion that keep our company alive.
Whether you’re looking for a new chair or just want to feel a bit “naughty” by exploring behind-the-scenes, come visit us. I promise the impression will stay with you much longer than the dust.
Just as a guide can change your view of a forest, a great piece of furniture can change your view of your own home. Why not choose a design that offers a fresh perspective on comfort and craftsmanship every single day? (And we promise, our factory tour is much more welcoming than Malfoy’s Manor!)
Shungo Ijima
Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker
After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.
Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.
He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.
Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!