Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Emoji, Part 1: In the Beginning

Sex! Con­flict! In­ter­na­tional stand­ards bod­ies! The brief his­tory of emoji is far more in­ter­est­ing than it has any right to be, and over the next few months I’ll be tak­ing a look at where the world’s new­est lan­guage* came from, how it works and where it’s go­ing.

It star­ted with a heart.

In the mid-1990s, Ja­pan found it­self in the grip of a pager boom. Sales of “pocket bells”, or poke beru, ran at over a mil­lion per year, with the coun­try’s largest mo­bile net­work, NTT DOCOMO, tak­ing the li­on’s share. Else­where in the world, pagers were the pre­serve of busi­nesses and hos­pit­als where they called trauma sur­geons to the emer­gency room or man­agers to the tele­phone. In Ja­pan, however, pocket bells were in­creas­ingly sought after by teen­agers: by 1996, al­most half of all fe­male high school stu­dents owned one, and peak pager hours had shif­ted from dur­ing the work­ing day to the late even­ing, when the air­waves buzzed with teen­agers’ il­li­cit mes­sages.

The first pagers were simple devices, de­signed only to re­ceive nu­meric mes­sages. The idea was that a sender would call a re­cip­i­ent’s pager at its own ded­ic­ated tele­phone num­ber and then tap in their de­sired mes­sage as an­other string of num­bers. This in turn would ap­pear on the pager’s LCD dis­play. Of­ten, the mes­sage was as simple as the sender’s tele­phone num­ber, but in the usa, where pagers had ori­gin­ated, younger users cre­ated a loosely-co­di­fied dia­lect com­pris­ing nu­meric codes, in-jokes, and more. “6000*843” can be just about read as “good bye”, for ex­ample; “99” meant “nighty night”; “831” (eight let­ters, three words, one mean­ing) stood for “I love you”; and so on.

Across the Pa­cific, Ja­pan­ese high school­ers had their own pager-cipher in which num­bers could be pro­nounced either in Ja­pan­ese or Eng­lish to form sound-alike phrases. “724106” trans­lated to “What are you do­ing?”, for ex­ample, while “114106” meant “I love you”. Still, though, there was de­mand for a more soph­ist­ic­ated pager ex­per­i­ence. As such, when one of DOCOMO’s smal­ler rivals launched a 1995 model that could trans­late pairs of di­gits dir­ectly into Ja­pan­ese char­ac­ters, de­mand was so high that the com­pany had to tem­por­ar­ily stop ac­cept­ing new cus­tom­ers.

DOCOMO had to re­spond. A year later, the lar­ger com­pany ad­ded a heart sym­bol to the rep­er­toire of some of its pager mod­els, and their younger cus­tom­ers went wild for it. Ac­cessed by di­al­ling “88” or “89” when leav­ing a mes­sage on a re­cip­i­ent’s pager, the heart be­came a fix­ture in high school­ers’ mes­sages — but those same pager ad­dicts were left bereft when, a few short years later, the “❤” ab­ruptly dis­ap­peared from the new­est pagers. Some claim that DOCOMO ditched the sym­bol in or­der to at­tract more ser­i­ous-minded busi­ness cus­tom­ers; oth­ers say that the heart took up valu­able memory that was bet­ter used to sup­port Ja­pan’s ex­pans­ive kanji script and the Latin al­pha­bet. Sub­scribers did not care. They deser­ted DOCOMO in droves.

In the event, DOCOMO’s un­wonted heart sur­gery was the cata­lyst for something much lar­ger. Else­where in the com­pany, and aware that DOCOMO needed a new killer fea­ture to re­place the erstwhile “❤”, an en­gin­eer named Shi­ge­t­aka Kur­ita was in the midst of de­vel­op­ing the first mo­bile in­ter­net ser­vice for the op­er­at­or’s cell­phones. Kur­ita was dis­ap­poin­ted by the drab, text-only ap­plic­a­tions avail­able in the USA and else­where and dreamed of some­how el­ev­at­ing DOCOMO’s nas­cent “i-mode” in­ter­net ser­vice above these dis­tinctly lo-fi of­fer­ings. But how? He looked to his en­vir­on­ment for in­spir­a­tion.

More so than in some other coun­tries, Ja­pan­ese cul­ture and pub­lic life are suf­fused with visual sym­bol­ism. Comic books, or manga, are read avidly and uni­ver­sally, and many of them make use of com­mon visual tropes that ex­press con­cepts or states of be­ing. An over­sized drop of sweat on a char­ac­ter’s face rep­res­ents anxi­ety or con­fu­sion; a light­bulb above their head is a mo­ment of en­light­en­ment. As the first host coun­try in the mod­ern Olympic era to use a non-al­pha­betic script, the Tokyo games of 1964 pi­on­eered the use of sym­bols (🚴︎, 🚻︎, ⛵︎) rather than text to help for­eign vis­it­ors find their way. And that same non-al­pha­betic script it­self provided in­spir­a­tion: in kanji, the ideo­graphic script that Ja­pan in­her­ited from China, Kur­ita saw how power­ful it was to be able to ex­press com­plex ideas like “love” in a single char­ac­ter.

Draw­ing on all these in­flu­ences and more, Shi­ge­t­aka Kur­ita de­signed a font con­tain­ing one hun­dred and sev­enty-six mono­chro­matic but lively icons — sym­bols such as smi­ley faces, thun­der­ous clouds, car­toon­ish bombs and gib­bous moons — and em­bed­ded it into DOCOMO’s new i-mode in­ter­net sys­tem. Emoji was born.

Eye­c­atch­ing though they were, Kur­it­a’s cre­ations were also a prag­matic ad­di­tion to i-mod­e’s on­line ser­vices. On-screen menus used emoji to high­light paid ser­vices or train tick­ets; weather ap­plic­a­tions em­ployed suns, clouds, um­brel­las, snow­men and light­ning bolts to provide com­pre­hens­ive weather re­ports in a few lines of text; and 250-char­ac­ter lim­its on emails could be mit­ig­ated by ju­di­cious use of an emoji or two.

Each sym­bol meas­ured just twelve pixels by twelve — a scant one hun­dred and forty-four dots to rep­res­ent a hos­pital, an in­com­ing fax, or a movie cam­era — and some icons came out of Kur­it­a’s di­gital wash cycle either shrunken or simply in­scrut­able. As such, when Kur­ita sent his fin­ished designs to docomo’s hard­ware part­ners for in­clu­sion on their mo­bile phones, the re­sponse was tepid: Sharp, Panasonic, Fujitsu and oth­ers were more con­cerned with get­ting i-mode right than they were in pol­ish­ing Kur­it­a’s icons of cock­tail glasses and snow­men. When emoji went out into the wider world as part of the launch of the i-mode plat­form, each of its sym­bols re­tained the same quirky, pixelated design in which Kur­ita had first drawn it.

By con­trast, DOCOMO’s com­pet­it­ors un­der­stood the prom­ise of emoji right from the start and, moreover, saw that Kur­it­a’s sym­bols could be­ne­fit from a nip here and a tuck there. Re­spond­ing to the 1999 launch of the Fujitsu F501i, DOCOMO’s first i-mode smart­phone and the first phone any­where to sup­port emoji, rival net­works KDDI AU and J-Phone each du­plic­ated Kur­it­a’s un­copy­right­able 12 × 12 icons be­fore giv­ing them fresh coats of paint and adding a few new sym­bols of their own. The rest is his­tory: after a wildly pop­u­lar de­but, DOCOMO’s i-mode ser­vice finds it­self today to be the AOL of Ja­pan­ese mo­bile in­ter­net pro­viders, act­ive only in its home mar­ket and largely the pre­serve of the over-50s. Emoji, on the other hand, were a bona fide hit. The af­fair of the heart was for­given.

by Keith Houston, Shady Characters |  Read more:
Image: NTT DOCOMO, Inc.