I mentioned last time, after extended namedropping of Joyce and Aquinas, that Aqua is a powerful setting. We can assume as much from the first episode of Aria (that’s the Animation, you’ll recall), and from speculative and animated settings wielding the de facto thought-provocation that they do (more on this later), but the fourth episode doesn’t let us forget it (never mind that the above screen capture is from episode twelve). The mysterious girl in the alley, the too-late video message and its contents — all elements seem bent toward drawing our attention to Aqua’s owing its existence and nature to human beings. Here, Aria provides another way of looking at both itself and the ever-ridiculous species that produced it, albeit one more obvious than the “shut your eyes and see” business of the first episode. But to what end?

So that people like me can write series of blog posts about it, of course. Why else?

Let’s look at that term — “hand-made planet.” Akari seems pleased with the distinction when she mentions it at the bridge during the twelfth episode, but that may not say much; Akari is pleased with everything. In itself, it’s not a positive (or negative) value judgment. In fact, Aria provides two examples of planets impacted by humans: Aqua, the planet formerly known as Mars, made habitable and tranquil by force of human effort, and Earth…I mean, Manhome, which, by all reports, is polluted well beyond the point of unpleasantness. One might argue that Aqua is more hand-made than Manhome, which I suppose holds to scrutiny, but it isn’t really more hand-made by much; consider that, in the Aria-verse, water existed below the surface of Mars, simply waiting for enterprising humans to dig it up. The planet met its “makers” halfway.

It’s really the attitude of a place that determines how hand-made it is. Were Aqua terraformed and left as unpopulated wilderness, I doubt Akari would be going on about how it’s a hand-made planet — hell, she wouldn’t even be present to make the comment, more likely than not. Consider the gravity of a handcrafted object — say, a desk built by your great-grandfather. It may not function any better than a mass-produced Wal-Mart desk, but it has a personally relevant history that spans from its creation to its current user and use, including every family member into whose hands it passed in the meantime, perhaps rendering it more desirable to have around than just any old desk. We might also elaborate by saying that the desk’s history exists because of its place in human memory; if not for that, it would be just any old desk, at least for all intents and purposes. It’s the remembered human impact, the lingering “ghosts,” that contribute to the desk’s emotional value.

Aqua has its own ghosts — literally.

Alright, that one might technically be a cat. But it’s a cat which, by all rights, should be long dead, so it’s probably a ghost (or some kind of cat-fairy, maybe). Either way, the cats in Aria serve as connections to Aqua’s past. I’m using “ghost” here in a broad sense anyway; in episodes twelve and thirteen, we see that Aqua even harbors ghosts of itself, and I don’t know how to account for that in the common definition of ghosthood. The point is that Aqua’s “hand-madeness” is important in part because it began the imposition of human meaning upon Aqua — or, rather, upon Aqua as such; Mars existed previously, of course, but, given the apparent weight of names in Aria, we can probably grant that Aqua and Mars have partially separate identities simply due to the disparity of their nomenclature.

Simply by watching Aria, we can observe the results of Aqua’s being hand-made: it’s a setting that seems conducive to introspection and self-discovery, if the way the central characters (and Akari in particular) use Aqua is any indication. But consider why it serves this purpose for Akari and others. That Aqua was terraformed and made habitable by human beings ultimately doesn’t seem to have much to do with it; rather, Akari’s positive attitude toward the past and present of the place allows her to seek herself among the planet’s nuances. Sure, Aqua is hand-made in the sense that humans “made” it out of Mars, but it’s filled with philosophical import by Akari herself, who knows where and how to look to get what she wants out of the place. It’s an existential conundrum of sorts: one cannot love a place because it feels like home, one must love a place in order for it to feel like home. Ultimately, Akari’s hands make Aqua into the setting we see when we watch Aria — consider that the strange ghostly encounters and strategic time travel only happen when she’s present.

It is with such things in mind that we compare Aqua to our own experience on Earth — and, as I said, Aqua’s being both science-fictional and animated urges us to make that comparison. Interpretive settings, reliant as they are on the human creative machine, tend to work that way, I think. It’s a very potent comparison, with weighty questions inherent: If I like my home, is it because I’m approaching it as Akari approaches Aqua? If I don’t, is it because I’m not? Am I incapable of liking my home — not because there’s anything wrong with the place, but because there’s something wrong with my way of thinking?

After all, that’s what it comes down to. We have our Earth, and we can do with it what we will. Should we approach our places of residence with Akari’s “love first, ask questions later” angle, should we hand-make of our surroundings something useful, we may get as much out of our locales as she does.

But wait! There’s more!

Let’s not oversimplify. It’s likely that Aqua has its share of problems, and often we must infer these from the view we’re given through Akari’s rose-tinted glasses. Consider Akatsuki’s borrowing money from his brother; could this mean that the people who control the weather are underpaid? That’s an important job, and such a situation wouldn’t say much in favor of Aqua’s economy. Perhaps Akari has the luxury of introspection because Aqua’s economy is a one-trick pony, and the tourism industry, spearheaded by the undines, brings in all the money. It’s hard to be sure, but, at the very least, we can probably conclude that it’s best not to blind oneself to reality while appreciating one’s surroundings, that balance is key — balance such as that which exists between Akari, Aika, and Alice. But that, good reader, is a topic for a later post.

Tags: aria the animation

Thus spake Pontifus on Tuesday, 4 November 2008 at 5:21 am, and Anime expanded tenfold. Become privy to further discussion on the matter via RSS 2.0. You might grace us with a brilliant comment, or trackback from a distant podium.