In conjunction with the exhibition Nakajo Sings, Nakajo Dances—Letters, Pictures, and Shiseido, currently on view at the Shiseido Gallery, this interview series invites people closely connected to Masayoshi Nakajo to reflect on his work and perspective.

Through shared memories, exchanged words, and recollections from the field, what emerges is not only Nakajo the designer, but Nakajo the person.

For this fourth installment, we speak with designers Kaoru Kasai and Kazunari Hattori, both of whom shared a close relationship with Nakajo and served as editorial committee members for the monograph NAKAJO (ADP). Drawing on years of observing his work, they reflect on Nakajo’s design and his relationship with Shiseido.

 

 

 

—When did each of you first become consciously aware of Nakajo’s work?

Kasai:
I think the first time I became aware of Nakajo’s work was through the frontispiece illustrations he did for Kateigaho (1974).

And then there was The Ginza (1975). I was struck by how beautifully the words “THE GINZA” were integrated into that grid pattern.

Hattori:
I’m fifteen years younger than Kasai, so I first encountered Nakajo through Hanatsubaki, which I saw as a teenager.

I must have been in junior high school, so it would have been the late 1970s. My older sister used to bring the magazine home. His name appeared in small print, but at the time I had no idea how much of the magazine he was responsible for.

We also had The Ginza wrapping paper at home, and I remember thinking how beautiful it was.

Back then, Nakajo’s work felt quite precise—carefully set typography and design. It gave a different impression from the strong, highly individual, almost artistic style he is often associated with today.

Kasai:
Yes, exactly. The typography is very standard in its use, but at the same time there’s something almost Art Deco about it—something distinctly Nakajo.

Take the logo where “THE” and “GINZA” are set across two lines. The spacing around the “I” tends to open up awkwardly, but he doesn’t try to correct it. Instead, he aligns it with the “T” and maintains the grid.

Or he forces the logo into the fixed rhythm of the lattice pattern—almost aggressively.

It’s as if he establishes a set of internal rules and processes everything with a kind of intellectual clarity.

Hattori:
That sharpness is remarkable.

He takes familiar compositional patterns and typographic rules—things everyone uses—and slightly rearranges or recombines them to create something new. It feels like something that could have existed, but didn’t—until you see it and think, of course, that’s another way to do it.

There were so many of these “Nakajo-style rules,” weren’t there?

Hattori:
And one more thing. (He takes out a matchbox.)

Back then, there was a café called PICNIC in the basement of The Ginza. One of my prep school teachers took me there.

I don’t remember the interior very clearly, but the design matched the atmosphere of The Ginza logo, and only the “C” wrapped around onto the side of the box.

At the time, I was a student aspiring to become a designer, so even something this small made a strong impression on me.

I’ve held onto this matchbox ever since—partly out of sentiment.

Kasai:
There’s something I directly borrowed in one of my own projects—the way these rule lines don’t quite meet at the corners.

That tiny gap is really beautiful. It evokes the legacy of letterpress printing.

In traditional typesetting, the lines don’t fully connect because, like letters, they sit on individual blocks. That technical limitation creates a gap.

It’s a constraint of the printing process, but Nakajo embraces it—and turns it into a design accent.

Maybe I’m just imagining this because I’m interested in those technical aspects (laughs), but that’s how it feels to me.

I also loved the Tactics Design pieces that were sold at The Ginza shop. That must have been around 1983.

 

Hattori:
It was around the time Nakajo began designing the covers for Hanatsubaki that his distinctive style really started to come through more strongly.

I also remember the illustrations for Hiroshi Unno’s series Travelling Women, which began in 1982. They seemed to be based on reference photographs, but rendered as watercolour-like scenes of landscapes and figures.

When I told Nakajo I liked those drawings, he said something like, “I was using them almost like backgrounds for layouts, placing photographs on top, so I couldn’t really ask someone else to do them.” It sounded like an excuse—but I think in truth he did them himself because he wouldn’t have been satisfied with anyone else’s work.

When you look at Hanatsubaki, you realise how intricate and carefully constructed it actually is. And yet the finished result never feels heavy—it has this lightness, as if it were all done in a single, effortless gesture. That’s what makes it almost frightening (laughs).

Kasai:
At the same time, Nakajo was also very considerate. When I asked him to do work for Saison Life Insurance, I think he really struggled with it.

He sent me an enormous number of sketches, trying to figure out what kind of image I would respond to. And they were all so good—I couldn’t choose.

He used to say, almost like a habit, “I’m not good at advertising.” Which, of course, wasn’t true at all.

Hattori:
When you think of Nakajo and Shiseido, his time there as an employee was actually quite short—only about three years. And he wasn’t directly involved in many of the company’s core cosmetics campaigns.

But when you think about Shiseido today—the kind of “cultural image” it evokes—I feel that much of that impression comes from Nakajo’s work, whether through The Ginza or Hanatsubaki.

Kasai, did you also follow Hanatsubaki?

Kasai:
Of course. With each issue, the design of the pages became more and more free, and I was constantly amazed.

There was no fixed pattern at all.

What impressed me most, though, was the direction of the photography. It was completely different from any fashion photography I had seen before.

The way people were cast, the way images were used—it was extraordinary. Photographs could be treated simply as elements within a graphic composition.

There was this sense of collage—almost like a festival. You could feel that the photographers and stylists working on it were genuinely enjoying themselves.

I’ve often heard people who were on those shoots say, “Working with Nakajo was so much fun, it’s unforgettable.”

That sense of freedom really comes through in the design.
And in the end, it always looks incredibly good.

 

（小見出し）

Photography, illustration, and typography merge into one—

Hanatsubaki as a magazine that created something entirely new

 

Hattori:
When I first saw Hanatsubaki, it made me want to become a designer.

Looking back, I think what I was responding to—perhaps unconsciously—was the way photography, text, and design came together into something that felt completely new and fascinating.

Now I can see clearly how Nakajo was constantly moving, searching for ways to create something that didn’t exist yet.

Even when the photography itself was already outstanding, that wasn’t enough for him—suddenly one of his drawings would appear, interrupting the flow.

There was also that Christmas feature—just the words “Merry” and “Christmas” across a spread (December 1987). I remember being amazed that a double-page spread could consist of just that.

At first glance, Hanatsubaki’s layouts feel extremely free. But in reality, they were incredibly precise. Column titles were always set in exactly the same number of characters, across two lines. Even the dense informational pages were composed so that the text fit perfectly, without any leftover space.

In that sense, it was actually very strict, very controlled.

Kasai:
For me, Hanatsubaki feels like a magazine full of things that designers are “not supposed to do.”

For example, text being cut right at the edge of the page. Personally, I’d feel like the letters might fall off the cliff—I’d be too uneasy to do that (laughs).

Or the way spacing isn’t evenly distributed, making it hard at first glance to grasp the positioning of the text.

Of course, readers can still understand it perfectly well. But for me, those are things that feel almost too risky to attempt.

And yet in Hanatsubaki, they were done without hesitation.

—He seemed to observe the world very closely and was highly sensitive to trends.

Hattori:
He would often say, quite simply, “This is good,” about things that were trending.

But when it came to his own work, he had a very particular way of judging things—based on a kind of internal sensor he had developed.

He knew that if he followed something too directly, it would be over. Even if you made something that perfectly matched the moment, it wouldn’t last.

Take the Shiseido Parlour logo, for example. Later he said, “It survives because it’s a ridiculous logo.”

Of course, it’s not actually ridiculous at all. But when it first appeared, there was a sense of discomfort. And that tension became part of its lasting vitality.

Kasai:
He also had a certain fondness for the vulgar, in a way.

Not as a rebellion against orthodoxy—but more like he could inhabit it without hesitation.

Take the logotype for WORD. Normally, you’d expect the wide “W” to be the largest letter, gradually decreasing in size.

But he does the opposite.

The most constricted letter is the “W,” and yet the result is incredibly memorable.

There’s something in that—some underlying logic or secret of Nakajo’s.

Hattori:
There’s also that work he showed at his exhibition at ggg—white correction fluid on a blue ground, with the word “nikoniko” on the horizon.

He said he was thinking of Turner—the 19th-century British painter.

It shows how he looked across the whole of art history—seeing Turner there, and then asking himself what he should create at the end of the twentieth century.

I think he really operated on that level.

Even in design, while keeping an eye on trends, he was always asking: What kind of logo should I make now? What kind of photograph should I take?

It’s quite terrifying (laughs).

The original nikoniko drawing is actually quite small, but its presence is overwhelming.

On the surface, he might appear deliberately casual, even a bit cheap—but behind that, he was constantly thinking, even while lying down.

 

（小見出し）

Tradition, magazines, Shiseido—

approached through Nakajo’s own unique interpretation

 

Kasai:
Nakajo had a wonderful way with words. He clearly loved language—wordplay, rhythmic phrasing, almost like dodoitsu verses.

When we were coming up with the title for the two-person exhibition by Nakajo and Hattori at ggg—the poster I designed—we sat together in a small Japanese restaurant and brainstormed ideas. It was great fun. We were scribbling ideas on paper napkins.

At first, we settled on Nakajo Hattori Ginza Hatchōme Shinjū. But a couple of days later, Nakajo called and said, “Let’s take ‘Ginza’ out of the title.” So it became Nakajo Hattori Hatchōme Shinjū.

He must have kept thinking about it (laughs). And he was right—the phrasing was much better that way.

The tagline also evolved into something like, “Justice Repents! Hattori in Ecstasy?”

And the exchange between Nakajo and Hattori that we included—almost like a nonsensical back-and-forth—had such great energy. It was really enjoyable.

Hattori:
There were so many feature titles in Hanatsubaki that felt unmistakably “Nakajo.”

I once did a talk with him at an exhibition, and his works on display included things like a painting of a pine tree with the word “wait” written on it, or a chrysanthemum with the characters “joy-body.”

I tried teasing him a bit and said, “Your wordplay is usually so sharp, but this time it feels a little weak, doesn’t it?”

And he immediately replied, “That’s exactly why it’s good!” (laughs)

That one line completely overturned everything. I remember thinking—that’s so like him.

Kasai:
It wasn’t that he was dodging the question—he was responding instinctively, in the moment.

The one thing you never wanted Nakajo to say about your work was, “It’s boring.”

He seemed to dislike anything that felt too predictable or too much like what it was supposed to be.

Looking back, his design doesn’t feel particularly “Japanese” to me—it actually has a kind of foreign quality.

Hattori:
His early work was very much influenced by America and Europe. Then there was a moment when he suddenly began using Japanese motifs.

There’s that poster with Mt. Fuji and cherry blossoms (The Choice Grand Prize Exhibition, 1994)—it left a strong impression on me.

And then there’s that strange Noh theatre poster (Hibiya City Takigi Noh, 1981). It uses primary colours, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s good or not.

Nakajo himself seemed to like it. He once said, “I wanted to show what Noh really is, in my own way.”

There are many masterpieces of Noh posters by Ikko Tanaka, but Nakajo approached the subject from a completely different angle.

Rather than simply depicting Japanese beauty or tradition, it’s as if he was constantly questioning those very images—what people assume “Noh,” “Japan,” or even “Shiseido” to be.

As if to say: That’s not actually what it is.

I still don’t feel like I fully understand this poster (laughs), but it makes sense in its own way.

As a designer, I aspire to approach things like that. Even though we were close to him, there are still so many aspects of his work that I feel we haven’t fully grasped.

Maybe one day we will.

Kasai:
Maybe he didn’t want to be fully understood (laughs).

But when I look at that poster, it feels very youthful.

For example, rendering just the word “CITY” as white on a black ground—it’s so energetic.

There are all these small decisions: shifting colours in narrow areas, introducing horizontal typesetting… it feels like the work of someone young.

It’s almost as if he’s treating design like a game—enjoying it.

—What kind of position do you think Shiseido occupied within Nakajo’s body of work?

Kasai:
I think Nakajo must have had a very clear image—almost a wish—of what Shiseido should be.

Hattori:
It’s hard to say exactly what made his work for Shiseido special. But you can really feel his affection for the company.

For him, Ginza itself was a special place. He had strong ties to it—there’s the Matsuya Ginza logo and various other projects. And within Ginza, there’s Shiseido.

Even in his work, which can sometimes look very free, I think he was always considering things carefully—what a Shiseido store should look like, what would be appropriate for Shiseido Parlour.

He was only officially employed there for three years, but his relationship with the company continued for much longer. It’s quite a unique position.

He was irreplaceable—that’s why his work with Shiseido lasted so long. And perhaps because he did things no one else could, it made things difficult for those who came after (laughs).

It’s not quite a typical client–designer relationship. Rather than simple understanding, it was more like a shared, distinctive interpretation.

And within Shiseido, there were always key individuals who enabled Nakajo’s abilities to flourish.

Nakajo himself also seemed very comfortable, almost as if he remained part of Shiseido even long after leaving.

—Many people sense a kind of “Tokyo-ness” in Nakajo—something like an Edo sensibility. Did either of you feel that as well?

Kasai:
I came to Tokyo from the countryside, and once I started talking with Nakajo more, he would sometimes treat me to meals or take me out for drinks.

He would suddenly bring me to a bar in Ginza that only played Hawaiian music. I think he wanted to enjoy himself, of course—but also to show me what that kind of time could be like.

Once he took me to a small yakitori place he frequented in Ginza. He didn’t eat anything himself—he just watched me eat and said, “You really enjoy your food.”

I felt a bit embarrassed, like a hungry child, even though I was already an adult (laughs).

But in those moments, I would think—I’m here in Tokyo, with Nakajo. And I would feel a deep sense of happiness.

Hattori:
You know, Nakajo was incredibly kind to Kasai (laughs).

With others, he could be quite strict—and there was a sense that both sides enjoyed that tension—but Kasai was an exception. He was always gentle with him.

If something delicious was served when Kasai wasn’t there, Nakajo would often say, “This is good—we should have Kasai try this too.”

I think I was also quite favoured by him, but he was strict with me as well. He would often say sharp things.

Kasai:
I suppose it was a kind of generosity.

Even without saying it directly, I felt that he wanted me to experience more of life—to enjoy good things, good food—while I still could.

From my perspective, I’ve always envied the relationship between Nakajo and Hattori. Even with a thirty-year age difference, they spoke to each other like equals, saying whatever they wanted.

To be honest, there’s a part of me that wishes he had scolded me more (laughs).

 

 

Kaoru Kasai

Born in Hokkaido in 1949. Joined Sun-Ad in 1973.

His work spans advertising production and art direction for clients including Suntory (whisky and oolong tea), Sony, Seibu Department Stores, United Arrows, and Toraya. He has also been involved in film and theatre publicity, corporate identity and signage systems, packaging, and book design.

His publications include Kaoru Kasai 1968 (ADP). His relationship with Masayoshi Nakajo began around 1985, and extended both professionally and personally over many years. In 2021, he served as a member of the editorial committee for NAKAJO (ADP).

 

Kazunari Hattori

Born in Tokyo in 1964. Graduated from the Department of Design at Tokyo University of the Arts in 1988, and joined Light Publicity the same year. Became independent in 2001.

His work includes art direction for magazines such as Ryuko Tsushin, here and there, and Mayonaka, as well as logotype and signage design for institutions including the Mitsubishi Ichigokan Museum, the Niigata City Art Museum, and the Hirosaki Museum of Contemporary Art. He has also worked extensively in book design, including the Petit Royal French–Japanese Dictionary (Obunsha).

In 2021, he served as both editorial committee member and designer for NAKAJO (ADP), reflecting his long-standing relationship with Masayoshi Nakajo.

 

Keiko Kamijo

Writer / Editor

Writes and edits on culture, design, and art. She has also edited numerous exhibition catalogues and books. Part-time lecturer at Musashino Art University. Author of Toys and Design (Seigensha).

Recent editorial projects include Perspectives on Nordic Design: The People, Eras, and Identities Behind Iconic Works in Product Design, Architecture, and Textiles by Chiharu Watanabe (Seibundo Shinkosha), and Eleven Sites of Proofreading and Copyediting: How We Read Texts by Miyako Muta (Anonym Studio).

She writes the column “Korean Culture Correspondence” for BRUTUS.
https://www.instagram.com/keique

 

Mayumi Hosokura

Photographer.

Working with a tactile visual sensibility, she explores shifting boundaries—between body and sexuality, human and artificial, organic and inorganic—through photography and video.

She graduated from the College of Letters at Ritsumeikan University and from the Department of Photography at Nihon University College of Art.

Her photobooks include LATE SUMMER NERVES (2025, dmp editions), NEW SKIN (2020, MACK), and Jubilee (2017, artbeat publishers).
http://hosokuramayumi.com