Tag: emoji

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Let’s All Be Champions with Pictograms

–The universal appeal of pictograms, as shown during the 2020 Tokyo Olympics

Introduction:

As a big fan of pictograms (I wrote my master’s thesis on it), I explore in this post the story behind the 2020 Olympic pictograms, as well as the huge success of the performance during the opening ceremony. I also argue that pictograms can play a bigger role in our everyday communications: by embodying common human experiences that go beyond nationality, ethnicity, gender, and more, pictograms may be easier to use than people emoji in this increasingly interconnected world.

下記の投稿では、私が以前から強い関心を抱いてきたピクトグラム（修士論文のテーマでもありました）について取り上げました。2020年東京五輪のピクトグラムが作られた経緯を辿り、開会式におけるパフォーマンスが世界的に評価された理由を分析しています。また、国籍、人種、ジェンダー等にとらわれることのないピクトグラムは、世界中の多様な人々が瞬時につながる今の時代、日々のコミュニケーションにおいても、人型の絵文字以上に使いやすいのではないか、と論じています。

From the pictograms performance of the opening ceremony: emulating the skateboarding pictogram

The 2020 Tokyo Olympics has shown us some amazing athletic achievements so far. But for me, the most memorable performance has been the pictograms show during the opening ceremony. It was a great tribute to the previous Tokyo Olympics in 1964, where Olympic pictograms were first officially designed in order to overcome language barriers. As the first Olympic pictograms to be animated–and of course, the first to be performed live by people in blue and white bodysuits–the 2020 pictograms made history in their own way.

I wrote my master’s project (the equivalent of a master’s thesis in journalism school) on pictograms, and have always been interested in these little symbols as a form of language and communication. Based on how much the Olympic pictograms have evolved, as well as the huge success of the performance during the opening ceremony, I feel that we can better incorporate pictograms into our everyday lives. These universal symbols appeal to everyone in an increasingly interconnected world, and allow us to be more mindful of our commonalities regardless of our backgrounds.

The 2020 Olympic Pictograms

The story of the 2020 Olympic pictograms has several layers. At its foundation is the 1964 pictograms, which in itself carry older Japanese traditions of ukiyo-e (flattening three-dimensional images into two dimensions) and crest designs (little uniform symbols). Every Olympic host city has since used its own version of pictograms, from bright tones that reflect the country’s vivid colors (Mexico City, 1968; based on my interview with designer Lance Wyman for my master’s project in 2010), to universal and inclusive figures that deliberately moved away from Nazi-era history (Munich, 1972), to symbols inspired by ancient carvings in a Norwegian cave (Lillehammer, 1994), and characters inspired by old seals (Beijing, 2008).

The 2020 pictograms were a nod to the original 1964 version, according to a Japanese magazine (Katei Gaho) interview with Masaaki Hiromura, who designed the 50 Olympic pictograms and 23 Paralympic pictograms. While he initially played around with elements such as hiragana, Choju Giga, and Astro Boy, he ultimately decided to use the 1964 pictograms as reference, focusing on the athletes’ physical movements. Studying hundreds of photos and videos for each sport, he aimed to make the pictograms appear as realistic and dynamic as possible. He obtained not only the approval of the International Olympic Committee and International Paralympic Committee, but also the associations of each sport–which resulted in redoing more than half of the designs.

These pictograms were animated for the first time so that they can be used for event broadcasts, digital signage, and social media. An interview with Kota Iguchi, who created the animation, reveals the challenges of working from static images. Instead of forcing the pictograms themselves to move, he animated how they appear onto and disappear from the screen, and suggested that the flow be paused on the pictograms so that audience members could appreciate them for a few seconds. He, too, spoke with athletes to ensure that the movements looked natural, and animated in different speeds to highlight signature moves of each sport. The animation process was very challenging, but he says he “want[s] the baton to be passed” to future Olympic games. “I’d like to make it open source so that parts can be changed and the movements can evolve . . . and am happy to provide any data for that purpose” (translation my own).

Tokyo must have been searching for a way to honor the history of Olympic pictograms, and I believe that animation (the full sequence of all 73 pictograms is featured below) was the perfect update. The moving figures are endearing, and even though they are animated through technology, they even seem more human than the static versions. And if, as Mr. Iguchi offers, the data becomes open source, the pictograms could have a lasting legacy that impacts users worldwide.

The Appeal of the Pictograms Show

Despite all the work that went into the pictograms, they would not have garnered as much attention if not for the performance during the opening ceremony. Many of the comments on NBC’s video clip of the performance call it “the best part of the ceremony.” The Washington Post wrote that it “stole the show,” and The Cut called it a “hot new sport.” I think there are several reasons for its wide appeal:

  • Cuteness: While the pictogram illustrations have grace and poise, the people in bodysuits seem to scurry around clumsily with their big heads. After a while, the tacky outfits start to grow on us and begin to look adorable.
  • Imperfection: Their limbs tremble when they strike poses, and their postures are always somewhat less cool than the original pictograms. The blue man drops the badminton racket, and with the taekwondo posture, needs help bringing his leg up. It almost seems doubtful that they would manage to get through all 50 pictograms–making it seem all the more special when they succeed.
  • Emotion: With no mouths or eyes, they show emotion through body language alone. Their joy when they complete the fast-paced routine is palpable, drawing a sigh of relief from all of us.
  • The “analog” humor: Hiropon, the comedian who created the segment and starred as the main blue man, later commented on how “analog” the performance was. And it truly is: from the basketball hoop headband to the badminton shuttle signage, everything looks handmade. It is somehow both an elevated version of the digitally animated pictograms and a nod to the physical dynamism that inspired the pictograms to begin with.
Hiropon’s humble Instagram post that briefly reveals that he created the pictograms sequence. He later made an appearance at a press conference in the blue bodysuit.

Analog humor has long been appreciated in Japan. People have commented that the opening ceremony performance reminded them of Kasou Taishou (“Masquerade”), a Japanese show in which amateurs compete by enacting various aspects of life using their bodies and homemade costumes. One example is the below performance by two men emulating an athlete on a pommel horse, which won first prize in 1997. No one is expected to be a superb actor, stage carpenter, or costume maker. Family members often compete together, brilliantly executing silly but hilarious ideas.

Another commonality the pictogram performance had with Kasou Taishou was the supporter wearing white, who would often blend in the background and help with various props. This, in turn, comes from a long tradition of kabuki and bunraku (puppet theater), where stage hands (called kurogo) dressed all in black (or white, if it’s a snowy scene) carry props or puppets. The Olympics opening ceremony did feature a real kabuki performance by renowned actor Ebizo Ichikawa. But the pictograms performance was so much more accessible–no knowledge of history or culture was needed to appreciate it.

Anyone and Everyone

I think the biggest appeal of the pictograms performance comes from this last point: it can be understood by everyone, regardless of language, nationality, or background.

This spirit comes from the pictograms themselves. Mr. Hiromura says in the Katei Gaho interview that “the simpler the pictograms are, the more open to interpretation they become. Unless they are designed in a way that anyone can see themselves in them, they won’t be appreciated by everyone” (translation my own). The set of pictograms is uniform, only distinguished by the poses and items unique to each sport (be they bats, balls, or boards). The gender, age, or any other characteristic of athletes is invisible. Every swimmer and skateboarder who’s not yet at an Olympic level may see themselves in the pictograms, dreaming of someday competing among the best of the best.

I believe the pictogram performance brought this accessibility to another level. As a clumsy person whose worst grades were always P.E., I could never relate to athletes. I only watch games and competitions in awe of stars who possess skills I could never attain. But striking a pose or two with some props? That seems doable. The whole speedy routine must have taken so much practice, talent, and coordination–but with trembling limbs, handmade signs, and finger puppetry, the people in bodysuits make it seem as though any of us could give it a try. And when they manage to finish the routine, they seem like the ultimate underdogs who barely scrape by, huffing and puffing. Even their victory, unlike those of Olympic athletes, is relatable.

People Emoji: Too Detailed, Too Many

Mr. Hiromura, Mr. Iguchi, and Hiropon each had a huge challenge in bringing these pictograms to life. But one thing that I think makes their work somewhat easier is that the designs had a framework: they were limited to sports that were part of the Olympic and/or Paralympic games.

Having a framework and using simple designs work. I think this point is evident when we compare two types of emoji: smileys and people emoji. I’m a big fan of the round yellow smileys that only show facial expressions. Cute and fantastical, they are a simple representation of how I feel. I know they are abstract, and don’t expect any visual resemblances with my face. Like pictograms, they are uniform (yellow circle, a mouth, two eyes) and have a straightforward design.

I love these smileys (courtesy of Apple) because they are a fantastical representation of how I feel

But I have never felt comfortable with any of the more realistic people emoji that show body language, professions, family, and more. Those turn me off because I subconsciously look for (and fail to find) myself in them. I appreciate the recent diversity in skin tone, but five tones is not enough, and I am more than my skin (for starters, maybe I wouldn’t want to wear such a bright purple shirt every single time).

These people emoji (also from Apple) now come in various skin tones, but I still don’t see myself in them

Customized tools like Apple’s Memoji are meant to resolve this issue, but even those seem strangely over the top with exaggerated expressions. No matter what tweaks I make, I can’t identify with the little avatar.

People emoji and Memoji fall into the too-realistic-but-still-unlike-me trap

I–and I suspect many others–can never be satisfied with people emoji because people are endlessly diverse. Yes, it is very exciting that we may soon have emoji for pregnant men. But it also brings up new questions about many others who are not represented. I’m sure it’s a quagmire for developers and other authorities, who are likely contending with one complaint/request after another (here’s the list of emoji requests made to Unicode, not limited to people emoji). The more representation there is, the more problematic it becomes for those who are not represented, because we cannot help but wonder: How long does it take to get to my turn? How is my identity taking a back burner to zombies, mermaids, and twin bunny girls/boys? And from a practical standpoint, if, many years into the future, there happens to be a single emoji that comes close (say, a Japanese American woman interpreter), how many hundreds would I have to sift through on my phone to find it? People emoji seem to be trapped in a difficult situation where they will have to continue to grow in volume, which in turn will decrease their usability.

I think this is all because pictures that are too detailed end up highlighting differences. Indeed, as Mr. Hiromura said above, “the simpler they are, the more open to interpretation they become.” That must be why pictograms have such a strong appeal. Since the opening ceremony, many Japanese people have been designing their own pictograms and tweeting them. Here’s one that’s been particularly popular (dubbed “2020 Mamalympic (Papalympic) Sports”), even prompting media coverage. I think it’s clear to anyone, even without reading the Japanese captions, what “sport” each pictogram represents. These are universal struggles for many parents, regardless of language or culture.

So here’s an idea for those people emoji. How about designing them as pictograms instead? Olympic pictograms were originally created to reach an international audience for a special occasion celebrating top athletes. But now that our world is so interconnected, all of us need to communicate with diverse audiences everyday. Symbols that are more vague, where we do not have to worry about skin tone, facial or physical features, gender, etc., would appeal to more users, ostracize fewer people, and clutter less space on our phones.

And more importantly, with pictograms, we would have an easier time seeking our own identity. Instead of focusing on what we look like, we can perhaps focus on what we do, like playing basketball, raising babies, or writing. People of different backgrounds may use the same pictograms, which in turn helps us find commonalities with and compassion for others. We don’t want a competition where only a few people are represented, and others have to vie to have their likeness preserved. With pictograms, all of us can be champions in our own unique way.

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Internet Slang and Anonymity

–A WaPo article on online identity

Introduction:

This post discusses a recent article in The Washington Post that explores our identities online, and in which I played a small role. I touch upon the difficulties of translating kaomoji and slang, as well as the challenge of tweeting publicly in front of anonymous readers.

先日、フェイスアプリを使ってツイートしているバイカー、「宗谷の蒼氷」さんへのインタビュー記事をワシントン・ポスト紙が公開しました。その取材のお手伝いをさせていただき、記者のドリューさんのご厚意で、私の名前も掲載して頂きました。宗谷さん（中島さん）は本当にエネルギーにあふれ、前向きで、かっこいい生き方をされている方で、私も多くの刺激を受けました。下記の投稿では、ツイートを翻訳することの難しさや、見ず知らず、かつ匿名の人たちの前で投稿することの勇気について触れます。

A few days ago, The Washington Post published a wonderful article by Drew Harwell, technology reporter. It centers around Soya no Sohi, a biker who tweets using FaceApp, changing his gender and age. Soya (whose real name is Mr. Nakajima) is a fascinating, vivacious, and upbeat individual, and it’s no wonder that fans love him all the more now that he’s revealed his true self. The article is a great exploration of identity and how we project ourselves on social media, examining the issue from multiple angles, be it gender, age, relationships, or cultural/societal norms. It’s a unique and positive look into social media and AI, standing apart from recent dystopian takes on tech and our future.

I was honored to play a small role in this article, and through Drew’s kindness, even be recognized in the byline. I interpreted the online interview with Mr. Nakajima, and translated additional information and general communications. The hardest part of this process was something I never expected: translating tweets.

Short, Unconventional Messages

Two characteristics set Twitter apart from other social media platforms: anonymity and brevity. And I think these go hand-in-hand.

There are many Twitter users, like journalists, authors, politicians, and other public figures, who use their real names. Because social media is part of their personal brand, they tend to be measured in what they write: purposeful, cautious, and often in complete sentences (there are exceptions, like those who write inflammatory tweets to stay in the public discourse).

But users who remain anonymous have no obligation to write in a formal manner that follows conventional grammar rules. While online writing is already short, I think tweets that are restricted by character count are more prone to slang, abbreviations, and emoji (which are not only fun but also save valuable space). This is where translation becomes a challenge.

Emoji and Kaomoji

Soya’s tweets are filled with cute emoji and kaomoji (Japanese emoticons which, unlike the western equivalent, we can appreciate without tilting our heads!). Here’s a tweet right after the WaPo interview:

When I translated this tweet, I marveled at how emoji have totally become a universal language (in fact, this NPO uses emoji to allow children from different countries to communicate with one another). They needed no explanation.

The kaomoji were a different matter. These little pictures are meant to defy words, but I wasn’t sure if they were visually clear to everyone. For the three kaomoji here (5th line, 6th line, and last line), I wrote notes saying: “shows a sigh of relief,” “shows nervousness (looking left and right, sweating and panicking),” and “shows happiness.”

Then there was this tweet, which Soya had posted right after Mr. Nakajima’s appearance in a Japanese variety show in March. While I felt bad reducing tiny, adorable pictures into blunt, boring words, I explained them like this:

(/ω＼*) Covering face in embarrassment; feeling flattered

(*´▽`人) Blushing and putting hands together in gratitude.

While the other kaomoji might be easier to understand, I was certain the one below (from this tweet, after Mr. Nakajima deliberately revealed his real face in the handlebar mirror) needed an explanation:

(ﾉ≧ڡ≦)☆

I initially started writing “sticking tongue out mischievously; slapping one’s own head after admitting to mistake.” But realizing that a lengthy explanation on the “tehepero” manga trope was probably too much information in this context, I settled with “kaomoji meaning ‘oops.'” (Again, what a boring way to describe this cute face!)

From Slang to Slang

The article incorporated the tweets of other Twitter users too, to gauge their reaction to Soya’s big reveal and what they think about Soya in general. Aside from pictures, the trickiest thing to translate was laughter.

In Japanese, laughter is shown even in somewhat formal contexts (e.g. magazine interviews) with 笑, the kanji for “laugh.” Because that character is read as “warai,” that was abbreviated to “w,” and that’s now become more common among the younger generation when they text each other. A few years ago, that evolved even further among some hardcore netizens, who now use the kanji for “grass,” or 草 (because the letter “w” looks like grass growing on the ground).

Some tweets only had one “w,” which I translated as “LOL.” Other tweets with multiple w’s (like this one, referring to Soya’s handlebar mirror tweet and joking that Soya’s dad was accidentally included in the photo) were translated as “ROFL” to signify a bigger laugh. Thank goodness there wasn’t a wider variety, because those are the only two laughter slangs I know (“LMAO” seemed inappropriate for obvious reasons–and I honestly don’t know if that’s a bigger laugh than ROFL)!

Just for fun, I tested how AI translation services like DeepL and Google Translate might translate these tweets. DeepL ignores all the w’s (probably seeing them as typos), and Google Translate just includes the w’s as is. “Grass” remains “grass.” It is ironic (but a relief for professionals like us!) that humans are still needed to understand internet slang.

Of course, there are other elements that are lost in translation. Soya refers to herself with a feminine pronoun. She also occasionally mixes in the local Ibaraki dialect (as in the tweet below, thanking followers for reading the WaPo article), and that’s probably another factor that makes her so lovable and approachable. It’s unfortunate that there’s no way to convey the spirit behind these tweets aside from clunkily adding a side note to straightforward translations.

The Courage to Tweet

Working on this WaPo project made me rethink my relationship with Twitter. I first got an account a decade ago, when I was a graduate student studying journalism. We all learned how to market ourselves on social media, which was especially important because the media landscape was rapidly changing, and jobs at media companies were decreasing.

But I just could not get into Twitter. I had difficulty chiseling what I wanted to say into a perfect haiku of 140 characters (as was the limit until a few years ago). And more importantly, I found the Twitter space scary. Every post was open to the public. People didn’t have to show their faces or their real names. I felt–and still feel–much safer on Facebook, where I’m only connected to people I know and trust.

In the WaPo article, Drew quotes researchers and points out that in the past, many people “with ‘stigmatized social identities’ . . . saw online anonymity as a way to act like themselves without fear of offline consequences.” He continues: “It wasn’t until the rise of giant social networks like Facebook — which used real identities to, among other things, supercharge targeted advertising — that this big game of pretend gained an air of duplicity.”

This made me realize how lucky I am to have an in-person community where I feel at home. It’s a luxury, and I shouldn’t be whining about leaving my comfort zone online. And either way, we all create online identities to an extent. I chose my profile photo out of others that I didn’t think were as good. Even when blogging about my weaknesses or struggles, I try to reach a positive conclusion. It’s possible to find a good balance between being authentic and not revealing every flaw.

I’m very much inspired by Soya and Mr. Nakajima: full of energy, always upbeat, and not afraid to try new things. During the interview, Mr. Nakajima said: “Unless you start, you’ll come to regret it. People will say, ‘I’ll do this once things settle down or once everything is in place.’ But by the time everything is in place, your life will end.”

That really spoke to me. I hope I can be more courageous and post more frequently, be it through this blog or social media, rather than overthinking everything.

At the very least, it’s comforting to know what to do if I make a mistake. I’ll simply post this:

(ﾉ≧ڡ≦)☆