DELULU IN TOKYO
We are raised to think big, to become someone important, to achieve immortality, fame, and social recognition — a brilliance that supposedly grants us a passport to eternity. The narrative we’re fed is that when we pass, people should think, “Oh yes, they were someone of value, they were SOMEBODY.” Yet, in the end, it all turns out to be a colossal lie, a socially fueled charade from cradle to grave. The pursuit of grandeur proves to be an illusion, a chase we’re irrationally driven to, even knowing we’ll never catch it. We knowingly sacrifice the small things that can truly give meaning to our lives. It’s reminiscent of Henry James’s famous story, “The Beast in the Jungle,” where the protagonist, John Marcher, spends his entire life waiting for something unique and sublime — the appearance of a beast in the jungle. Only at the end of his life, at the feet of the woman he could have loved, does John realize that countless “unique and sublime moments” had passed unnoticed. “It wouldn’t have been a failure to be bankrupt, dishonored, pilloried, hanged; it was a failure not to be nothing.” To be nothing while waiting for something great to happen. However, we are beings with lives made up of small, great things. The tragedy is that no one teaches us to value them, to give them the importance they deserve, to embrace them as the source of joy and happiness that they are in themselves. To be something, following Marcher’s lament, through them, not despite them.
Recently, a teenage family member surprised me with a half-whispered confession: “I’ve joined the ‘Delulu’ movement.” Curious, I inquired, “What’s that?” The response was dismissive, “If you don’t know, you’re not in this story. I’m not explaining it. Watch TikTok videos; they’ll explain it there.” Intrigued, I consulted ChatGPT, and its response was enlightening.
“Delulu” is a colloquial term often used on the internet to describe someone overly idealistic or having unrealistic, fanciful beliefs. Originating in online communities, especially fandoms, it’s used to poke fun at individuals with strong, impractical fantasies about situations or relationships, often related to fictional characters or celebrities.”
Other sources trace it back to 2014, referring to fans of Korean K-pop. These teenagers were convinced — or rather, delirious — that they would end up having an intimate relationship with their music idols. Although seemingly unattainable, these young individuals found happiness in merely imagining that this dream could come true. This new movement connects with the old notion that indoctrinates us to pursue the impossible. It prompts the question: Isn’t achieving the possible sufficient? Isn’t it meritorious? Can’t we find something extraordinary in every day for happiness and joy? Do we need to convince ourselves that reality is so horrible that it can’t contain anything beautiful, just, or healing? Is baseless expectation and toxic positivity the only way we relate to our reality?
In Wim Mertens’ delightful recent film, “Perfect Days” the protagonist, the wonderful Hirayama, played masterfully by veteran actor Kôji Yakusho, is an (Olympic) toilette cleaner. Hirayama lives a very austere life, speaking little, observing much, reading books in cheap pocket editions, and listening to analog music on ancient cassettes during his commutes — including some by Lou Reed. Every day, he follows a meticulous sequence of routines, starting when he leaves home, looks at the sky, and smiles. He is neither resentful nor alienated by his work; he not only finds it humiliating but performs it consciously as a devoted service to others. It wasn’t imposed on him; he chose it as part of a series of personal decisions we glimpse through his niece and sister. Living with very little, he is happy. He finds joy in small things because he sees in them, through them, other significant things like friendship, peace, well-done work, solidarity, tenderness, a harmonious connection with nature, or feeling part of something greater than oneself.
At a specific moment in the film, Hirayama imparts a masterful lesson in “happiness in the small” to his niece (perhaps a nod to the Delulu movement) when she asks when they will revisit a lake they bike around. He replies, “The next time”. She insists, “But when is the next time?” He responds, “The next time is the next time, and now is now.” They leave happily, turning this play on words into a catchy song. He seems to tell her: please don’t postpone being happy until the next time; you can be happy right now. Delulu lies twice: it can never deliver what it promises, and what it promises doesn’t bring happiness.
The small, the minimal, the subtle detail of the present continuously goes unnoticed amid the narcissistic chatter and cannibalism of social media, the spell of AI, despite being genuinely important, as photographer Rinko Kawauchi knows well. Through her art, she attempts to portray the fleeting, what passes in front of us almost unnoticed but contains an entire universe: a small frog, a spiderweb, a column of light breaking through a forest, a conversation between two children sitting on a bench, someone in the process of crafting textile art, a fire in a wheat field… The seemingly trivial speaks to our vulnerability and invites us to recognize ourselves in each of these moments that will not return and are precious precisely because we know how to value them as such, up to their last drop. As Rinko tries to convey, “light obscures as much as it reveals: it reflects, penetrates, dematerializes, and turns things invisible.” The small things make the big ones visible, not the other way around.
The small, the minimal, and even the invisible to the naked eye literally form part of our DNA. Billions of years ago, iron was created in a supernova thousands of light years from our planet, forming part of our red blood cells with which we breathe oxygen created by cyanobacteria 1.75 billion years ago. The essential is so ancient, so small, so vulnerable that we are incapable of seeing it. No one (except artists, children, and clowns) teaches us to see it.
What would life be like in our museums if we started seeing and valuing the small, the minimal, and the barely perceptible in them, and acted from there? If, instead of seeking the grand exhibition, the big impact, the chatter of the major event, the glitter of the grand funding source in the form of galas, we intentionally and attentively sought out all the small things generously unfolding before our eyes every day, in every corner, inside and outside, above and below, without asking for permission.
This approach from the small is already happening and changes everything forever. Above all, it changes power structures that feed off each other and become, in our eyes, something “common sense.” When a 9-year-old girl asks the Director of a Museum why the people working there are so sad, she makes visible something no one wants to see but turns out to be the most crucial aspect for everything to work “big.” Or when in a museum like the Madison Children’s Museum, thanks to the wonderful idea of Chef Dave Heide, one pays according to their means in the restaurant, something as small as the price of a plate of pasta becomes the entire model from which the museum relates to its community, removing all kinds of barriers for the community to feel part of it. Above all, as Elaine Heumann Gurian wisely reminds us when we thank a colleague who has helped us solve a problem or let us know they are there for us, the dynamics of the team change completely. Look at those around us every day and smile at them. Be kind to them. That’s all. Everything is there, even TikTok.
