EVERYDAY LABELS | Part 2-2: The Mechanics of Addition: An Accumulation of "Just in Case"

---
author: Julian Fenwick
archive_id: SA-Lore01-essay-2-2-en
title: The Mechanics of Addition: An Accumulation of "Just in Case"
series: JF-LORE / Lore01_EVERYDAY LABELS
language: en
status: final
classification: analysis
clearance_level: public
location: North Wing, 2F
tags: essay, label, addition, accumulation, caution
source: StudioAsahi Core Archive
version: 3
---

Part 2-2: The Mechanics of Addition: An Accumulation of "Just in Case"

The Mechanics of Accumulation: Why Japanese Packaging Fills with Text

I find myself comparing a photograph of an old snack package with the same product currently on a convenience store shelf. In my memory, the former maintained a somewhat cleaner "white space." Today, however, the reverse side has become a hyper-dense geological layer of microscopic text, resembling a Kowloon Walled City of endless, unplanned additions.

Driven by my habits as a former proofreader, I instinctively look for "places to cut." Excellent editing is about stripping away unnecessary words to make the subject stand out. Yet, in the peculiar medium of the Japanese label, this logic does not apply. Here, the very concept of "subtraction" seems to be missing.

The background to this increasing density is a "history of addition" in the name of the law. Ingredients, allergies, origin of materials, country of manufacture, storage methods. Every time a regulation is updated, a new item is layered upon the strata. What is striking is that once an item is added, it almost never disappears, regardless of whether it is deemed no longer necessary.

When the Food Labelling Act was unified in 2015, the complicated rules were supposed to have been organised. However, looking at the actual output on the ground, the density has only increased. "Organising" meant "summarising," and summarising meant "putting everything onto a single surface."

The force that decisively accelerated this mechanic of "addition" was surely the Product Liability (PL) Act, enacted in the 1990s. With the emergence of this law, the definition of risk for corporations was transformed. Survival no longer depended merely on whether "dangerous items were excluded," but on whether "every conceivable possibility was warned against."

Here, the character of the label shifted dramatically from "information transmission" to "defence." What was not written became a massive risk, while a distorted sense of trust took hold—the idea that "as long as it is written, it serves as a shield."

Cautionary notes are no longer for the person reading them here and now. They are an accumulation of evidence to protect the "corporate castle" from the storms of future lawsuits and complaints.

Furthermore, this accumulation is reinforced by the "traces of complaint handling" peculiar to Japan. Even if it is a rare case of one in ten thousand, once a problem occurs, it is etched onto the label as a new warning. "Do not heat in a microwave," or "Be careful not to cut your hand on the edge of the bag." These are like "scars" left by individual pains. And in this country, very few companies have the courage to erase a scar once it has been etched. The reason for keeping it ("just in case") is always more powerful than the reason for removing it.

At the same time, I cannot help but feel a characteristically Japanese "distrust of the digital" behind this physical accumulation. In a European package, detailed information might be offloaded to a QR code, allowing the surface to maintain its design purity. In Japan, however, this "externalisation of information" does not become mainstream.

There is an obsession with a certain kind of completeness: "Everything necessary must be contained within this physical frame of the package." This is a manifestation of "consideration" (omotenashi) that seeks to eliminate any unkindness, but it also feels like a tactile demand for peace of mind—a need to physically hold all information in the palm of one’s hand.

As a result, information overflows from the package, characters are driven into infinitesimal point sizes, and a "perfect description" is completed—on the prerequisite that it will not be read.

A structure with no reason to prune. A system that validates accumulation. And a culture that seeks completeness. The resonance of all these factors creates that dizzying density.

That reverse side is no longer an instruction manual for a product. It is the full record of a struggle over safety and responsibility, built up by Japanese society over the past several decades.

— Julian Fenwick

Editorial Note from MONA: Julian’s observation on the "lack of subtraction" sharply identifies that in Japanese, "peace of mind" (anshin) is proportional to the "volume of information." Logical "safety" is not enough; information must be piled on to guarantee emotional "peace of mind." In the translation, I utilised his "Kowloon Walled City" metaphor to express this aesthetics of over-density.

Visual Context (MUNI): "Accumulating strata." Text as texture. I want to capture the "density" itself as a visual, rather than letting the information be read. Perhaps the patterns created by infinitesimal characters, as if seen through a microscope, could be reflected in the product graphics.