The cult of cuteness is revolting Even the Catholic Church has fallen for it

The Vatican masterminds are surely right that kawaii culture is popular with youth across the globe. Starting in the Seventies, with the massive success of Hello Kitty, it has since been fuelled by international crazes for manga, Studio Ghibli films, and Pokémon characters. Vaguely sinister soft toys with neotenous features, pointless pastel-coloured plastic tat, and decorated notepaper too small to actually write anything on are like crack for pre-teen girls worldwide.

According to one theory, Japan’s national obsession with cuteness has roots in Sixties Japan, as representations of the ageing Emperor Hirohito started to depict him as endearingly enfeebled. This was arguably a cultural coping mechanism, as the Japanese faced post-war realisations about the limits of their military and economic power. Other commentators have made connections with the classical tradition of Japanese aesthetics, according to which sadness is an appropriate response to beauty: cute things are often thought of as enjoyably “pitiable” in kawaii discourse. The Shinto religion is also thought by some to be a relevant background factor, with its emphasis on innocence and play. And feminists have pointed out that traditional models of Japanese femininity construe women as small, powerless, and vulnerable — all features heavily present in the kawaii tradition.

Somewhere in all that, perhaps, is Japan’s excuse for its obsession with anything endearingly small, innocent, and childishly appealing. But what’s ours? For cuteness is increasingly not just an obsession of Generations Z and Alpha. The same nauseatingly sugary aesthetic is creeping — or rather, perhaps, playfully skipping as fast as wobbly oversized heads will allow — into Anglophone adult worlds. In this, it is no doubt encouraged by local conditions, in which “adultescence” can yawn into one’s thirties and distinct cultural boundaries between generations barely exist.

Consider that we are now in the season of adult Halloween costumes — in itself, a giant exercise in tooth-aching whimsy — and whole articles are being written, apparently seriously, about how sinister clown costumes have gone cute this year. Middle-aged textspeak is scattered with cartoon emojis, and phone cameras have filters that make owners look like puppies or princesses. Grown humans watch Pixar films or go to Disney World without the excuse of accompanying offspring. And, believe it or not, there are even “maid cafes” selling “kawaii culture” in UK cities, where youthful-looking young women in maid outfits will draw smiley faces on your pancakes or play boardgames with you, allegedly with no sexual undertones whatsoever.

Noticing the trend, this year Somerset House put on an art exhibition exploring what its curators called the “irresistible rise of cuteness”. And then there’s the ubiquitous concept of the “meet-cute”, now part of the contemporary lexicon to describe a first date. In terms of relationship ideals, it’s no longer considered sufficient to encounter a prospective partner by means of a firm handshake at a rendezvous planned in advance. Instead you should do something that would elicit gooey-eyed “awws” from your friends in the retelling: accidentally chuck a cup of coffee over him, say, or find yourself in a furious bidding war over the same antique vase. And if the meeting goes wrong and no sexual attraction is thereby experienced, modern parlance now has it that you have “the ick”. At both ends of the spectrum then, adult agency and mature sexual attitudes are being smothered in cooing, babbling, and clucking noises.

Indeed, the fact that cuteness has the capacity to reduce grown women and the occasional man to babytalk is a frequently observed feature of its strange power. In her great book on minor aesthetic properties of our time, cultural theorist Sianne Ngai quotes a 19th-century journalist attending the society wedding of Lavinia Warren and “General Tom Thumb” Stratton — two people of very short stature — who observed that the onlooking enraptured female crowd emitted “small-sized adjectives and diminutive ejaculations” as they gazed upon the adorable spectacle. In such a way, Ngai suggests, “cuteness generates ever more cuteness”. Or, to put it bluntly, cuteness kills vocabularies and, ultimately, brain cells. No surprise, then, that it should become totemic of this most stupid of eras.

There is another thing about cuteness that seems to make it irresistible. Namely, as noted, it implies vulnerability and powerlessness: aspects our culture is intoxicated by. Luce holds a pilgrim’s stick, but to eyes hungry for emblems of weakness it could just as easily be mistaken for a disability aid. Everything about her speaks to smallness and defencelessness. Some warped souls will find this an outright turn-on; more, though, will be non-erotically gratified by the projected image of the self.

For there is something obviously self-regarding in the pleasure to be had from exaggerated caricatures of human vulnerability. In a susceptible observer with enough mirror neurons firing, cute representations make her feel both maternal and meltingly childish, unsure if she is imaginatively positioned as watching subject or as adorably smol-bean-like object. For the same sorts of reason, cuteness can produce profound ambivalence in an onlooker. Do I want to hug this thing? Protect it? Buy it? Be it? Destroy it?

Pace the Vatican then, it seems to me that cuteness is a bad vehicle for the traditional elements of religious experience. Whatever else Luce achieves — increased brand awareness, perhaps, or even the physical presence of more young people in churches — she is unlikely to directly draw them closer to God. For, in comparison to the more traditional aesthetic categories of beauty and sublimity, cuteness seems essentially secular. Ngai agrees, writing that because cuteness “dramatises” its own “frivolity and ineffectiveness”,  it is “fundamentally non-theological, unable to foster religious awe and uncoupling the experience of art from the discourse of spiritual transcendence”.

Even when affected by the sight of Luce as presumably intended, viewers will still only be in the realm of small bursts of manageable feeling, with no loss of self but rather an intensification of queasy self-awareness as just described. In some ways, this makes the mascot a weird strategy on the part of the Church. The one thing everybody knows about teenagers — and especially girls — is that they have an enormous capacity for engaging in ecstatic, swooning acts of self-abandon and absorption in the absolute. Just ask Saint Teresa of Ávila or Joan of Arc.

Yet unlike traditional religious paintings or pieces of music, full of awe-inspiring power, grand drama, or painful intensity, one cute representation is exactly as affecting as the next — which is to say not very much. Looking at Luce might make you feel pleasantly squishy in the solar plexus; but then again, so might looking at Bambi or Pikachu. It is for this reason that cuteness sells so well — it’s cheap and easy, in every sense. Even the tackiest of Catholic kitsch tries harder to whip up a sense of God’s immanence than this.

No doubt there will be those who say I’m overthinking. Can’t I just be happy that an out-of-touch institution is making relatable overtures to a new generation? I’m afraid I can’t. The modern cult of cuteness is too revolting. We get the aesthetic properties we deserve, perhaps; but surely the Church can do better than metaphorically placing potential converts in soft play. Many manifestations of religious experience are available, but I’m fairly sure saying “awwww” isn’t one of them.

---

Kathleen Stock is an UnHerd columnist and a co-director of The Lesbian Project.

Docstockk