Mono no Aware to Emo-i

Analog Revival and the Aesthetics of Japanese Sensibility

Over the past decade, a global resurgence of analog media—such as film cameras, vinyl records, and paper books—has gained notable attention among younger generations. This trend goes beyond mere nostalgia, reflecting deeper social and cultural contexts. The renaissance of analog technologies like vinyl and film represents a form of partial liberation from the hyper-digitized everyday, making analog an alternative choice that is now celebrated.

Cultural critic Susan Sontag reflected that “to remember is, more and more, not to recall a story but to be able to call up a picture”, pointing to how visual saturation alters memory itself. In this digital era, our memories increasingly rely on recorded images—something humanity has never experienced before, and to which we may not be fully adapted. As a reaction to this, many are drawn to analog media despite (or because of) their inconvenience and effort. Around the world, an invisible yearning has emerged for “experiences that remain in the heart more than in perfect records.”

Critic Mark Fisher argued that the digital age has erased even the potential for experiencing loss, noting that the appeal of analog traces—such as the grain in film photos or the crackle of vinyl—lies in their evocation of time’s passage and impermanence, qualities that flawless digital files lack. Western cultural theorists have rightly interpreted this revival of analog not as simple nostalgia but as a manifestation of deep emotional needs tied to memory and sentiment.

I would describe this global shift as a sensibility that cherishes “what lingers in memory more than what is recorded.” And this sensibility has long been embedded in Japanese culture. Even in eras without photography or audio recording, people in Japan valued the fleeting beauty of once-in-a-lifetime experiences, and this appreciation gave rise to distinctive cultural expressions. For instance, in the tea ceremony, there is a key concept called ichigo ichie（一期一会）, which means “one lifetime, one meeting.” Even if one shares tea with the same person many times, no two moments are ever exactly the same—each encounter is unique and unrepeatable.

In traditional performing arts, stages were once never recorded by image or sound, and thus lived only in the memories of the audience. This emotional sensibility extended beyond human relationships to nature itself: the fleeting fall of cherry blossoms, the glow of sunset-tinted clouds, the lingering atmosphere of a festival evening. These ineffable, never-to-return scenes have always moved Japanese hearts. This aesthetic is still very much alive. In other words, the paradoxical beauty of “what cannot be preserved is what stays with us” has shaped a uniquely Japanese spiritual framework.

This distinctly Japanese sensibility is captured in the concept of mono no aware（もののあはれ）. First appearing in classical Heian literature, the phrase was later defined by Edo-period scholar Motoori Norinaga as a core aesthetic ideal. According to Norinaga, mono no aware refers to the deep emotional response evoked by encounters with nature or human affairs, and to “knowing the pathos of things” is to embrace this feeling with the most gentle and human-hearted sensibility. It is not a moral lesson or logic, but an intuitive grasp of essence that moves the heart.

Underlying this sensibility is the Buddhist worldview of impermanence (mujo 無常), which permeates Japanese thought. In the 14th-century essay Tsurezuregusa（徒然草）, Yoshida Kenkō wrote that fleeting cherry petals or a moon obscured by clouds have more charm than a perfectly full bloom or a clear moon. He observed that people are more moved by the ephemeral, by the things that are passing. This attitude developed into the aesthetic of hakanasa（儚さ）, or transience, which lies at the heart of mono no aware and stands in contrast to Western ideals that often emphasize permanence and perfection.

The deep historical roots of mono no aware can also be seen in modern expressions. A notable example is the slang term emo-i（エモい）, widely used by Japanese youth. Derived from the English “emotional,” emo-i describes the feeling of being emotionally stirred or deeply moved in ways that are difficult to articulate. It might be said upon seeing a beautiful sunset, listening to nostalgic music, or holding a grainy film photo. While its roots may trace back to 1980s American emotional hardcore punk, in Japan it evolved differently—gaining popularity among music fans and youth around the 2000s, and later expanding into broader use across film, photography, landscapes, and memories by the 2010s.

Over the past decade, the desire for emo-i emotional experiences has spread among young people raised in an over-digitized society. A key example is the resurgence of Utsurun-desu（写ルンです）, the disposable film camera first released in 1986. The soft, unfocused aesthetic of its photos quickly went viral on social media. Photographers of my generation, like Okuyama Yoshiyuki, played a major role in this movement by releasing a series of works using Utsurun-desu from around 2015. Globally recognized photographer Kawauchi Rinko also contributed to this analog revival.

This phenomenon suggests that even in an age of high-performance smartphones, people find more meaning in what is imperfect—something that stirs imagination and empathy. This sensibility is a contemporary reinterpretation of mono no aware. We now live in an era where everything can be documented and preserved on social media, but the luxury of not preserving something, of savoring imperfection, has become more emotionally resonant. The word emo-i is not just a neologism—it reflects the analog yearning of a generation raised digital.

Despite the power of digital technology to record and store every moment in photos and videos, we still seek the nostalgic feel of film grain, the lingering emotion of a one-night concert, and the subtle stirrings that cannot be captured. I interpret emo-i as a form of wabi-sabi（侘び寂び） born in the ambiguous space between data and memory—offering rich terrain for philosophical exploration.

In closing, I would like to pose a question to each of us living in this digital age: “Why is it that what we don’t preserve stays with us the most?” Perhaps in this paradox lies a vital clue passed down by Japan’s aesthetic traditions and the analog revival that continues to resonate today.