by Ioana Lee
No woman can get into a kimono by herself, as it has many, many layers, and on me they had to wrap lots of towels around my small waist. The shape of the body must go unnoticed. This creates the allure of the kimono. The only visible part of the body that should be seen is the back of the head. Back in the day this was considered extremely sensual in Japanese culture. The kimono had a very revealing cleavage, which is present in the back instead of the front. Wearing a kimono is considered to be an art, and as in any art, it requires training, a lot of balance and an aesthetic affinity. Of course a good dosage of narcissism helps you array the kimono with the elegance and delicacy of a real geisha, and if Mother Nature was generous with you, it would reveal the back of your head in its full glory. With this being said, I was very proud to show my kubisuji, only that after a few hours of getting my makeup and hair done, of being dressed in my kimono, my kubi was really stiff.
I also had to be trained to properly position my fan. I was rancorous with myself for not yet being perfect. When you bow you keep the fan straight up – I’ve been told – when you are moving it should point down, when you’re walking you keep it…, when you’re sitting, you place the fan in your obi (silk waist sash)… I had some kerchiefs and several other things in my obi as well, and I was trying to remember when I ought to put my fan in my obi, when I have to pull out the kerchief, when my fan should point up or stay straight, what is supposed to happen when I sit down and what I should only use my right hand for. My mind was whirling. My kimono walking was rusty, so I had to take walking lessons, even though I had presented in kimonos on stage before. Kimono walking has to always be with your legs crossed (yes, I know it’s hard to imagine), but the idea is to look like you could fall down at any moment, yet, the grace of the back of your neck anchors you.
Breathing was almost impossible; whoever has worn a kimono before knows that you cannot breathe well nor easily use the bathroom, or move parts of your body other than your fingers and neck. It is a luxurious and elegant straitjacket for the whole body, which costs a lot to only be allowed to wear it. Yet with a bit of masochism and an adventurous spirit, everything turns out perfectly.
My sister Sorana, who finished her make-up and hair session much earlier than me, was filming the moment I was being dressed, and my mother, who fixed herself up and looked like she’s been taken out of wrapping paper, is surreptitiously taking pictures of me. My Japanese parents were impressed with my attitude and with the agonizing dignity with which I was wearing my kimono. They were especially impressed with my fan and with my hair accessories, which weighed nearly 9 pounds.
“Did you notice anything?” Otoosan asks me.
“Anything…? There are too many details and too many layers underneath the kimono, too many long sleeves… and I can hardly breathe. What exactly should I notice?”
“The kimono.”
“Yes, the kimono is superb. It is red, embroidered with gold cranes for a long and happy life.”
“You really don’t notice, do you?”
“Four hours ago I had a very developed sense of observation, but now, I’m in some sort of a trance.”
“Your kimono Ioana! It’s been made to represent the Romanian flag.”
I rush to the mirror and I look at myself with an aesthetic distrust. He was right. My kimono was red and the waist sash was a combination of yellow and blue. Without hearing my conversation with Otoosan, my parents and Sorana noticed this right after they saw me finishing up the session at the salon. I had tremendous appreciation for the fact that my Japanese family had carefully paid attention to this very fine detail.
All of our family members were well disposed and extremely good-looking. Okasaan, Otoosan’s mother, was also wearing a kimono with the ultimate elegance. It was clear to me that she had mastered the position of the fan without difficultly and could breathe with ease and comfort.
Ken, on the other hand, wasn’t brought back from all the places where they prepared and helped him to get dressed by the time I was ready. I was secretly hoping that they wouldn’t put any make-up on his face. Ultimately he appeared. I couldn’t believe my eyes. If I hadn’t known that he was a kind and sensitive man, I would have run away from him as fast as I my legs would carry me. Ken was wearing a black kimono and traditional sandals that made him look even taller than he was. The family crest, which was centuries old, was darned all over his kimono, making him impose respect but also a certain fear.
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” he asks, whispering in my ear.
“No, you look strong and imposing, just like a fearless tycoon of old times. I would like you to always dress this way… please…”
“Yes I will, with the condition that you’ll always wear a ie (handmade traditional Romanian blouse)… and those strange shoes with very long laces (opinci – peasant’s sandals made out of pork skin)” – and starts laughing his head off.
“Hmmm…” I murmur, and playfully turn my back on him so that he can now see the back of my neck. I was also able to see it in the mirror, meaning that it was possible to do what they said was impossible in the Romanian saying “I’ll do this… when I’ll be able to see the back of my head…”
“Yarashii!” he exclaims delighted.
“Yarashii” means “erotic.” I turn around facing him, I open up my fan and I blush looking down, partially covering my face with the fan, like a real Japanese woman.
“It is so obvious that you have a foreign lineament, and in the same time, I could swear that you were born here… This is how you gain the hearts of the Japanese. With your dark hair and eyes, your white face and your gestures… you represent the ideal that most Japanese women forgot about nowadays: the elegant wearing of the kimono or the very refined gestures, in the absence of words.”
“I am cool” I tell him in English, pulling my kimono very high.
We both started laughing loudly.
“How would it be if I would pull up my kimono during the ceremony? If I would only behave like Japanese for a short time, after which I would be myself again, natural and fidgety…?”
"I know you'd be capable of doing this. Make sure you behave nicely."
Shortly after our time together a man came to us and announced that we needed to line up, along with our family, to greet the guests at the entrance in the festive room. The line started with Sorana, followed by my mother, my father, Ken, myself, Otoosan, Okaasan... Obaachama, being one of the most important guests, I believe will appear later. She is the pure example of ultimate elegance, elegance that has intimidated me many times.
In the greeting process, as well as at the end of the ceremony, we bowed in front of each guest; similarly they each bowed in front of all of us. My family learned this lesson the hard way, Sorana even confiding in private, knowingly so, that if one has sciatica problems, one shouldn't ever come visit Japan. Hence we were bowing and smiling cordially, thanking each and every one of them for their participation.
They were all mesmerized by my mother's and my sister's beauty, some of them spending a long time in front of Sorana before heading for the groom and the bride. The vast majority of the guests were men; therefore no one spent time admiring my handsome father, although most of them wanted to find out if he was really a judge. After hundreds of times of showing profound reverence to our guests I asked myself concernedly if my mother would be able to pull through to the end without getting high blood pressure. All of our invitees entered the enormous salon of the hotel, which was set up for the wedding with many ornaments, lights and much decency. I had just found out that the ceremony would last for four hours, from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m., and would have no music, no people dancing, alcohol of other imported from overseas “superficial” things.
After all the guests had entered the salon, the groom and the bride’s parents were escorted into the festive concourse to their official table. Upon being seated, all the lights were unexpectedly turned off. Ken and I were still outside the room, and all of a sudden the doors were
being closed right in front of us.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” I remember thinking to myself, in astonished Romanian. I continued my train of thought in Japanese: “They must be having the ceremony without the groom and the bride.” I didn’t dare to ask Ken anything about it. Suddenly, I noticed that behind us were two valets, from whom we couldn’t break away on our own for even a second. Later on I was able to understand and appreciate their significance: they were meant to guide and tell us, step by step, what we ought to do. For instance, in that moment, we were being told that soon we’d have to enter the salon. Walking to the beat of music we passed all the guests, after which we were escorted to our table, close to our family members. I felt like I was on a movie set, only that I didn’t know if it was a thriller or a love story.
The doors closed and a strong spotlight brusquely fixated on us. It hurt our retina, but weren’t aware of what was happening. Ken starts walking first, sending forth the appearance of an imperial, condescending shogun. Behind him, I keep my head down and with my fan positioned correctly, with my typical shy look, long ago fabricated in Europe, I don’t forget about my crossed walk, or the grace of the back of my head. These are the behind-the-curtain details of a noble matrimonial couple. Everyone started clapping and all around me I heard: “How beautiful they are, how lovely they are!!” I was wondering if they were talking about us or about the valets, who were impeccably dressed just like all the other valets standing behind the guests, discretely waiting to satisfy their unexpected needs.
The moment I looked behind me, I panicked. I noticed that our valets vanished, and I couldn’t stop thinking of who is going to tell us what is coming next. Everything seemed to be under control. A stealthy gentleman on a microphone, standing somewhere in a spot where my sight couldn’t quite reach, is presenting us, commenting on our fabulous appearance… I only hear what I like: “the concinnity with which the bride is wearing the kimono is impressive, just like a luxury fashion model…”
In Japan, to be a model is the ideal of all ideals and also an ultimate compliment; if someone tells you “You look like a model,” it means that he or she is forever fascinated by you. What I heard spoken at the microphone made me feel more courageous. The clapping increased and after a long promenade amongst the guests, we finally arrived at our table where the “valets” were patiently waiting for us. Ken pulled my chair and I rushed to sit down, exhausted by all the required gracefulness and traditional harshness. All of a sudden I heard: “No, not yet… you should first wait for all the applause to end!”
I gracefully bowed my head and I didn’t know if I should wave my hand like an empress or I should just be shy, but I observed that the more I smiled and gently tilted my head side to side, the more active my gestures were, the more the clapping continued. I decided to stop and ultimately someone told me that I was free to sit down. I had Sorana on my left side and Ken on my right.
Softly whispering, Sorana asks me: “What’s coming next?” With a relaxed smile but without tilting my head, I answer to her almost imperceptibly: “I have no idea!”
And I realized that I really didn’t know what was coming next. I felt uncomfortable and suffocated by the valet’s presence, who stood so close behind me that I could feel his breath in my ear. I didn’t know how long he’d be there and what he’d do next, but I noticed that behind each Kurosawa member there was a stiff valet, impeccably dressed, wearing white gloves. In the distance there was always someone announcing something into a microphone, but the crowd captured my attention; it exclusively contained men dressed in black costumes, permanently looking at our table and taking endless pictures. The meal courses started coming one after another, and the guests remarked on how extremely tasty and refined they looked. No one at our table, at least the Romanian side of it, knew how many courses would be served or how much of what is being served had to be tasted to honor the Japanese tradition; therefore they were tickling the palate with some sort of concern for what would be served next.
I vividly remember that I couldn’t touch any food at the time. I knew that each meal had a certain meaning; for wealth, happiness, a long life and fertility. In an instant the role of the valet standing behind me proved to be most valuable; with a polished elegance and discretion, he told me what the names of the meals were and what was coming next. He surely must have noticed my parents’ curiosity to find out the names of the courses, which were being served like fine jewelry in bamboo wooden boxes, with incredibly meticulous toppings and unknown ingredients. They were so impressed by the food presentation that they were hesitant to end its artistic beauty. I found out afterwards through Sorana’s confession that she saved a superb pearlescent seashell; its content was deliciously steaming under the cover of one of those surprise boxes. Each guest was constantly being served small bowls with different sauces and soups that came with the courses served on platters, hampers or petite tote boxes. My parents started to regret the fact that they wouldn’t be able to try each and every one of them.
I am being told that I have to stand because the long series of speeches were coming next… At a microphone strategically positioned between our table and the guests’ tables, several men appear and wish us wonderful things to last a lifetime. I feel a stronger difficulty breathing in my kimono and I’m very embarrassed because I can’t taste the fullness of meaning from the good omen food. Keeping my head straight is painful. My eyes keep on looking down, my hands are one on top of the other and my smile seems to be drawn on my face, but I know I have to keep it there permanently.
I feel that the blinding spotlight, the unbearable heat, the valet standing too close behind me, the Japanese crowd making speeches and loudly reacting to them by taking endless photographs and clapping, my thirst and lack of appetite since morning time, the numbness of my neck and the tightness of the sash, are all conspiring with one another to make me lose consciousness. Unaware of what I’m going through, Sorana is asking me what people are saying in front of the microphone, but I am unable to answer because I’m not allowed to move or to say anything… I feel like I’m fainting and I know that water would help me a lot, but I don’t know if it’s polite to drink while people are speaking. I know for sure that if I lose myself in this moment all the centuries of greatness of the Kurosawa family will be destroyed and my fall from grace will never be forgiven. My guardian angel disguised as my valet is whispering in my ear that is time for Ken and I to stand up, bow and head for the dressing room to change into our European clothes.
I give a huge sigh of relief! The blinding spotlights are following us on our way to the door and we bow for the last time before leaving the room.
I didn’t know what happened in the room in our absence. I found out later that the guests had some quality time to socialize, to make toasts and also congratulate our families for the newlywed couple and for such a wonderful event.
The highly competent hairstylists and make-up artists took charge of me again. I put on the burgundy Lacroix dress, with revealing cleavage, a very tight waistline and a bouffant bottom, similar to Scarlett O’Hara’s famous dress in Gone with the Wind. My hair was styled again in some sort of European high bun and had complementary burgundy hair accessories. My neck was elegantly draped with a garnet necklace with big stones; the earrings were part of the same collection. My bouquet contained beautiful white calla lilies, tied together with a silky green ribbon matching the color of their stem. Ken’s cream smoking jacket’s lapel had a calla lily with the same color ribbon. I kept my makeup classic, with just mascara and lipstick.
We were both ready. Our valets were waiting for us by the door. We were being told that in three minutes we would have to enter the wedding salon. Thoughts were percolating in my head and I kept on wondering if I was part of a wedding or if this was a film or a play, where the main actors enter and leave the stage directed by the producers, playing their roles in the absence of words. I didn’t even have time to conclude my thought when the door opened: the room
was dark and the spotlights were again fixated upon us. Ken walks in front of me, and I discreetly follow him closely. The tireless flashes of the cameras of the Japanese guests are caressing our smiling faces. This time, though, I decide to find my lost self and start behaving like my usual self… I pose for the guests wanting to take pictures of me, I shake hands, I cordially speak to them, and I notice that the master of ceremonies is in a state of total confusion because I don’t follow the plan.
But this wedding is MINE, so I transform it a little to mirror me and who I am. I desperately needed to retrieve myself in this very important moment of my life. I gently dance to the background music playing in the room and I smile at everyone, but this time with tremendous happiness and a sense of freedom. This magical moment ends when I arrive with Ken at our table where the valets start following us closely again. My beloved husband had to be aware that I’m not that easy to be “controlled”, that I couldn’t follow the traditional scenario because it was too serious and unfamiliar to me. I was now in the mood to improvise a little bit. In my normal European attire and state of being, I could finally breathe with freedom.
