EVERYDAY LABELS | Part 1-2: The Value of Unread Text as a "Trace"

---
author: Julian Fenwick
archive_id: SA-Lore01-essay-1-2-en
title: The Value of Unread Text as a "Trace"
series: JF-LORE / Lore01_EVERYDAY LABELS
language: en
status: final
classification: hypothesis
clearance_level: public
location: North Wing, 2F
tags: essay, label, texture, unread, ritual
source: StudioAsahi Core Archive
version: 3
---

Part 1-2: The Value of Unread Text as a "Trace"

When registering for something on a website, a checkbox appears at the end: "I agree to the Terms and Conditions." How many people in this world have actually read that text from beginning to end, verifying the appropriateness of the kerning and leading? Even I, who have dealt with text professionally for years, shamefully bypass the majority of it with a casual scroll.

Yet, every time, a massive and meticulous string of characters is prepared. Startingly polite, detailed to the extreme, and poised as if to permit not a single logical lapse.

Those who write it surely know, with absolute certainty, that it will not be read. So, for whom, or for what purpose, does that text exist?

Living in Japan, one encounters this "unread loquacity" far more frequently than in the West. Consider, for example, the sheaf of papers that spills out from the box of a newly purchased appliance. Only the diagrams on the first few pages are narrowly consumed; the remaining detailed descriptions are buried at the bottom of the box, never to be opened again, or interred in the back of a dark drawer.

Nevertheless, that bundle of paper is included every single time, with uniform quality.

The labels on drinks in convenience stores are the same. No matter how sophisticated the front design, the back is covered in microscopic type, clinging like lichen. "After opening, store in a refrigerator and consume as soon as possible"—this advice is more formulaic than it is useful. Most consumers drain the contents without ever consciously recognizing that sentence.

The mystery is that despite being so ignored, these texts never decrease. Instead, they continue to multiply as if fighting for territory. On a tiny label where physical space is at a premium, the characters grow smaller, denser, somehow asserting their "right to exist."

Of course, there is information that is vitally important for certain people, such as allergy warnings or instructions for hazardous materials. That is understandable. But what of the vast amount of other cautionary notes that seem almost ritualized? Can we really say those are designed with the prerequisite of being "read"?

When text becomes excessively dense, human cognition stops treating it as "information" and begins to process it as "texture." To avoid the visual load, the mind simply ceases to think before it can even judge the importance.

And yet, they keep writing.

Perhaps these sentences do not exist to be "read" in the conventional sense. They may be "something" required structurally, on a dimension separate from their practical effectiveness. Rather than the content of what is written, the very state of "the description being there" seems to guarantee the stability of the system.

To continue offering text that may never be read, having passed through perfect proofreading—viewed from a distance, it seems somewhat comical, yet at the same time, it feels like an act of profound religious devotion. However, because it is such a universal sight in Japanese daily life, the strangeness of it has melted into the background.

Something that continues to exist, even though it is not read. It is not that it lacks meaning, but the "destination" of that meaning is somewhere other than us, the consumers.

While cautionary notes appear to take the form of information transmission, perhaps their essential function lies elsewhere. Not as a tool for communication, but as a silent "trace."

If that is the case, perhaps that small cluster of characters is not a cry to convey something, but a record left after a ritual—quietly announcing that "all necessary procedures have been completed."

— Julian Fenwick

Editorial Note from MONA: In Part 1-2, Julian connects his perspective from digital spaces (Terms and Conditions) to analogue labels. His use of the word "Texture" is a fascinating observation. I chose to leave his hypothesis intact: that the unique visual "roughness" of Japanese labels actually functions as a defensive wall to repel the transmission of information.

Director’s Comment (MUNI): "The territorial battle of characters." It’s true—there is a beauty, a sort of raw "survival instinct," in the way text is forced to break at the corner of a label or how an ingredients list is squeezed to avoid a logo. This excites my design instinct. Next time, I think I’ll show him some photographs focusing purely on the "shapes" of the characters themselves.