Heartbreak Laundrette
Silver metallic trim accents a toned-down yellow enclosure. Its surface is as smooth as polished glass, with subtly rounded edges to eliminate any notion of sharpness. The yellow's warm hue resembles the traditional kuchinashi iro, a dye derived from the fruit of the gardenia. It is a friendly, approachable piece of industrial design that exudes cleanliness, featuring a playful, circular motif as its sole decoration. A discreet orange line across the glass door defines the machine's boundaries. Densely packed, yet meticulously arranged instructional details and controls are strategically placed at the top of the unit to maintain a clutter-free appearance. A neatly positioned slot channels thousands of ¥100 coins daily.
Before us stands the HCD-3257GC Gas Dryer, the largest in the iconic HCD dryer range by commercial washing equipment manufacturer AQUA. This juggernaut accommodates up to 25kg of laundry and is capable of drying even a bulky futon quietly and swiftly, at low running costs. Its counterparts, the baby blue HCW tilted-drum washing machine and the vermilion red HWD washer-dryer combo, visually contrast the HCD's yellow, forming a primary colour scheme when grouped together in a space. Core components such as circuit boards, motors, and belts are made in Japan—these machines offer not only appealing aesthetics but superior construction and performance. This dynamic array of industrial washing machinery is a common sight across roughly 2,300 coin-operated laundromats in Tokyo, referred to in Japanese as koin randorī, or simply coin laundry for our discussion today.
AQUA produces 75% of Japan’s commercial-grade laundry machinery, a statistic signifying not merely market leadership, but a profound grasp of Japanese culture and consumer nuances. To elucidate, I turn to Terada Minoru, regarded as the godfather of Japanese washing machines. Terada initially trained as a painter, but industrious mid-century Japan had another use for his abilities. His involvement with washing machines began in 1962, initially working on packaging for Sanyo Electric, before later spending time on the assembly line and ultimately transitioning to the sales department. There, he spent 28 years in product planning, ascending to become Chairman of the Japan Electrical Manufacturers' Association Washing Machine Committee.
Terada's career path illustrates how astute business management harnessed creative talent for practical uses following World War II. For Terada, life as a product planner necessitated extensive global travels to observe firsthand how the world does its laundry. In recent years, strategy and brand consultants such as Christian Madsbjerg and Martin Lindstrom have revived and redefined the neglected practice of in-depth cultural engagement as a pathway to business success. However, this method was vital for Japan decades previously during its unprecedented economic expansion from the mid-1950s to the early 1970s. Terada travelled to fifteen cities including Taipei, Manilla, Hamburg and Chicago in search of insights for Sanyo. His experiences overseas taught him a pivotal lesson: without a deep understanding of a country's culture, designing a successful washing machine is an insurmountable task.
Japan’s first electric washing machine was imported from America by Mitsui & Co. in 1922, and the first domestic model was released by Toshiba in 1930. Washing machines were not widely used in households initially, with their adoption only beginning to gain momentum in 1953, following the introduction of Sanyo's early line of affordable electric models. While these machines represented a technological advancement, they encountered cultural resistance, posing challenges to the acceptance of washing machine technology. “I don't remember the exact details,” recalls Terada in an interview with the Mizkan Water Culture Centre, “but there was an advertisement featuring Hanako, the elephant at Ueno Zoo, sitting in a bathtub, claiming that the amount of laundry a housewife washes in a year is equivalent to the effort of washing an elephant.” Hanako was the first elephant to reach Japan post-World War II. She endured a life of hardship but was being employed as an unconventional quantitative analogy to communicate to the public the convenience that a washing machine could bring to their lives.
Washing machines were met with scepticism and perceived as a luxury; too expensive and potentially wasteful. Concerns that they could damage fabric and leave detergent residue on clothes reflected a reliance on sensory validation rather than the rational understanding that Hanako the elephant was promoting. Japanese cultural references to hand-washing clothes in rivers are found in texts dating back centuries. The country's most famous folk tale, Momotaro, which has its roots in oral tradition from the Muromachi period (1392–1573), starts with baby Momotaro drifting down a river, where he is discovered by an elderly woman who is washing clothes. Folk stories like Momotaro, having been retold over centuries, became part of the collective consciousness. Laundry and spirituality are also intertwined, with a number of spiritual beliefs and superstitions related to the act of laundry. For instance, one must not hang laundry to dry at night, to avoid spirits attaching themselves to the clothes.
In the early 1800s, the city blocks of Edo, now Tokyo, typically had a shared well. Each house drew water from the well, storing it in the kitchen for household use. Given the household water’s precious nature, larger items were washed at the sink of the communal well. This scene, depicted in woodblock prints from the era, found women congregating around the well, washing clothes and engaging in conversation. Wellside meetings became a time to share news, stories, and advice. Thus, laundry day was not just a routine task but a social event that formed and maintained community ties.
By the mid-20th century, the introduction of the noisy, expensive mechanical washing machine understandably stirred a sense of unease. Women responsible for maintaining the home were asked to exchange a tradition that encompassed community for solitary housework that consumed vast amounts of water and electricity, and degraded natural fabrics. During periods of technological and cultural evolution, such feelings of apprehension often hold merit but swiftly succumb to the cynical, commercially motivated assertion that change is unavoidable and progress unassailable.
Historically, traditional knowledge, often steeped in spirituality, has laid the groundwork for scientific discovery. Take the practice of Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, rooted in Shinto and Buddhist tradition. It encompasses time spent in nature to absorb its ambiance through all senses, a practice that was believed to enhance well-being and spiritual connectivity. From the 1980s, scientific research started to confirm the health benefits of forest bathing, such as reductions in stress, improvements in mood, and strengthening of the immune system through the inhalation of phytoncides—natural oils emitted by trees. During the Shōwa Era (1926–1989), the intuitive concerns of matriarchs about the cultural shift towards mechanised living were valid, yet challenging to express. As commercial interests propelled the adoption of the washing machine, communal laundry practices and their wisdom were sidelined, marking an irrevocable step away from tradition with little opportunity for reflection.
As Sanyo introduced its affordable domestic machines, communal electric washing machine facilities emerged—a promising bridge between traditional practices and a future of full industrialisation. This concept seems like it should have been capable of preserving the social interactions of laundry sessions whilst easing the strenuous nature of hand-washing, yet it did not find widespread acceptance. During this transformative period, Terada was involved in understanding the nation's preferences, methodically addressing the concerns of the emerging consumer base to encourage the adoption of the washing machine. Although communal facilities did not last for long, they acted as a precursor to the coin laundry system, another project under Terada Minoru's stewardship.
I've come across two differing accounts regarding Japan's inaugural commercial coin laundry. One theory posits its establishment in 1963 inside the Akabane-dai danchi housing complex, which was the first large-scale public development of its kind in Tokyo. The second theory dates the first coin laundry to 1966, situated in Kaga Yokujo, a local sento bathhouse in the Oji district, a site that continues to function as a public bathhouse to this day. Both Akabane-dai and Kaga Yokujo reside in Kita City, lending the ward a significant claim as the origin of coin laundry in Japan. Kaga Yokujo operates today under Cocofuro, a company dedicated to preserving Japan's communal bathing culture. It achieves this by rejuvenating ageing sento into designer bathhouses and incorporating saunas, which have found favour with the younger population. If the origin story of the coin laundry isn't sufficient to justify a trip on the Saikyō Line to Oji, I've learned that Cocofuro locations are tattoo-friendly, offering an inviting option for any tattooed readers looking to enjoy the warm embrace of a Tokyo sento.
Whether it's Japan's original danchi complex or a venerable sento in the hinterland of north Tokyo—either answer to the question satisfies me greatly. Terada Minoru’s account aligns with Kaga Yokujo’s version of events. He is the self-proclaimed pioneer of the Japanese coin laundry, a feat he says was made possible after extensive negotiations with public bathhouses. Coin laundries are commonly found attached to sento, and I had always presumed the reason for this was a business offering of convenience—customers can put on a load of laundry for an hour or so, allowing time to take a bath while the machine completes its cycle. They emerge having accomplished two essential tasks of personal care and spent money doubly. It is a win-win flurry of cleanliness and commerce. Yet, it transpires that the symbiosis between coin laundries and sento stems from practicality rather than customer experience alone. The need for water supply and drainage, along with heat sources—which sento had in abundance—led to their installation within. Originally, washing machines were situated in changing room corners, but to extend accessibility beyond sento operating hours, they were relocated to adjoining or annexed shops.
Made in Tokyo, authored by architects at Atelier Bow-wow, explores Tokyo's unique spatial configurations; shrines with car parks on the roof, rows of houses under train tracks, and pachinko parlours that, from certain perspectives, resemble Notre-Dame. These urban scenes defy rational explanation. Included in Atelier Bow-wow’s inventory is the “Bath Tour Building,” a three-story edifice in West Tokyo’s Suginami City, situated along the Kannana-dōri thoroughfare. This complex hosts a sento, a sauna, a coin laundry, and a convenience store. The authors describe it as a “single’s night spot” and “a package of activity, comprising a sequence of bathing, laundry, shopping.” Made in Tokyo documents incongruity, but this strikes me as quite the cohesive nightly ritual.
This multifaceted approach stems from a decline in public bathing, attributed to the rising popularity and convenience of private baths at home. A deep Japanese bath, in a spatially efficient wet room with a blinking, chiming LCD control panel that automatically stops the water once the bath is full and maintains a consistent temperature, is an indulgence that could understandably lead to less time at the sento, even for the most devoted public bather. To stay relevant, constant innovation and new offerings are essential. The opportunity to enjoy a sauna—a feature most homes lack—combined with a trip to the konbini, might be enticing enough to draw individuals out of the comfort of their own homes.
I managed to locate the Atelier Bow-wow Bath Tour Building, and since the book’s publication, it has undergone a transformation: the sento and konbini have been replaced by a two-floor recording studio, presenting a sequence of activities that better embodies Made in Tokyo’s theme of baffling spatial utilisation. Coin laundromats are evolving, selecting new locations to cater to a shifting clientele and moving away from their traditional association with public bathhouses. The communal hand-washing and wellside gatherings of old Edo would never have been fit for the modern metropolis, yet coin laundromats within bathhouses preserved a fragment of this social tradition. Even when washing machines were brought out of the bath house and into connected units, the sento remained a central community focal point.
The gradual separation of the coin laundry from the sento reflects a broader social transformation. In the photographic series, Launderama, photographer Joshua Blackburn documents his visits to all 462 of London's remaining laundrettes. His collection of images includes warm interactions among locals, conveying sorrow for the dwindling presence of these communal gathering spots. It is reminiscent of last week’s reflections on the gradual loss of kissaten coffee shops, and Philip Arneil’s Tokyo Jazz Joints. I've also encountered notions suggesting laundromats worldwide act as lively meeting points for travellers. However, none of these narratives fully align with the distinct context of Tokyo's coin laundries.
While sento bath houses, jazz kissaten, and London's laundrettes are on the decline, coin laundries in Japan are experiencing significant growth. According to estimates by TOSEI, a manufacturer and distributor of commercial cleaning equipment, the number of facilities has surged from approximately 10,000 at the end of the 1990s to about 24,000 in 2021. This expansion coincides with a demographic shift in Tokyo, where in the era of the AQUA HCD-3257GC, more city-dwellers are living alone than ever before. The average household size dipped below two for the first time in 2012 according to a Tokyo Metropolitan Government report. The shift towards smaller household units, encompasses singles, childless dual-income couples, and the elderly.
Since the 1980s, the influx of people into urban areas has resulted in the majority of Tokyo's residents living in apartments or condominiums. Close proximity to neighbours in these buildings means that using your washing machine at night can be problematic due to noise and vibrations. Furthermore, some newer condos, with an eye towards curb appeal, prohibit hanging laundry on balconies. In the dense, low-rise neighbourhoods of Tokyo, composed of a patchwork of detached homes along narrow streets and alleyways, the sight of futons and laundry drying on balconies on a sunny afternoon is a comforting display of everyday life. Conversations between neighbours across verandas still capture the wellside spirit. With the move to multistorey living, you might have to actively get away from people to do your washing. Utilising a 24-hour coin laundry at night in the suburbs, you’re unlikely to see anybody on the surrounding streets. Inside, you might come across lone wolf archetypes such as the travelling businessman or a long-haul truck driver. In Tokyo, the coin laundry is a lonesome affair. It is Atelier Bow-wow’s single’s night spot.
Through decades of cinema, the laundromat has emerged as a repeated motif, embodying the essence of urban romance amidst the mundane. In Edgar Wright's Baby Driver, a pivotal moment occurs in one of Hollywood's most enchanting portrayals of love within a laundromat. Baby and Debora discover love amidst the poignant cinematography of washing machines and dryers in rhythmic motion. This scene signifies a critical juncture for Baby, capturing his choice to be with Debora in a visually stunning milieu. Wright leverages the setting, with every machine spinning laundry in primary colours reminiscent of AQUA’s machine line, as a metaphor for Baby's second chance at life—a clean slate now that he has left his criminal past behind.
It is an essence that artists have sought to distil. Around 2015, an eye-catching image of a laundromat drew me in on the blogging site Tumblr. Taken by New York artist Signe Pierce, the photo depicted five shimmering chrome washing machines lined up in a glass-fronted shop furnished with potted plants, beneath a ceiling arranged in a grid pattern, lit by a neon sign in the window. Accompanied only by the words “beautiful laundromat”, and thousands of reblogs and comments, Pierce’s laundromat with its cinematic aura encapsulated the urban nocturnal ambiance that many artists focusing on city themes strive to depict but often narrowly miss. It's a fleeting quality that teeters on cliché, one that I've found somewhat challenging to define with precise examples.
At the time, Tumblr stood as a critical platform for image aggregation and personal curation, fuelling the early stages of various aesthetic trends through its customisable blogs. It was a hub for a wide range of styles, from fandom-based themes to alternative subcultures, reaching its zenith in sub-cultural significance around the time of Signe Pierce’s laundromat post. Movements such as Vaporwave, VSCO, and Pastel Grunge found a home on Tumblr, each distinguished by unique visual and thematic characteristics. Vaporwave’s motifs included purple and pink hues, palm trees, icons of 1950s American consumerism, and venues like abandoned shopping malls and, indeed, laundromats. Alongside these, Japanese urban vistas and katakana characters were also well represented in the visual mix.
Despite Tumblr’s decline in popularity post-2018, its legacy endures, with elements of the platform’s visual culture having been co-opted into commercial mainstream culture. I sensed it was game over when H&M began unironically releasing mass-produced fast fashion adorned with katakana characters. Many of Tumblr’s original creators subsequently migrated to other niche areas of interest. More recently, McDonald's initiated a campaign centred around its fictional counterpart, WcDonald’s, a name devised to circumvent legal issues in anime and manga. The campaign involves rebranding with a "W", introducing cups and packaging adorned with katakana, and producing WcDonald’s themed anime shorts. McDonald's says this strategy creates “deep, authentic connections with our fans” while “putting our brand in culture”, a nauseatingly worded statement.
Japanese coin laundries find themselves at the confluence of such fusion aesthetics. Their visual allure is distinct: motifs of bubbles and waves in aquamarine colour schemes of varying shades with rounded katakana, invoking the universal semiotics of cleanliness. Faux wooden shop fronts adorned with slab serif fonts reminisce wanted posters and saloon doors, paying accidental homage to the laundromat's origins with the opening of the first "washeteria" in 1930s Texas. The red and white laundromat chain, Piero, along with its imitators, punctuates the streetscape like tabloid papers on the newsstand, whereas minimal, wafu (Japanese style) infused treatments represent the high point of coin laundry design.
Coin laundries often feature glowing neon signage, the type that I’d like to see Signe Pierce’s artistic take on. At night, every coin laundry emits a flavour of ambient light comparable to convenience stores. Philip Fong, an AFP photojournalist unaccustomed to such scenes in his native Hong Kong, created a photo story for the Guardian Newspaper on Tokyo's 24-hour coin laundries in quiet residential areas. Centred around the late-night ambiance and the warmly lit, colourful washing machines, Fong’s work showcases coin laundries' attractive contribution to Tokyo's nightscape. Perhaps the involvement of an artist like Terada Minoru in the proliferation of coin laundries nationwide might have influenced their aesthetic evolution.
As appealing as their night glow may be, the unstaffed, 24-hour nature of coin laundries draws the possibility of unsavoury incidents. Like the zakkyo mixed-tenancy buildings we explored in an earlier newsletter, individuals have entered a coin laundry and never made it out alive. A range of other offences have been recorded at coin laundries in the small hours. Underwear theft is a well-documented, semi-frequent occurrence. Earlier this year in February, the Ibaraki Shimbun reported a man whose underwear theft escalated to the next level, resulting in sexual assault in a coin laundry in the prefecture. TV Tokyo reported two men attempting to blowtorch open a coin laundry’s service machines to extract the coinage within—it seems like a low-profit robbery but also relatively low risk in a deserted coin laundry at 3:45 AM. If displeased spirits can attach themselves to your clothes when you hang them to dry overnight, can they also get into the drum of a coin-operated washing machine after dark?
My own brush with deviance at a coin laundry happened during tsuyu, the rainy season, while living in Ikenoue, up the hill from the neighbourhood of Shimo Kitazawa. Those who have read my memories of this home in an earlier newsletter about Tokyo rain might recall I purchased a Muji kotatsu cover for a duvet as a money-saving measure. My kotatsu duvet was due for a wash, and it was also past midnight, meaning my shared home’s washing machine was not an option. Heavy items are also bothersome to dry in tsuyu, a contributing factor to coin laundries’ seasonal popularity. Returning to collect the tumble-dried cover, I spotted a young man in the shop. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with short, neat black hair, round spectacles, a crisp white t-shirt, light washed jeans, and box-fresh white sneakers. As I drew closer, something looked off about his stance. He held a smartphone in one hand, and it appeared his belt was undone. I thought I must be mistaken, but as the automatic doors slid open, it became clear. Indeed, he was engaged in an act of autoeroticism inside the coin laundry. I gathered my belongings swiftly and he continued, almost completely unruffled by my presence.
The coin laundry industry has made efforts to mitigate the existing stigma surrounding coin laundromats as dubious locations where personal safety might be at risk. Distributors of AQUA’s commercial washing machines tout in their marketing materials that the machines' colour schemes are particularly appealing to female customers. This sounds too simplistic to take seriously, but aligns with broader marketing practices in Japan, where visual merchandising, branding, and promotions often target women with typical notions of femininity. This practice is especially prevalent in the health and beauty sector, which abounds with such imagery and messaging. However, it extends to other areas, such as dining. Ramen restaurants, for instance, might offer a “ladies' set”—a kind of culinary version of the outdated “ladies' night” concept of bars and clubs. These sets typically adjust portions based on assumptions about women's appetites and include extra side dishes at a reduced price, aiming to draw women into heavily male occupied spaces, and make them feel at ease placing an order.
Whether the strategy of using multicoloured machinery has directly increased solo female patronage of coin laundries is uncertain to me, yet the coin laundry business itself continues to expand. Coin laundries are diversifying their services, incorporating cafés where customers can unwind while waiting for their laundry, and offering specialised machines for washing sneakers. At the International Coin-Operated Laundry EXPO, a Tokyo-based industry fair focused on coin laundries, the Laundromat-of-the-Year Award celebrates outstanding coin laundries across various categories. This event showcases a wide range of facades, interiors, and machinery, and the most creative service offerings and customer experiences. Further evidencing the industry's growth, the well-known convenience store chain Family Mart, affectionately dubbed Famima, introduced its own Famima Laundrette.
Coin laundries have evolved into an attractive income stream comparable to short-stay car parks or vending machines. With an initial investment of 15–30 million yen for washing machines, dryers, and interior fittings, it's considered more accessible than rental properties, without the concern of vacancies. In an era of ultra-low interest rates propelled by negative interest policies in Japan, depositing money in banks is not enough for asset growth. The term "salaried landlord" has gained traction, highlighting the appeal of real estate investment among working professionals. Coin laundry investment distinguishes itself within this context. Although Family Mart divested its coin laundry operation in 2018 due to challenges in scaling up, small businesses and salaried landlords continue to reap substantial profits from the humble coin slots of AQUA and Sanyo appliances. This trend echoes internationally, where a search for laundromat-related podcasts and YouTube videos reveals a plethora of guru-led content aimed at teaching the lucrative potential of passive coin laundromat income.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, I read about the emergence of opportunistic profiteering amidst the world health crisis: cavalier businesspeople who would, for example, buy all available N95 masks thereby manufacturing conditions ripe for price gouging—high demand and limited supplies. Concurrently, the term “loneliness epidemic” emerged in the discourse of the early 2020s in reference to the increasing numbers of adults who feel lonely worldwide. The WHO launched a new Commission on Social Connection, to address loneliness as a pressing health threat in November last year. The issue is pertinent in Japan, and the Japanese Government appointed a Minister in charge of Measures for Loneliness and Isolation in 2021. It would be untrue to say that Japan’s coin laundries set out to cultivate or capitalise upon a widespread loneliness problem, but it is an industry that has grown in line with the phenomenon.
The creation of government roles focused on combating loneliness and isolation seems to be a positive move. However, the experience of being alone is deeply personal, rendering any general classification as a societal problem somewhat reductive. In Japan, the situation is particularly nuanced. While the hikikomori phenomenon—and its accompanying overseas fascination—represents an extreme manifestation of isolation, there exists a growing appreciation for the value of solitude. According to research by the Hakuhodo Institute of Life and Living, the proportion of individuals who enjoy solitude has increased from 43.5% to 56.3% over three decades, with those actively seeking time alone rising from 27.3% to 49.1%. A related increase in solitary activities, ranging from hobbies to dining alone, suggests solitude is not a deficiency for all, but a meaningful, life-enhancing choice in many cases. Relentless social interaction can be exhausting, and this perspective is particularly relevant in a society like Japan's, where high societal expectations are the norm. This dynamic is even more acute in Tokyo, where the close quarters of public spaces and workplaces concentrates the pressure, making it more pervasive and difficult to avoid.
While my life isn't led in solitude, the moments spent alone are crucial for maintaining my mental and physical health. Human connections are part of this balance too, yet there's a unique joy I find in walking the city alone. And at night, I’m partial to the lonesome, romantic glow of the coin laundromat—it's why I resonate with Signe Pierce’s luminous, cinematic visual. Terada Minoru could scarcely have imagined this future as he guided the Japanese populace toward modern life in the mid-20th century. Reflecting on the ceaseless rotation of the AQUA HCD-3257GC in small laundromats on quiet side streets across Tokyo in the still night air brings a particular comfort. 2300 isolated coin laundries, ensuring the streetscape remains lit, lending their light to a metropolis that's never entirely at rest.
Until we meet under the illumination of a suburban laundromat at night,
AJ
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