How Japan’s particular values, aesthetics, design culture and visual literacy, contribute to the ubiquity of pictograms in Japan.
Characteristics of Japanese pictograms and how they differ overseas
Japanese pictograms strongly embody a Japanese aesthetic, akin to minimalism – achieving the greatest effect with the fewest elements. At the same time, pictograms also reflect omotenashi (the concept of hospitality and care for guests), and in doing so embody a thoughtful approach to design. Because pictograms allow for intuitive understanding and low-stress clarity, they create communication that is easy on the user. In that sense, they express a consideration for everyday users as well as for visitors from abroad – something very much aligned with a Japanese spirit of hospitality.
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Looking overseas – take Heathrow Airport in the UK, for example – I get the impression that many pictograms directly instruct or guide behaviour: ‘go there,’ ‘follow these steps,’ ‘this way to the exit.’ They are focused on enabling smooth, unambiguous communication, intentionally stripping away fine nuance to steer people clearly.
In Japan, by contrast, pictograms are used not only for their primary function of conveying information but there is also a tendency to employ them in quite detailed ways. Because Japan is not as ethnically diverse as many Western countries, with much of the population sharing a common cultural background, it is possible that a distinctive form of visual communication has evolved in Japan. Of course they appear in airports and transit systems, but they are also commonly used around public facilities and small commercial districts. Rather than purely warning or issuing direct instructions, they are often used for gentler communication – prompting awareness or conveying subtle nuance.
Unlike more ethnically diverse countries, Japan is a society where most people share common principles and inherently understand concepts such as ‘reading the air’ (sensing the atmosphere). As a result, there are quite a number of pictograms that go a step further in expressing more nuanced intentions, assuming the basics are naturally understood. In places like the UK or US, where people from many cultures and countries come together, there isn’t necessarily a single shared baseline, so you have to design for what everyone can definitely understand. In Japan, where people tend to anticipate others’ feelings and “read the room,” visuals are used to support a deeper layer of communication. That, I think, is a notable characteristic.
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On the design of Japanese pictograms
A pictogram is a very small motif that distils a great deal of information into a core essence. For me, pictograms are a form of art a crystallization of beauty that works whether small in scale or enlarged to poster size. The ability to distinguish motifs within a limited space is, I believe, something deeply rooted in Japanese culture. In painting, design elements were incorporated early on. In the early Edo period, a style known as Rinpa was established by artists such as Hon’ami Kōetsu. Kōetsu was involved in a wide range of fields including calligraphy, crafts, and painting, and his role as a producer of such work has even led to him being described as ‘Japan’s first art director.’ Rather than depicting elements of nature such as plum blossoms, rivers, or waves exactly as they appear, the artists of this style created abstract designs. Their aesthetic sensibility permeated everyday life, resonated with the culture of townspeople through forms such as ukiyo-e, and ultimately developed into a uniquely Japanese form of visual expression.
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Japan is an island nation with limited space. Consider the tea ceremony: within the confines of a four-and-a-half tatami-mat room (approximately 7.29 to 8.12 square meters), a whole universe can be found. By bringing various elements into that small space, expressing the seasons and one’s intentions within it, beauty is discovered there. There is also a culture of mitate – placing only the minimum required elements and inviting the viewer’s imagination to complete the picture, letting them sense the atmosphere without excessive explanation. In painting this becomes ma, the ‘space in between’. An unpainted area is not empty; precisely because nothing is drawn there, it carries meaning. As with kamon (family crests) where the same cedar tree yields many forms depending on composition and treatment, with pictograms too, by combining different simple shapes in different ways, you can create all sorts of different variations in establishing a single symbol. In that respect, they are very much a design that reflects Japanese aesthetics.
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Another good example is Japanese onomatopoeia. Words like potapota (drip-drip) or zawazawa (murmur) convey nuance in a way that is quite pictorial. Things that are hard to put into words are communicated visually, encouraging you to imagine the space around the central image. In Los Angeles, where I live now, expression tends to be very direct; there isn’t much intentional use of blank space to invite interpretation. In highly diverse, multi-ethnic contexts, nuance left halfway can be misread or not understood at all, which I think plays a big part in why that blank space is avoided.
What matters most in pictogram design
For me, the most important thing is whether the whole set is in consistent. A pictogram rarely stands alone; it almost always belongs to a group or series. Naturally it is important that each individual form is well made and easy to understand, but even more important is whether the set retains consistency when the marks appear together. To create unity, we not only place every element within a grid system, but also carefully direct stroke thickness and how it is applied, how to draw the human figure, and so on. Above all, though, the initial stage matters most: how to discover the essential form and value.
As Einstein suggested, when you truly understand something, you can explain it simply. In the work of extraction, you must judge what is essential and what can be discarded. The simpler you make it, the more you are throwing away – discarding ninety-nine possibilities to commit to one – so the act of letting go is surprisingly demanding. Identifying essential value and giving it clear form is part of all design, but in pictograms it is the very heart of the work. By the time we start refining a shape, around ninety percent of the decision has already been made.
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The possibilities of pictograms
A common difficulty – often a source of misunderstanding – is that while pictograms are a universal language, they are not perfectly universal. Local culture and tacit assumptions mean you can’t cover every interpretation in every place. However, pictograms function like shortcut keys: once you understand what a pictogram signifies, you can act intuitively the moment you see it. That is why, at first, it’s important to present the pictogram together with what it symbolises and what it means.
When I think about what design can do for a better future, I imagine a world where more and more people move actively across borders, and where people already converse globally in the digital realm. Through visual communication – pictures that prompt feelings and intuitive action, beyond what words alone can deliver – we can communicate more smoothly and with less stress.
With that in mind, in the exhibition Pictograms: Iconic Japanese Designs, we want to explore possibilities beyond the conventional functional role of pictograms – by animating them or rendering them three-dimensionally – and to offer new insights that might emerge from that exploration. Ultimately, I hope this shows how design can help address social issues and contribute to a better society.
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Thoughts on presenting the exhibition in London
I have drawn courage from design. I have been deeply captivated by the refined beauty of form and by the dynamism that arises when design permeates society. I’ve long worked in design, and the UK – where diverse cultures and values coexist – has generated a great deal of culture, design and art that has influenced the world. I’m delighted to be able to stage a design exhibition in such a place.
I think people in the UK have a very discerning eye; we may receive critiques from many angles. But, I believe it is important to share with the world the ideas we find exciting, to put them out as questions, and to receive various responses in return – because from those reactions can come new discoveries and learning. Design exists everywhere in daily life, often without us even noticing, shaping the very landscape of society. Ultimately, by observing the world through the lens of design, we can draw attention to important aspects that might otherwise go unnoticed and, in doing so, contribute to a better society. I believe that even a small improvement in the quality of everyday design can greatly enhance people’s experiences and foster richer communication. I’d like to fold what we learn in London into future projects and make the work even better.
About the author
Daikoku Daigo is a graduate of the Kanazawa College of Art, one of the few public art schools in Japan. He began working at the Nippon Design Center (NDC) in 2003 and established Daikoku Design Institute in 2011. To successfully expand into global markets, he moved to Los Angeles in 2018. At NDC’s LA office (NDCLA), his vision is a global multidisciplinary design studio – one that aggregates diverse experiences and channels them into a holistic, intimate practice.
Daikoku acknowledges that technology has brought our world closer together but that, barriers still exist. He believes visual communication can help bridge the divide and create a higher social consciousness. Daikoku and his team focus on bringing ideas to life through simple, clear, and bold design, and the serendipity that occurs at the crossroads of culture. Daikoku serves on the board of directors at NDC in Tokyo and is involved with the company’s strategic planning.