Sentō as Counter-Space

The act of bathing has been endowed with many different cultural significances throughout Japan’s history. During the Middle Ages, naturally occurring hot springs called "onsen" were popular both amongst wounded samurai as a method of healing and the wealthy as a vacation destination. Sentō, bath houses created for the benefit of public hygiene, have also existed in Japan prior to the 1400s and rapidly increased in popularity after the country's unification. Still today, with over 90% of Japanese individuals having a private bath within their own residency, the historical act is practiced regularly by many as a form of leisure or relaxation. However, due to the relative convenience and privacy offered by an in-home single-person bath, the traditional Japanese sentō is steadily going out of use and has seen mass closure in the recent half-century. In their zenith, sentō were the heart of Japanese sociality and community where individuals met friends old and new, bathed, and created meaningful relations. However, in the modern era of Japan places of community and meaning-creation are often snuffed out—they are compartmentalized, divided by the mapped latticework of streets and intersections, divided into areas that no longer reflect the residents' lived experiences but tranquility: no longer is the home a place to which one has deep-rooted connection, it is a residency; “people no longer look at each other, but there are institutes for that” (Baudrillard, The Precession of the Simulacra); no longer do individuals interact with each other, but always through a medium that has subsumed all of reality and real relations—that medium is capital. No longer does exchange value equate to use value—both have been subsumed by the symbolic exchange value, the symbolic value of an item. These symbolic values that commodities now embody have come to precede the object itself, disallowing us from accessing the real. All social relations, all social interactions, are mediated by capitalism and the images it circulates. Modern-day Tōkyō has become a hyper-commodified area by which human relations are subsumed by capital power: the way we interact with one another, interact with space, and the way space is constructed within Tōkyō are all mediated on neo-capitalism. Sentō, however, provides relief from this usurpation in that they act as a medium through which people can grow strong relations to one another and within a community unmediated by capital. 

I began this project entertaining the idea that sentō could be rebranded in a way to revitalize their popularity and prevent closure. The specific experience I attributed to sentō was that of a meditative nature calling upon its roots in Shintō and Japanese Buddhist practices of bathing and thinking of the numerous introspective reflections I recalled while bathing at sentō. However, as a majority of sentō are operated and maintained either financially breaking even or in the red, it was naïeve to believe they could, or should, be 'rebranded in order to promote growth': sentō are not a product to be branded.

While conducting one of my interviews I was introduced to the work of philosopher Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space. At great lengths, this book calls for a new framework for analyzing space, the goal of which is to provide a previously lacking manner by which the effects of neocapitalism can be simultaneously comprehended spatially, sociologically, and philosophically. In light of Lefebvre’s philosophy, I decided to critically analyze sentō and the hyper-commodified mimicries of the bath houses that have been birthed out of its struggles.

(With the limited space that I have here to reproduce an adequate reflection of my project, below is linked the essay-final-product I have completed as well. Please look there for further in-depth explanations and details on the history of sentō, writings of Henri Lefebvre, and philosophical analysis.)

In order to analyze the effect of sentō as a still living catalyst for social-relations unmediated by neocapitalism, I conducted interviews with various sentō owners, staff, and customers throughout Japan. These interviews were conducted at various locations within the larger areas of Tōkyō, Ōsaka, Hiroshima, Beppu, and Fujiyoshida. In preparation, I created an interview questionnaire and divided the inquiries into three categories: cultural, sociological, and philosophical. All translations were produced alone. For reference, I also kept a personal diary of sorts regarding my experiences and observations within sentō. With an in depth look into sentō through the eyes of customers, staff, social workers, and sentō restoration-activists, my goal was to argue that sentō as a space produced real human relations that we find fleeting in the ever-urbanizing world.

In order to properly understand the analysis of sentō as a space, 'space' must be thought of in three separate sectors: spatial practice, representations of space, and representational spaces. Space cannot be thought of as just the physical world with which we interact. This analysis focuses on sociality of space and thus social space—a multifaceted understanding of networks and pathways, both physical and metaphysical, in forms of power and control that determine the construction of space and the way in which it is interacted with by people. “Spatial practice” refers to the sensorially perceivable physical constructions of society. “Representations of space” are the conceptualized spaces, images and signs that signify the spatial practices of societies—cartography, grids, etc.  Lastly, “representational spaces” are the lived experiences of the social space; these are the signified meanings that we obtain from space, the meaning we construct from spatial practice. 

The goal of this work was to lay out a philosophical argument as to why sentō are a perfect example of what Lefebvre calls "counter space"—space that is unmediated by capitalism and counterproductive to its goals of homogenization and sterilization. Sentō, as a place of relation and connection creation, therefore should be protected at all costs because they provide humanity with something invaluable—a value that must not be translated and abstracted into costs and benefits.

While in Tōkyō, I met with Sam Holden, co-founder of せんとうとまち (“sentō to machi,”sentō and neighborhood)—a non-profit organization consisting of architects, urban designers, and academics who received grants from the World Monuments Fund and American Express to restore 稲荷湯 (inari-yu), an old sentō located in Tōkyō. I attended a lecture Mr. Holden presented to the public on the connections between sentō and local neighborhoods—an analysis of spatial practice. He described sentō as the ecosystem of neighborhoods, where people bring together different perspectives and paths of life that intertwine at the sentō. To understand this, one must be made aware that Tōkyō is a walkable city. It is meant to be traversed by foot or bicycle. Many stores within the city are built one atop of another, entrances extremely vague and hidden in narrow alleyways six stories up an elevator, or within what might seem to be a private residence. Unless it is a stand alone department store or massive retail shop at the face of an American-style shopping center, the average Japanese small/medium sized business is not always easy to find. And with everything being so cram-packed, advertising space too is extremely limited, especially the ideal large sign declaring the businesses name in bright color. Therefore, in order for small businesses to be able to attract customers, there must be pedestrians. Furthermore, the diversity within small-businesses in Tōkyō is extensive—as opposed to a name chain restaurant/clothing store one can easily find a plethora of alternatives close by. These stores, too, rely on the randomness of the pedestrian’s pathways, they survive on their location being discovered.

Just as they were situated from the Edo to Meiji period, sentō remain as the center (no longer figuratively, but literally) of social life in small neighborhoods. There used to exist within the vicinity of the sentō virtually any desired store imaginable. Although no longer the location upon which commercial proximity is based, sentō still play a key role. When an individual goes to the sentō to bathe, they walk—this too is part of the experience stated Mr. Holden. And when individuals are walking too and from bath houses within their neighborhoods, they pass all sorts of other stores that also depend upon the pedestrian journey to be discovered. In being the catalyst of pedestrian activity, sentō promotes the growth of municipal development rather than state-development—increased proximity to/and interaction with local businesses, neighbors, friends. As a city that is mixed-use in nature—a place in which houses, stores, restaurants are intermixed and not departmentalized as is the majority of America—Tokyō naturally promotes a more localized view of life and culture, having all necessities within a walkable vicinity promotes the building of connections on the local level. These sort of localized connections are far more in the realm of the real than those that abstract-space creates specifically because they defy the logic of Capital: not all commerce is within one vicinity connecting individuals more so to the local businesses and companies, rather than promoting the anonymous transactions that occur in commercial districts, a place designated for consumption.

One example of these sort of relations that can be made due to the spatial practices of municipal Tōkyō’s mixed-use nature is a story I was told by あかりさん (Akari), a college student who works at 第三玉の湯  (daisantamanoyu) in Kōenji, Tōkyō. Akari told me that every Saturday a locally run grocery store brings in bags of snacks to all of the workers at the sentō, giving them out for free rather than letting them go to waste. The act, though it may seem small, defies the logic of capital and that is at least a start. As is common once one exits the bathing area, many customers purchase drinks from the vending machines, Akari told me. However, a lot of the regular customers will also purchase them for the employees and stay to talk with them for an hour after bathing. Lastly, Akari told me that her boss, an elderly woman who “has been working there forever,” bought tickets to go see a dance and invited Akari to come along with her for free—an interaction unimaginable by any American college part-timer and their boss. Sentō having been the central social locus of Japanese society long ago still contributes to the spatial practices of neighborhoods today, directly affecting the survivability of small businesses and relations amongst them. With Japanese neighborhoods being situated in a multi-use layout by which areas of residency, leisure, and commerce are not physically separated and metaphysically abstracted, it allows the interactions between these three commonly completely separate entities to coexist less mediated by capital. Sentō, as historically and presently being a catalyst of unidirectional walking, therefore promote these connections through tier spatial layout.

In terms of representational space, sentō yet again make a strong case for themselves as an effective counter-space. “Faceless economic transaction feels very sterile,” Mr. Holden said to me in a one-on-one interview that preceded his presentation. He told me that mostly all sentō still in operation, run at a loss, a profit deficit. Oftentimes they are owned and maintained by an elderly individual or couple who has owned the establishment for years and lives in a home connected to the bath house. Furthermore, because the businesses are largely running at a loss, and maintaining their cleanliness is a large part of the job that proceeds well into the evening hours every night after the sentō closes, children often shy away from inheritance, and owners are reluctant to let outsiders take over. The way they maintain business is usually by income they usurp from owning other properties in addition to the sentō, from which they transfer the surplus sentō maintenance. Sentō are unable to set their own prices: most, within Tōkyō, are regulated by the Tōkyō Sentō Association, which has the price currently set around 480円 (about $3.30) per entrance. This price ceiling of sorts is critical to sentō operating as a counter-space by decommodifying the product. 

“The value of the sentō does not lie in the core service; it lies in the unquantifiable social value that arises around that [service]” said Mr. Holden. A pricing restriction forced upon sentō may be thought by some to disincentivize competition that is commonly thought to increase product quality. Rather, it poses two counter-questions in response. 1) What within a sentō is the product whose quality would increase due to competition? 2) Why is this supposed increased quality an unquestionably good outcome? Etymologically, the Japanese do not think of bathing in terms of something that is taken, therefore, something consumed. Although the Japanese do have a word that translated to “to take a bath” or “to bathe” the word is not commonly used; rather, the most common phrasing, “お風呂に入る” translates directly to “to enter the bath.” Therefore, when one goes to a sentō they pay merely to enter the bathing area itself. In this sense, the sentō is not a product to be purchased. Sentō are in this sense immune to the abstraction that Capital begets. Sentō are not in competition to build for themselves an image of being オシャレ (fashionable/trendy); they don’t need to present themselves as a commodity containing years of genuine Japanese history and culture to be consumed by the ogling gaze of the tourist. There is no product, only an entrance fee; an entrance fee into a place outside of the logic of Capital. Therefore, as a representational space it represents nothing but what it is—there are no mirrors nor smoke about it. And, operating as such a space that exists outside the logic of Capital, it exists to prove that the assumed competition that would force it to abstract itself in order to compete, would be immeasurably counterproductive to the goal it strives to attain: the creation of real relations unmediated by Capital.

Within the sentō one is prohibited from using any sort of electronics, storing them in the locker before entering into the bathroom completely nude. In nudeness perhaps we find liberation of sorts: sentō were historically, and continue to be, places in which rigorous Japanese social hierarchy fades away. Individuals are free from their abstractions—free from the suit and tie, free from the torn clothing, free from the gaze of the screen. Assumptions based upon appearance cannot be made, and everyone exists only as human. The relations made, the conversations had, thus start off at a base inaccessible in all other situations—absolutely zero outward context upon which to make assumptions. Sentō thus represent bareness, truth, real relations, and in turn by doing so, illuminate the falsity of all relations mediated in abstraction, homogenization, and Capital. Sentō, therefore, as a representative space, represent themselves, represent bareness, social nudity, and the truth of the power of counter-space. 

In this sense, sentō furthermore are a catalyst of powerful introspective thought, reflection, and insight into one's own mind, a place rarely traveled to in the modern age. Japan is a society with seemingly insurmountable social pressures placed on the young to achieve, and a horrible problem with extensive labor hours that affects the adult population. While speaking with Akari, she told me that due to the strict COVID-19 safety precautions implemented in Japan, the country began to see mental health as a more prominent and real issue after having been relatively blind to the matter in previous decades despite high suicide rates. She showed me a poster that hangs on the wall of the sentō at which she works reading “through reflection and introspection sentō is a place where people grow.” The staggering rise in mental health concerns that were seen around the world due to lockdown restrictions have coincided with a rise in the acceptance of mental health issues as a legitimate conflict. 

Living within a society in which everything has been forced into a relation based on production it is natural that individuals get burnt out. However, Capital cares not for our human limits and capacities. Humans are assumed to be able to continuously produce day in and day out, to be productive, and to purchase leisure only when allowed so. It is natural to run out of steam, to not be able to keep up—some die trying. The Japanese even have a word that translated literally to “death from overworking” (過労死) as the phenomenon has become so prevalent. To feel as if one has no purpose is only the natural outcome of a system which attempts to abstract every value of your entire being and compartmentalize the individual into a controllable object that produces. This production value has become more real than our human values.

The sentō perhaps is a place of remedy for all. By existing outside of the logic of Capital in the ways previously mentioned, and being a space in which smartphones are not allowed—here one can no longer stimulate their brain with endless serotonin. Introspective experiences and thoughts are not something to be easily philosophically analyzed or expressed for their importance varies depending on the individual. However, I can state with complete honesty that I found that being submerged in the sentō’s bathtubs was a place in which I experienced some of my most reflective and introspective moments. Sentō also represents perhaps a hopeful future towards legitimizing the recognition of mental health in Japanese society and actively working to create solutions that don't involve the consumption of leisure.

To think of sentō as a representation of space might seem strange, as how can a three-dimensional structure be representative of space if it is a spatial practice itself? However spatial practices can too be representations of both other spatial practices and of metaphysical spaces. One of the main goals of せんとうとまち (sentō to machi) is to establish a “cushion” between the neighborhoods and the sentō, Mr. Holden told me. By creating an area that acts as a medium between the neighborhood community and the sentō it will both promote a stronger localized sense of community and attract more customers to the bath house.

The project that Mr. Holden’s NPO recently completed was the revitalization of 稲荷湯 (inari-yu) and the construction of a community center adjacent to the sentō. The adjacent property is owned by the sentō’s owners but is technically being leased to the non-profit organization. せんとうとまち, who then organizes community events allowing locals to sign up for individual showcases. This event space, Mr. Holden explained, is for individuals within the community to both gather and grow stronger, allowing people to sell home-baked goods, host DJ events, sell crafts, etc. At the events, sentō entrance tickets are sold at a discounted price. Mr. Holden explained to me that families with young children are the best demographic to attract for new sentō customers. Because sentō regulars are often the same local elderly residents who come to bathe every day—a narrative shared by every sentō employee with whom I spoke—families who are new to neighborhoods are a bit timid to approach the sentō. However, with spaces such as those created at 稲荷湯 (inari-yu) individuals can gain a better sense of connection to their neighborhood through both social events and through the bath house through the use of a less seemingly closed-off medium that is the community space. Sentō, therefore, represent space in a metaphysical manner—they are the representation of a metaphysical community space, a feeling of interconnectedness and communal value. Not only those that have a community center attached, but all sentō are inherently embodiments of the values that they create—a mirror of sorts. This is precisely because, as stated at the outset of this philosophical undertaking, although for purposes of comprehension Lefebvre splits his understanding of speciality into three categories, the philosophy’s goal is to create a comprehensive understanding of space that unifies said categories. They inherently all overlap. Just as a two-dimensional mapping of a sentō’s internal layout can only produce a mental image of its spatial practice and thus observe the space only in vacuum abstract from its social relations, the three dimensional space a sentō produces is a physical realm within which the social exists.

The reality of the sentō can therefore not be understood just by entering into the building, but the building is a spatial representation of the counter-space values it metaphysically produces through the connections it fosters, and the logic of Capital it abstains from participating in. One might be better off thinking of the real social relations that sentō create in a 4th dimensional manner, the physical construction of the building being the 3-dimensional shadow of the metaphysical manifestation. It is in this sense that the sentō is a representation of itself. Each naked body within the premises, cleansing itself of sweat, dirt, socially imposed hierarchies, abstractions, acts as a shadow of the sentō’s true essence—the power of the community to produce the real. Finally, the abstraction comes to an end. The sentō is real.

The sentō is not completely free from external forces that attempt to deface or mimic its value, for social spaces cannot be thought of as finite entities existing only to the boundaries of their external perimeters. Lefebvre states that all “social spaces interpenetrate one another and/or superimpose themselves upon one another,” a thought that must be explored in order to analyze sentō in disjunction to their imitative counterparts. 

In recent years sentō have begun to construct sauna facilities within their bathing areas in order to attract more customers. Sauna use has recently skyrocketed in Japan becoming an incredibly popular activity amongst all ages, but specifically young adults. While in Tōkyō, I went to 黄金湯 (kogane-yu), a sentō that seemed to have made an name for itself in a very trendy sense on social media posting pictures of customers in fashionable outfits, different colored bath water, beer, etc. I arrived earlier than expected just a few minutes before it opened at 3:00 P.M. on Saturday. Turning the street corner, I was extremely surprised to see a long line of individuals waiting outside the entrance, a sight I had not encountered prior. With the business having been opened, I got closer to the entrance. I heard a worker ask the pair of individuals in front of me if they planned on using the sauna. The customers were then sent off and asked to come back at 4:00 P.M. to use the facility they desired. Upon my turn to enter, I replied that I was only using the bathing facilities and was allowed right in with countless others behind me being asked to return at a later time to use the sauna. 

As I was undressing I noticed that the changing room had music streaming on speakers overhead—another first. It continued into the bathing area itself which was not particularly overcrowded despite the long line. The environment itself was unlike any other sentō I had been to: music playing overhead in the baths, no elderly people in attendance, and just crowded enough that some individuals had to wait to enter baths, standing or sitting on the ledge in front of them waiting for someone to exist. I felt obligated to thus make my soak short and allow others to enter. Upon exit, I spoke with one of the staff asking about the line. She told me that on Saturday’s one cannot reserve sauna time slots online (an option I was unaware was available for other days of the week) and therefore everyone rushes to get in right when the store opens. As I was leaving and walking down the street I saw the exact pair who had been sent away an hour prior, returning at 4:00 P.M. to use the sauna. 

At first, this might not seem in any manner counter productive to the goals of counter-space if it is bringing in more customers to the sentō, in turn, creating a more diverse and larger collection of local residents. However, it is because this establishment, whether they intend to or not, plays into the abstraction of itself because of the clientele the sauna attracts. This is not to say that any sentō that also houses sauna facilities is inherently stripped of all its value; but, it is a complex issue the arguments of which will be presented. 

While at Mr. Holden’s presentation, he opened up the floor to discussion between the attendees. A group of four individuals sitting near the front declared that they were avid sauna frequenters, an activity which they informed the group has been commonly coined ‘サ活’ (sa-katsu), slang for ‘サウナ活動’ (sauna katsudō) translating directly to “sauna activity” or colloquially “sauna use” with the implication that it is a regular/recurring action. Although seemingly harmless, the name serves to abstract the activity from its performance. The term ‘サ活’ has an implied image associated with it that is inseparable from the unmappable matrix of abstract signs and signifiers. Regular sauna usage is seen as a healthy habit in relation to whatever desired medical effect the consumer wishes to assign to it: clears pores, creates smoother skin, good for joint pain, etc. In a way, being an individual who participates in ‘サ活’ says something about you in a way that being a sentō regular does not. It says that you buy into a certain category of lifestyle choices in order to look a certain way, in order to feel a certain way about oneself. In addition to purchasing a ticket for sauna entrance one purchases the image along with it—one might be inclined to say that the ticket is in accompaniment of the image.

There are thousands of healthy lifestyles that are now presented as choices to us, each presenting itself as an identity that you will become if you purchase all the products required to become this lifestyle: running shoes, gym memberships, yoga classes, protein powder, organic fruits, non-organic fruits, etc. Within each of these lifestyles exists an image—or so we are supposed to believe. This image is impossible to pinpoint, but is a culmination of all of the signs that produce it, what it is is no longer easy to say. What we become in abstraction, in image, has become more real that the realities of the physical effects that these lifestyle choices have on us: gaining muscle mass is no longer necessary for survival in war as once was true of Roman soldiers; rather, it allows us to be happy about ourselves, attractive in the eyes of the internet, healthy by whatever social and medical dogma are dominant in the modern decade. Sauna lifestyle plays into this charade too. 

One might be wondering how frequenting a sentō is any different than choosing an abstract lifestyle to embody. Specifically because the sentō offers no functions that are inaccessible in other manners, because its core service is by no means a necessity, that its operation is inherently in the sense of Capital illogical. In its bare bones, the service offered is no different from the home bath that almost the entire population of Japan has access to. It is less convenient—one must exit their house and travel by car, bicycle, foot, expanding gas, energy, time. The sentō, lastly, produces no image nor abstract lifestyle; it is rather the three-dimensional image, the (social) spatial reality of the social relations that sustain its operation. The sentō cannot raise their entrance fee. However, sauna tickets can be set to whatever abstract value they deem fit. This value is no longer determined by amount of labor input into creating the sauna facility, time taken to clean it, heat it, etc; it is determined by how prevalently the image of ‘サ活’ is in circulation, is consumed, embodied, and then spread. 

One woman in attendance of Mr. Holdens presentation, a sentō worker, stated that her establishment hosted an event for the opening of a newly built sauna which attracted tons of new customers. The regulars to the sentō—sentō regulars are generally the elderly—she said, were not too pleased with this choice as the place soon became overcrowded and disrupted the sense of community that had been sustained there ever since. I found this sentiment to be commonly shared with many sentō employees and owners, as I was sure to ask about the social dynamic between sentō regulars and sauna customers in all of my interviews. However, the most common responce was "当たり前ですね.” (its only natural [that new old customers don't want large crowds nor ways of the business to change]) While the introduction of a sauna into the space of a sentō does not completely undermine its operation as a counter-space, it surely aids to set the establishments’ efforts back. However, an even more egregious mockery of the sentō is the super-sentō—the Disneyland of bath houses. 

Super-sentō are amusement parks centered around bathing-based leisure as its entertainment value. Usually a complex the size of a medium-sized American supermarket, the super-sentō is a multistory conglomerate of commodified leisure. Not regulated by any sort of association, super-sentō set their own price and set it high. An entrance ticket usually accounts for entrance into the baths themselves which are the main attraction. However, many customers I spoke with stated that their purpose for repeated visits was solely to use the sauna facilities. The super-sentō also acts as a spa, housing massage facilities with various options and treatments. The facilities differ depending upon the establishment, but most all come equipped with cafes, food courts, reading rooms that house shelves upon shelves of manga, a rest area floored with tatami mats and pillows, and an unspecified relaxation lobby housing pod-like chairs similar to what one would see in the first class cabin of an airplane. 

While in Hiroshima, I traveled to ほの湯 (honoyu) by car, as is common of most super-sentō, it was largely inaccessible by train and not part of any neighborhood. Entrance into the baths was priced at 900円 and an extra 920円 for sauna access. The entrance itself looked like a hotel lobby, common of most super-sentō, a very impersonal place at which one checks in and receives their room key. With this room key one can access their individual locker and make cash-free purchases at vending machines, totalling the amount upon checkout because one should not think of Capital while leisuring—only upon being abandoned by the magic of the facility at its exit does one pay, departing with attention directed upon one sole vehicle, the automobile: Disneyland all over again.

For the sauna facilities one was required to change into a uniform, blue for men and orange for women. (Commonly sauna use must be done in the nude, but saunas at super-sentō are often gender-neutral facilities.) These uniforms compartmentalized those who engage with サ活 and those who do not. The saunas sat on the perimeter of what was the sauna facility's own independent lobby containing manga, sleeping pads, and relaxation pod-like chairs. These massage-chair-pods contained individual televisions screens attached by a retractable arm like those of an airplane, some playing news, some variety stations, some turned off with their role usurped by the cellphone. Individuals waited for spaces in the packed saunas to open, interacting with gadgets to pass the time as one does in line for a Disney ride. When a vacancy was available, one would enter to enjoy the ride disguised as a ‘down-to-earth’ experience. 

Each sauna had its own catch: extreme temperature, salt rock bed, marble floor, “attraction”. The one titled the “attraction” housed a show that occurred every hour and a half. Fifteen minutes before its beginning, the room filled up extremely fast and was completely packed. In order to assure the waiting individuals that there was something to stay for, a television on the wall streamed a news channel to create background noise—perhaps foreground noise. On the hour, a recording started to play from speakers that lined the walls. The recording began to voice a story about a great storm caused by a dragon, as water began to drop from the ceiling upon the scolding hot rocks stationed at the center of the room upon which everyone's attention was fixated. As the room immediately began to fill up with steam, LED lights began to fill the smoke with a dark green, and then hot red glow. Thunderous booms sounded through the speaker as the lights flashed and the room drew hotter. The narration continued with the room becoming ever more unbearably hot to a point at which it was impossible to relax. The bottom of my feet burned by being touched by the smothering smoke. If one inhaled at a normal pace, the interior of the lungs would feel as if they were on fire. The sauna was not to be enjoyed as a sauna whatsoever; the entire “attraction” was a show that only took place inside a sauna and produced no relaxing effects of any sort. It was a spectacle of endurance. As soon as the voice stopped almost the entire population of the room rushed to the door, covering their mouths with their towels desperate for safe air to breathe. 

In hopes of finding some resemblance of a true sentō environment I headed upstairs to the bathing facilities. All seemed natural until I went to the 露天風呂 (“rotenburo” outdoor baths). The facility was truly beautiful and extravagant, housing an immense variety of baths both inside and outside. However, as I entered the bath closest to the door leading outside I sat down and looked at the television mounted on the wall streaming Degawa, a Japanese comedian who I particularly enjoy. A minute later I realized that I was completely unaware of my surroundings or the fact that I had gone there to first research and second try to experience some level of realness. I tried to concentrate on the small waterfall, the source of which was an overflowing hot bath from up above. It was futile—the sound of the television invaded every thought I tried not to have. I left. 

After spending some time away from the television bath, I noticed there was a second. The exterior frame of this bath was made of rocks—the entire area was a spectacle of nature as leisure. I entered the bath with a purpose, sitting with my back to the television, fixating only on the other six individuals within the bath. All of them sat with their eyes up to the television—none were present. No signs of relaxation whatsoever. If the television's purpose is to suck one out of reality that is often overbearing—an escape that everyone needs and accesses in different forms—why come to a super-sentō? Would it not be the same to watch at home? Nobody conversed with one another; there was no sense of community whatsoever. The entire purpose of the construction was to establish itself as a form of leisure to purchase. 

It is here that the sentō is abstracted from its true value—the inseparable social relations that it both creates and sustains, that create and sustain it. The true sentō is its own metaphysical ecosystem that survives upon the symbiotic relationship between itself and its customers. Although the spatial practices of sentō and super-sentō might be the same (save a few televisions) the social space created by each is polar opposite to one another: the real and its simulacrum. “Inside [Disneyland], a whole panoply of gadgets magnetizes the crowd in directed flows” (Baudrillard, Precession of the Simulacra). The areas designated for leisure, for purchase, for work (the labor of the sauna is the labor of endurance, to persevere and exit unharmed feeling accomplished and refreshed) direct and compartmentalize where and how one lives and exercises supposed freedom of choice. Outside, one is altogether abandoned at the exit, their focus being directed upon the automobile, the image of freedom of movement, freedom of choice, freedom in its totality. Like Disneyland, the super-sentō exists to deceive us. It exist to deter us from the fact that reality is no more real than its phantasmagorical copy. It is in the real world that our freedoms are driven, magnetized by designated spatial practices pertaining to what activities within said areas are permissible: commerce, labor, leisure. All compartmentalized, all homogenized in order to maximize efficiency. The super-sentō pretends to be what the sentō really is—an area outside of capitalism, a return to nature. However, it is no different from the rest of the neocapitalist world that shapes it, and embodies its homogenizing and compartmentalizing forces in its uniform, attractions, commercial leisure. It is nothing like the sentō.

Out of the countless stories I was told during interviews regarding friendships and meaningful connections to sentō, one stuck with me that both that perfectly encompasses the simplicity of this projects' goal. Mr. Holden, as a last note in our interview, told me about an experience he had at a sentō the week prior. After bathing, Mr. Holden was leaving the sentō on a humid Tōkyō summer day and saw a fruit vendor giving out slices of free watermelon on the narrow street upon which the sentō was located. Another man stood watering flowers outside his house with a garden hose from which the mist floated into the street and a group of passing elementary school children began to play in. The simplicity and purity of this scene, he explained to me, was the reason he cared so much about sentō. Without the sentō, perhaps street fruit vendors would no longer exist on small roads that depend on people traveling by foot and interacting with their neighborhood through the sentō to be sustained. Perhaps the kids wouldn't have had the joy of fresh fruit and a place to have fun and cool off from the heat while walking home from school. Simple human interactions, the spread of joy, these social interworkings are what are created by the sentō and disseminated into all aspects of neighborhood life external to its walls. These sorts of counter-space like sentō incentives people to walk the streets, to interact with neighbors and their community, to shop locally, to value humanity and kindness greater than currency.

It is precisely because the restoration and preservation of these important public facilities is counterintuitive in the ideology of capital (existing in the red, needing subsidization) that with this project I hope to provide a different framework from which to view their importance so that one might come to value the preservation of sentō as something greater than the cost of their sustenance. At whatever level it may be, I hope to support this cause in the future, be it through non-profits, academia, or government work.

This project has guided me to an area of work that I never before encountered, one in which I was able to utilize both of my academic interests—philosophy and the Japanese language. I would like to give a special thank you to the Keller Family, Colorado College’s Asian Studies Department, and English Department for making this research possible. With your generous contribution I have been able to immeasurably enrich my undergraduate academic pursuit by reaching far beyond the boundaries of the classroom. The connections I made and the skills I developed during this project are invaluable to me as I begin to step forth form Colorado College and enter the world post-graduation.