Sensual City Studio

UNDERWEAR

Buying a bra was a conscious decision. Getting new clothes, shoes, going to the tailor, could all have happened to me at any moment, as spontaneous decisions. Going to buy a bra, somehow, was different.
I went with a friend of mine. We saw some amazing bra systems. Truly ingenious systems. Some seemed to attach to your back with just a single strap, while others featured elaborate patterns of straps that would transform into another, different pattern in order to support the breasts, almost like a piece of origami.
Others didn’t seem to need any breasts inside them, as they were already satisfied with the cotton, gel or water pads contained within them.
I decided to try one of the origami bras, which would subtly tattoo my back with a kind of butterfly motif. Inside the changing-room cubicle, however, I realized that trying on this bra would be more than a simple choice; it would be a major challenge.
I stood there, thinking I had understood the system, only for everything to fall apart when I opened it. I tried to put it back together in every way imaginable, recomposing its intricate form and attempting to fit myself into it, but things didn’t quite work out as I had hoped… and by this time, quite some time had passed. The woman in the shop decided to ask how I was doing. Hearing my answer in bad, breathless Chinese, she decided that she had to come into the cubicle to help me. She looked at me, and then, with a series of almost computational movements, she solved the problem, and I had the bra in place, with everything exactly where it should be. She looked at me and asked if I would like the bra; I simply couldn’t believe what had happened, that someone could just walk in and do that.
Once my friend and I had bought these masterpieces, we both came to the conclusion that this had been a perfect Shanghainese experience. Back in the West, no one would have ever dared to do this – to barge into your cubicle and dress you, essentially – and I wouldn’t ever have allowed it, not by a long chalk. But here, in a city where the borders between public and private aren’t really fixed, in a city whose inhabitants feel at ease everywhere they go, where pyjamas can be deemed the perfect outdoor attire for the day’s activities, where my kitchen is everyone’s kitchen, it seemed normal. The boundaries are drawn differently here.

CHILDREN RIDING PARENT-CONTROLLED PURPLE ELEPHANTS

A whole range of things have been adapted into Chinese culture; it is well known that the Chinese embrace change and development rapidly.
Lactose is better assimilated by the younger generations, and so there are now some very tall men and women in China.
But the Chinese are not only getting taller: it seems they are becoming wider, too. McDonald’s and KFC have been widely accepted and welcomed in China.
Nowadays, China is reaching record-breaking levels of obesity: there are fat camps and fat-reduction hospitals where parents can send their only child to lose all those extra pounds.
In ten years, China’s childhood obesity rate has doubled, with the greatest gains made in urban areas, owing to more Westernized dietary habits combined with more sedentary lifestyles, with more and more kids spending time in front of their computers and playing video games instead of going outside and getting some exercise.
According to recent official figures in China (2012), more than 12% of the nation’s children are overweight, representing some 120 million individuals under the age of 18.
This trend is partially due to a loss of neighbourliness and community spirit  . Children have no brothers and sisters, and instead of living in an open environment such as the lilong where there are other children to play with, their typical living environment is an apartment on the 30th floor, with only Mum, Dad and/or Grandma and Grandad for company.
As a result, parents take their children down to ground level – home of the shopping centre and the market place. Then, using a remote control, they set in motion the newly bought purple elephant, or giraffe, upon which the child is sitting comfortably, so that parents and children alike can happily eat their ice cream in peace.

DIRECTIONS

I had many opportunities and means to escape my high-rise compound. I could use the metro below my feet or I could go through one of the four doors embedded in the walls surrounding my compound and its garden and swimming pool, allowing me to head in any of the cardinal directions  to discover Shanghai and its ever-changing colours.

I might go towards the wall of a newly demolished lilong, adorned with an architect’s impression   of the forthcoming compound to be built in its place. Or towards a lively existing lilong, with its restaurants and clothes hanging out to dry, a park full of people singing and dancing, or a busy street with its cyclists and mopeds transporting goods across the city.

EIGHT

“Luck” is probably the best translation of the word for “eight” in Chinese culture.   It has many interpretations and can be used in many different ways. For example:Bā   sounds like the word for prosperity and wealth. In different rituals, one can use the power of the number eight in a date to multiply good fortune.
There is also a visual resemblance between the digits “88” and 囍, the shuāng xĭ,   meaning “double happiness”. Furthermore, when turned on its side, the number eight resembles the mathematical symbol for infinity.  My impression, therefore, is that eight is the number of infinite luck and happiness.
The number eight is viewed as such an auspicious number that even being assigned a number containing several eights is considered very lucky. Chinese people devote a lot of money and effort to having the figure eight in their telephone numbers and car registration numbers.

MASKS

Coming to Shanghai was an experience for all my senses: my nose would be filled with different smells simply crossing from one street corner to another; my sense of touch was mesmerised by new, different surfaces; my ears couldn’t comprehend most of what was going on around me, as they were bombarded with explosions of different sounds everywhere I went; my tongue was happier than ever before, tasting so many different foods and so many different consistencies, compositions and combinations; the way it looked was often at odds from the way it tasted – and, most of the time, it was my eyes that were happily proven wrong.
Every day, my eyes would be caught up in a symphony of movements and experiences – and, like the weather in any harbour city, the elements would change day by day, minute by minute. I made a promise to myself to observe more attentively, to concentrate on just one thing at a time and breathe it in, as if I were inspecting it. These inspections would sometimes take less than a minute. Sometimes, they would involve a combination of several observations made at different times, while others would occupy a much longer span of time, of relaxation, depending on whether the element was fixed or in motion. In most cases, without willing it, my brain would conduct a series of categorizations – categorizations that in most cases were proven wrong, because even static objects in Shanghai are constantly changing and moving; being displaced, relocated and dissolved.
The way Shanghainese people dressed on a normal day would always arouse my curiosity. Women especially, on a sunny day, would often wear gloves and large hats, carry umbrellas, and also wear masks – and men, too, would also wear masks. Indeed, after living in Shanghai for a while, there was no way I would contemplate riding my bike without a mask; some of my colleagues would not dare to go outside without one. Paradoxically, these layers of clothing that were meant to keep everything me   white, clean and healthy would suppress the senses that were ordinarily revealed to me by Shanghai – the city where it is said   that going jogging is more harmful that not exercising at all, as you simply end up inhaling, even more deeply than usual, the reason the Shanghainese don’t see the stars…

THREE

We were walking down – well, it could have been any street in Shanghai, really. Someone offered us a “lucky red envelope”, explaining to us that this envelope would bring us wealth. Inside, there was a red card, with the symbol of this year’s animal painted in golden brushstrokes.
My friend looked away, but I was curious and wanted one – two, in fact. I thought it would be a nice present to offer to someone like me, someone superstitious.
He said that he could sell us one envelope each. That would not be a problem. However, if it was just me buying, I could have one or three envelopes, five, even, if I wanted. But he wouldn’t sell me two, or four.
At the time, I didn’t understand the principle, which is in fact very simple: odd numbers are lucky. Chinese tradition dictates that material things should be given to others in odd-numbered quantities. Public holidays, too, last either one or three days. When venerating a statue or an image   of an ancestor, you should bow three times, or five times, or once… Seven or nine times would be better still. After nine, though, the golden number is twelve – an even number.