After eating his fill, the boy pushes his bowl aside, kernels of rice still clinging to the edges. Summoning the motivation to pick out each remaining grain with chopsticks is understandably difficult. As he rises to leave the table, a woman, her hair pulled into a tight grey bun and spectacles perched on her nose, appears as if summoned. With a walking stick in hand, she chastises him for wasting rice, declaring that if he won't finish the grains, she will. It is Mottainai Bāsan, or, Mottainai Grandma.
Throughout the evening, Mottainai Bāsan reappears repeatedly, criticising the boy for his wasteful habits and insisting that nothing be thrown away. She resourcefully showcases the hidden potential of everyday items: worn-down colouring pencils can be bound together to form a rainbow pencil, while scraps of paper can be painted and taped to create a Godzilla costume.
Mottainai Bāsan is a children's book and anime character with values to extol. There is nothing she cannot see lasting value in. The message appears to resonate: Mariko Shinju, the book's author and illustrator, saw Mottainai Bāsan become a bestseller in Japan, with over 160,000 copies sold since its 2004 publication. Spin-off animations on YouTube have further amplified its reach, amassing millions of views.
The word mottainai (もったいない) encapsulates a deep sense of regret over waste. Central to the mottainai spirit is the belief that wasting anything—food, materials, money, or even opportunities—disregards the effort, care, and resources invested in its creation. Mottainai Bāsan comes from a generation shaped by the hardships of World War II when resource scarcity and rationing made frugality a vital means of survival—wastefulness is simply not in her nature. Much like my late grandmother, who upheld the British wartime ethos of "waste not, want not," Mottainai Bāsan teaches children the value of imagination in making the most of what they have. In doing so, she becomes a bridge to timeless values untouched by the culture of mass consumption.
The term "Three Sacred Treasures" came to symbolise the rice cooker, washing machine, and refrigerator after World War II ended in 1945. These innovations transformed domestic life during Japan's post-war recovery, alleviating the drudgery of daily chores. During the rapid economic growth of the 1960s, a new trio took their place: the "Three Cs"—car, cooler (air conditioner), and colour TV. This updated set of "Sacred Treasures" marked a societal shift from addressing basic household necessities to fulfilling the ambitions of an emerging middle class.
Following the economic slowdown of the 1970s, triggered by the oil crises, the 1980s marked a period of renewed prosperity, characterised by a surge in household spending power. Imported cars, designer brands, and fine dining emerged as symbols of personal success. This growing consumerism was further fuelled by Japan's expertise in manufacturing high-quality consumer goods. Professor of History Eiko Maruko Siniawer cites a survey of 1,834 households from the Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, and Kobe metropolitan areas conducted between 1982 and 1983¹, revealing a picture of abundance:
"On average, these families owned two television sets, one air conditioner, three heaters, and two cameras; the husband's wardrobe included twenty-one neckties and nine pairs of slacks, and the wife's contained fourteen one-piece dresses or suits and seven handbags."
By the latter half of the decade, the baburu keiki ("bubble economy") of 1986–1991, with its inflated real estate and stock market prices, amplified an atmosphere of excess. During the baburu jidai ("bubble era"), Japanese corporations embarked on an art-buying spree. Museums like Bridgestone and Idemitsu competed to acquire pieces by masters like Rembrandt, Monet, Picasso, and Rothko, often paying record-breaking sums. Meanwhile, stories of executives expensing hundreds of thousands of yen on a single night of entertainment circulated widely. Amid fervour for the new, the voice of Mottainai Bāsan grew distant.
The bubble's collapse in 1991 signalled a reversal, ushering in the Ushinawareta Jūnen ("lost decade") of economic stagnation and growing unemployment. The unemployment rate rose from 2.1% in 1991 to a record high of 5.5% by 2002. This rise in joblessness triggered a cultural reassessment of waste and excess, rekindling an appreciation for frugality. Simultaneously, environmental concerns gained momentum, culminating in the adoption of the Kyoto Protocol in December 1997, a landmark international treaty to curb greenhouse gas emissions. Mottainai spirit was due a comeback.
As a teenager, I vividly remember poring over Kyoichi Tsuzuki's 1993 book Tokyo Style, a collection documenting everyday Tokyo apartments. I might have anticipated Zen minimalism or interiors reflecting Harajuku's street fashion. Instead, I was struck by images that felt closer to the home I had grown up in—lived-in spaces where residents occupied cramped quarters amid their clutter: stacks of books and records mingled with TV remotes, loose papers, boxes, and bags.
Some of the homes featured in Tokyo Style belong to avid collectors of one sort or another, but Tsuzuki didn't curate the apartments he visited. In an interview with Kristen de La Vallière for Say Hi To, he recalls that, in most cases, he had no idea what lay behind the door until the moment of the photoshoot. The result is a series of unfiltered snapshots capturing how Generation X lived in Tokyo at the time. Tsuzuki later extended this concept with his Happy Victims series, creating arresting portraits of fashion enthusiasts in their rooms, hemmed in by the clothing and accessories of their favourite designers. Though neither project casts the subjects in a negative light, they starkly illustrate the sheer volume of possessions that had entered people's homes over the preceding decades.
The accumulation habit took root with the Baby Boomers and their parents. At a flea market in Nakameguro some years ago, I came across a meticulously preserved collection of gentleman's clothing, watches, and other hardy items—hip flasks and earthenware sake sets. The seller, an older woman, told me they had belonged to her late husband, and she had no idea what to do with the sheer volume of his possessions. So there she was, spreading them out on a blue sheet along the local shopping street. When members of Japan's increasingly ageing population pass away, their belongings are often left adrift, suddenly untethered from the lives they once anchored.
The kodokushi phenomenon lends weight to this idea. Elderly individuals who die "solitary deaths" in their homes are often discovered surrounded by decades' worth of accumulated belongings. With no family to manage their estates, local authorities take on the task. Civil servants and home clearance specialists comb through homes, sorting through items that bear witness to the passing decades—alongside, in many cases, heaps of rubbish. What might typically remain a private family affair instead becomes a visible and public process.
Amid the challenges of the 1990s, entrepreneurial opportunity stood ready—during pivotal moments like these, transformative ideas often hover, waiting to be grasped. Yoshimasa Yamamoto, the son of a traditional electronics shop owner, had long aspired to open his own store but wanted to diverge from his father's trade in household "white goods" like washing machines and refrigerators. Instead, he imagined a business tailored to hobbyists and, in 1972, opened a small shop in Niigata specialising in high-end "black goods," including stereos and audio equipment.
"If you build it, they will not come" rang true for Yamamoto, as his shop attracted only a trickle of customers at first. Undeterred, he turned to door-to-door sales, visiting 100 homes daily to sell his products directly. Housewives would often suggest their husbands might be interested, prompting Yamamoto to return in the evening, lugging hi-fi systems to their homes to deliver his pitch. Gradually, his effort paid off. The business grew, opening additional stores and expanding its offerings to PCs and other electronics.
In those early days, Yamamoto frequently encountered Takashi Sakamoto, the manager of an audio shop in Kofu, at training sessions for audio retailers. With the audio market in decline by the early 1990s, they found common ground in shared struggles. The two recognised the need for a new approach. Considering what might truly serve society, they identified a potential market for "recycle stores" better suited to the realities of the new decade. Although such shops already existed, Yamamoto and Sakamoto felt that they were typically associated with the "5Ks": kitanai (dirty), kusai (smelly), kanji warui (unpleasant), kakkowarui (uncool), and kiken (unsafe). Together, they envisioned a new kind of reuse shop that was brighter, cleaner, and more inviting.
In 1993, Yamamoto launched Hard Off, a store dedicated to buying and selling unwanted hardware and electronics, while Sakamoto established Book Off, focusing on books and media. These brands are arguably Japan's most recognisable names in second-hand shopping today. Though the companies remain independent, they share a unified ethos, consistent nomenclature, and a cohesive visual identity. For those who have questioned the somewhat awkward name "Hard Off" from an English-speaking perspective, understand that Yamamoto originally considered naming his store "Hard On" but wisely reconsidered.
Yamamoto and Sakamoto transformed Japan's second-hand industry, turning an unfamiliar concept into an appealing business model. Hard Off has since expanded into a franchise that includes Mode Off for clothing, Hobby Off for toys, games, recreation, and several other "Off" brands. Their efforts also laid the foundations for a competitive market, which saw the rise of companies like 2nd Street and Treasure Factory later in the 1990s. In recent years, online platforms such as Mercari have contriubuted further to the second-hand landscape.
Flea markets, which first emerged in the 1970s, also gained popularity during the 1990s. Women's magazines offered advice on navigating these markets, with articles on effective buying and selling, while specialised guidebooks helped shoppers locate the growing number of events. By the decade's end, flea markets had become regular, particularly in Tokyo, where an estimated six to seven hundred were held yearly, drawing more than two million visitors.
Mottainai spirit re-emerged fully during the 2000s, attracting attention on an international scale. Nobel Peace Prize laureate Wangari Maathai, an environmentalist, visited Japan and found herself inspired by the concept, drawing parallels with the "3Rs" (reduce, reuse, recycle), a framework long held by environmental advocates. She established the Mottainai Campaign to establish a global understanding of the ethos, and one notable outcome was the creation of Mottainai Flea Markets. The first market took place in 2007, and these events have operated in various locations across Tokyo and Japan ever since.
While much of what we've discussed centres on frugality and waste reduction, the same decade saw the emergence of a counterpoint—the decluttering trend, which added complexity to the narrative. Yamashita Hideko, often called the "original decluttering guru," developed her danshari method from personal experiences and began offering seminars on home organisation in the early 2000s.
The term came from Yamashita’s late yoga instructor, who taught the principles of 断 (dan), meaning to cut off; 捨 (sha), to discard; and 離 (ri), to detach. She adapted these ideas to focus on minimising possessions, associating the practice with a loose sense of spirituality. Her philosophy gained widespread attention with the release of her 2009 bestseller, Shin Katazuke-jutsu: Danshari (New Tidying Technique: Danshari). By intentionally discarding items for mental clarity, Yamashita offered a vision starkly at odds with that of Mottainai Bāsan, who would even keep orange peels to perfume her bath water.
Yamashita laid the groundwork for a young Marie Kondo's tidying philosophy. At the end of 2010, Kondo published Jinsei ga Tokimeku Katazuke no Mahō (The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up), capturing a cultural zeitgeist around the act of tidying. While the KonMari method still centres on discarding, it introduces a gentler perspective, emphasising the importance of cherishing kept items that "spark joy" and tempering the severity of Yamashita's purging philosophy.
In 2015, minimalist Fumio Sasaki pushed the discourse further with Bokutachi ni mō Mono wa Hitsuyō Nai (We No Longer Need Things), later translated into English as Goodbye, Things. Two decades on, images of Sasaki's home resembled what I once expected to find in the pages of Tokyo Style. However, his approach is less about minimalist elegance and more about radical emptiness. In Sasaki's worldview, even joy-sparking items should ultimately be discarded to achieve spiritual liberation.
On the Venn diagram of mottainai and danshari, one beneficiary sat squarely in the centre: Hard Off. Whether embracing modern mottainai principles of reducing, reusing, and recycling or saying "goodbye, things" with a dispassionate danshari mindset of detachment, selling possessions at Hard Off, flea markets, and other recycling stores offers a universal solution. Hard Off Corporation Co. achieved record-high sales and operating profits for the fiscal year ending March 2023.
Nevertheless, a Ministry of the Environment report on the reuse market reveals that only about 30% of people have used reuse services—still, there is potential for growth. Traditionally, Japanese consumer culture has prioritised brand-new items, associating them with freshness, quality, and purity. Amid growing acceptance of second-hand purchases, this preference persists, creating a downstream effect: second-hand goods in Japan often maintain exceptional quality. Many items are either meticulously cared for during use or traded in after a short period, enhancing the appeal of second-hand shopping in the country.
Where to Go
In Tokyo, thrifting for fashion finds its urban hubs in Kōenji and Shimokitazawa, neighbourhoods known for their vintage and retro boutiques. Harajuku, once the primary destination, still holds some appeal, though none of these districts caters to true bargain hunters. For a thriftier experience, treasures await at flea markets in the city's inner wards, with items sometimes for just a few hundred yen. Parks like Shinjuku Chuo and Yoyogi host these markets, as do the precincts of certain shrines, including Tomioka Hachiman in Monzen-Nakachō, which we recently walked in a neighbourhood guide newsletter².
The flea market I mentioned earlier, where I met the widow selling her late husband's belongings, was the Charity Flea Market (チャリティーフリーマーケット) held along Nakameguro Ginza Shōtengai. Though irregular, it's a splendid event—not only for the variety of items on offer but also for its setting, as the market stretches almost the entire 500-metre shopping street, combining second-hand shopping with a leisurely shōtengai walk. Smaller Mottainai Flea Markets are also held throughout the city, with events planned for Nakano and Kichijōji along the Chūō Line in the coming months. These markets make for a pleasant outing, but it might be time to explore beyond Tokyo's inner wards for more dedicated thrifting.
Tokyo's suburbs and surrounding prefectures hold a particular appeal for me. With excellent transport links to the city centre, their satellite towns and cities offer much of what Tokyo provides, but at a more approachable scale. These areas’ comparatively affordable real estate and larger spaces are perfect for expansive recycling stores. Lower overheads allow for extensive inventories that would be impractical in the city centre. While I’m not advocating for most tourists to include these quieter locales in their itineraries, a trip beyond central Tokyo offers a compelling opportunity for the introspective traveller who enjoys peaceful walks and harbours a fascination for rummaging through Japanese household goods.
Treasure Factory's Nerima store represents second-hand shopping faithfully. About a 25-minute walk from Oizumi Gakuen Station on the Ikebukuro Line, it remains within Tokyo's 23 special wards. The walk transitions from the everyday shopping area around the station to tranquil residential streets, finally arriving at the rumbling Kan-Etsu Expressway. It's a quintessential display of humdrum suburban life. Here, the two-floor Treasure Factory branch stands. On the first floor, you'll find smaller items like brand-name goods, audio equipment, and clothing, while the second floor showcases furniture and home appliances.
In Saitama Prefecture, the Book Off Super Bazaar at Ōmiya Stellar Town Store holds an extensive selection of books, electronics, clothing, and household goods. Now we are talking well and truly out of town. Yet Ōmiya, though distant, offers a lively atmosphere around its station, with a network of shōtengai shopping arcades and ramshackle yokochō alleyways that invite nighttime exploration—if bags of thrifted treasures do not weigh you down. The 45-minute walk from the station to the Super Bazaar is not negligible but can be more rewarding with a short detour to the grand Musashi Ichinomiya Hikawa Jinja.
Lastly, Eco Town Hachioji, located in Tokyo's western reaches, combines multiple second-hand stores from the 'Off' brand family with local recycling services. The complex includes a sizeable Hard Off, stores dedicated to each brand—such as Hobby Off and Off House—and an adjacent Book Off to round things out. Of the three destinations I've mentioned, this is the furthest—assuming travel from Shinjuku as a guide—and is most likely to appeal to the Japan residents and repeat travellers among us. However, the dedicated holidaymaker, prepared to spend the better part of a precious itinerary day thrifting and wandering Greater Tokyo, might too find this tip useful. As always, geotags are included in the Members’ map.
Whatever the reasons for discarding—be it a danshari-driven kitchen clear-out, the minimalist resolve of a reformed Happy Victim, or a repurposing of possessions that would make Mottainai Bāsan proud—every item finds a home at Eco Town. It feels like the ultimate realisation of Yoshimasa Yamamoto's tireless effort, going door-to-door each night so many years ago.
Until we meet in frugality,
AJ
Footnotes
¹ Waste: Consuming Postwar Japan
² Temple Town: Monzen-Nakachō Area Guide