Fujiwara Atsushi: "Semimaru" (2017)

・・・

Convinced of his son's lack of devotion to the teachings of Buddha during his previous life, Emperor Engi one day banishes the blind Prince Semimaru from the royal court. Escorted by an imperial officer named Kiyotsura, the Emperor's son is taken from Kyōto to Mount Ōsaka (located in today's adjoining Shiga Prefecture) where his luxurious robes are exchanged for a coat and hat made of straw. Following the Emperor's decree Kiyotsura further proceeds to shave Semimaru's hair. The only item the young Prince is allowed to keep is a biwa (a Japanese lute). Although Semimaru understands his father's good intentions and accepts them to some degree - making his son renounce a world of pleasure in order to help him reach his next life free from sin - he also mourns the loss of his family and fears the hardship of renouncing the worldly life. In the meantime, Semimaru's older sister Princess Sakagami has gone mad. In her confusion she leaves Kyōto and wanders for days until the sound of a biwa catches her attention. Following the sound she eventually reaches the mountainous area where her younger brother now lives. The two are delighted to have found each other again and rejoice over their strong bond but soon start to cry when thinking of their misfortune. At this point Sakagami heavy-heartedly decides she must return home. And so, once again, Semimaru is alone hoping that the difficult terrain will hinder his sister from leaving him for good.

・・・

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

It is this briefly summarized nō play entitled "Semimaru" that Fujiwara Atsushi borrowed the name for his fourth photobook from. The title - being part of the realm of classical Japanese theater - is faintly reminiscent of Nangokusho, the photographer's debut work from 2013 which he named after a collection of poems by his grandfather, who had once studied under the well-known poet Kitahara Hakushū (1885-1942). But while the earlier work was driven by what Hasegawa Akira (1949-2014) calls Fujiwara's "sentiment regarding his grandfather"*, the latter Semimaru on the other hand is powered by nostalgic feelings towards an area of Japan that Fujiwara still calls home:

Shiga Japan. It is the place I lived from primary school to my mid-twenties, where my parents, siblings and childhood friends continue to live, and is unquestionably the place I would still call home. Despite having lived elsewhere for more than half of my life now, ‘home’ remains an object of longing while retaining a troublesome, at times intractable resonance, and continues to ensnare me […] Nearing the end of cherry blossom season, the notes of Semimaru's biwa lute echoing in my thoughts, I set out on these walks and wanderings. (Taken from the preface of Semimaru, 2017)

In roughly 100 black-and-white mostly landscape format photographs, printed in Fujiwara's elegant signature style that emphasizes shadows and midtones while delicately reducing highlights, the viewer is taken to many corners of Shiga Prefecture. But instead of doing a tour of the popular sights Fujiwara's walks bring him to quiet neighborhoods, factory sites, school and apartment buildings, even mountainous roads and the shores of lake Biwa. He visits back streets, comes across railway crossings, shintō shrines and small rivers running between typical small-town houses. However mundane the scenery, everything he encounters is photographed with the same attention to detail. No photograph seems rushed but taken with respect towards the subject matter, be it piles of old roof tiles, street scenes or nō masks. With this in mind and taking Fujiwara's preface into consideration, it is safe to assume that the places and objects documented are either of personal importance to the photographer - holding both good and bad memories - or have become of interest to him because of his involvement with the storyline of "Semimaru" at the time he encountered them.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

Regarding the first thought, editor and publisher Ōsumi Naoto notes in the photobook's afterword that Fujiwara is for the first time dealing with his very own personal past as well as "the notion of home". In doing so, the photographer reaches an unprecedented level of intimacy. Granted, all previous artistic endeavors were linked to feelings like longing, friendship or admiration but always towards other individuals. What distinguishes this photobook from Fujiwara's work up until now is a shift in focus from an objective (invisible) to a pronounced subjective (visible) point of view. He is documenting places from his childhood and adolescence as a means of self-reflection. It would go too far to categorize the work as shi-shashin (I-photography). Nonetheless, the concept of interlocking gazes (typical of that genre) is evident; meaning, whatever the viewer is shown in a photograph corresponds directly to what the photographer saw through his viewfinder at the moment he released the shutter. In other words: The viewer's awareness of the photographer's presence - Fujiwara as the individual who took the photographs -, or put yet another way, the photographer's intention of making the viewer believe that s/he is seeing through his eyes (similar to the point-of-view shot in cinema), is more obvious than before. For the last two books Fujiwara played the role of the invisible photographer in favor of creating the almost supernatural atmosphere of "Butterfly had a dream" (2014) and stressing the sense of isolation in the photographs taken for "Poet island" (2015).

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

As a result of this subjective shooting style a number of images entail clues to or actually record the photographer's physical presence. At the beginning of the book one of the few portrait format shots shows the shadow of a male upper body, head, and raised right arm - presumably holding the camera - that is cast onto a white guardrail on the side of a road next to a train track. Another photograph depicts a young boy waiting at a cross-walk with his mother. The child - who is looking directly at the camera - is grinning broadly, thereby not only acknowledging the photographer but also acting out the social convention of smiling when being photographed. Even a genuine self-portrait can be found towards the end of the book. Standing on the side of a snowy and hilly road Fujiwara aimed his camera upwards to record his own reflection in a round convex traffic mirror typically found all across Japan.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

In a number of photographs children are shown in playful situations: A boy with his bike in front of a restaurant that sells soft ice, a small girl ringing a bell at the pier, or a boy and a girl trying to catch bugs or other type of small animals with a hand net in a shallow river. It is likely that these children, seen in those familiar places at play, brought back memories to Fujiwara about his own childhood. If that is the case, these children function as a sort of mirror image of himself - vehicles for thought projection. They also help the viewer imagine the photographer when he was still simply Atsushi, a young boy who once might have stopped his bike in front of that same restaurant in order to count his pocket money while contemplating if now is the best time to buy a scoop of that delicious ice cream. Another indication that Fujiwara is indeed contemplating his life and thereby also inevitably thinking about time (its relentless passage) are various broken, rundown or weathered objects such as a crumbling facade, a broken off pillar from a wooden fence, or a heavily weathered white door shut and secured with the help of a latch and padlock.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

This seemingly insignificant wooden door is also of interest regarding Fujiwara's involvement with the storyline of "Semimaru" and its influence on the making of his eponymous photobook. The amount of chipped paint and the rambling weeds in front of it create the impression of abandonment. It is not hard to imagine that the door is no longer used or not supposed to be used. But why take a photograph and what lies behind it? Unlike other objects that can easily be connected to the plot of the classical theater play, e.g. nō masks or streets signs reading "ōsaka ichōme" (signifying an area located at Mount Ōsaka), the door's arguable link to "Semimaru" is intricate but equally intriguing. After some research it turns out that the door is the entrance to one of altogether three tunnels originally dug through Mount Ōsaka to connect Kyōto and Shiga Prefecture. The tunnel behind the photographed door is one of two tunnels that have been shut down permanently. Looking at this door - the closed off passage way through a mountain that is said to have separated Prince Semimaru from his home - Fujiwara may have recalled one of the play's famous lines:

So is this the great divide of Mount Osaka, where strangers and acquaintances, people coming and people going, met and part ways. (Taken from the preface of Semimaru, 2017)

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

It would be false to make sense of this photobook by somehow trying to connect Fujiwara Atsushi with Prince Semimaru on an emotional level. Although nostalgia also resonates within the lines of the play, it is the theme of bidding farewell that is key to "Semimaru". The plot's location, on the contrary, is of vital importance to a more coherent interpretation. What may have struck Fujiwara as interesting and therefore worth exploring, is the irony that what one calls home can become someone else's place of exile. This idea - echoing in his mind as the sound of Semimaru's lute - could have served as the catalyst for his wanderings in Shiga. What initially might have begun as a photographic project in line with previous efforts ultimately turned into a sentimental journey that led Fujiwara Atsushi back to himself.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Seminaru (2017).

_____________

* See Akira Hasegawa, "Journey to a phantasm", in Atsushi Fujiwara, Nagokusho (Tokyo: Sokyusha, 2013), np.

Fujiwara Atsushi: "Poet Island" (2015)

The first of the altogether 61 black-and-white photographs we encounter, when opening Fujiwara Atsushi's photobook Poet Island (2015, Sokyusha), is that of a door. The wood is visibly weathered and structurally damaged more or less beyond a state worthy of repair - much like the building's wall to which it belongs. While the door's rails are still somewhat intact, its panels are almost all missing. Thus, the a large electronic device, placed right behind it - possibly the back of a refrigerator or the like -, is partly visible. The door, one could argue, has lost most of its functionality. Others might reply that it still hangs in its original frame and prevents access to the building's interior. Its main function, it could then be reasoned, is therefore unchanged. The further one leafs through the book, the more obvious it becomes that this kind of dichotomy of positive and negative assessment, on the part of both the photographer and the viewer, is of major importance to the individual understanding of the work's meaning and significance.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Poet Island (2015).

The "poet island" documented by Fujiwara is located in the southeast of Okayama Prefecture and originally called Nagashima. It was there that in 1930 the National Aiseien Sanatorium was built by the Japanese government with the purpose of treating people suffering from leprosy (Hansen's disease) as well as to prevent further outbreaks. Once diagnosed with an infection, patients of all ages were brought to Nagashima via trains or other vehicles, under special safety precautions such as heavy use of disinfectant, and were thereupon kept in absolute isolation from the rest of society indefinitely. The dreadful living conditions were not only due to the physical suffering, caused by the progression of the disease, but also because the sanatorium was chronically overcrowded. According to Fujiwara, his initial contact with the island, the sanatorium and the fate of the patients was at the age of eight during a family visit to his uncle who, at that time (around 1971), was the general manager of the sanatorium. "Though deeply impressed by the untouched natural beauty of the island", the photographer writes retrospectively in the book's afterword, "I also recall the anguish I felt in my young heart at the sad fate of its inhabitants (patients)."

Fujiwara Atsushi: Poet Island (2015).

Surprisingly, as Fujiwara reveals in the following lines, there existed yet another emotional bond between the island and himself; a connection that would only become apparent to him when he revisited Nagashima as a photographer 35 years later. During that second visit, Fujiwara came across a poem he knew to be the motto of Japanese New Wave film director Oshima Nagisa (1932-2013) and which he had likewise treasured as a young man in his twenties who, as he continues, "struggled yet to find sure footing." The poem reads:

Like luminescent fish dwelling in the darkness of the deep sea, 

there is no light until I alight from within. - Akashi Kajin

Discovering that these words, which had given him comfort and inspiration during his early adult life, were by the poet Akashi Kaijin (1901-1939), who was forced to live on Nagashima since he had fallen ill with Hansen's disease in his early twenties, created a strong admiration for the artist's achievements. Despite the fact that Akashi had lost his eyesight and eventually needed a tracheotomy in order to be able to continue breathing, thanks to his devotion to poetry, he was able to keep his will to live by exercising his mind - the only part of him that had been left untouched by the disease. He had realized that the beauty of life comes from within one's mind and soul. With this in mind, Poet Island can be understood as "a tribute to Kajin Akashi", as Morioka Yoshiyuki rightly states in his afterword. "What Fujiwara saw", Morioka adds, "was the ’grace‘ that expressly gave rise to poetry."

Fujiwara Atsushi: Poet Island (2015).

The photographs comprised in this book all without exception lack the physical presence of people and thereby constantly remind the viewer of the isolation once surely felt by Akashi - not necessarily from human contact per se, but from friends, family and society at large. Fujiwara is documenting the traces of his human presence which is still visible today in the form of left behind furniture, medical records or hand writings on the wall. The photographer deliberately printed his pictures in a dark tone by noticeably bringing down the highlights. In doing so, he was able to give them an ambiguous quality. Whether landscapes, the interior and exterior shots of the sanatorium's buildings or close-ups of various objects - including old photographs that depict Akashi before and after the disease distorted his outer appearance -, the mood created by the tonal quality of the photographs all in all is rather gloomy and somber.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Poet Island (2015).

By putting an emphasis on the bleakness of the living situation at that time, rather than calling attention to possible beneficial aspects of being hospitalized on Nagashima - e.g. special medical attention or the natural environment as a possible source of artistic inspiration and spiritual healing -, Fujiwara forces the viewer to try to imagine the poet's mindset in times of physical suffering. As we learn from the afterword, Akashi was able to find happiness in himself, by accepting his fate and making use of the potential he had left while struggling with leprosy. Ultimately, Poet Island appears to be a reminder to all of us to embrace life - in good and bad times - as long as we are fortunate enough to have it. Now, looking back at the beginning of the book, many of us might conclude: It is better to have a weathered and damaged door than having none at all.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Poet Island (2015).

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

　自分の写真作品を本の形で世に出そうと決意することは、市場志向であってはならない。写真集がようやく多くの人に美術作品として認められるようになってきた今日でも、そうあってはならないのである。むしろ、本というメディア特有の様々な特徴を真剣に考慮して行う意識的な美術活動の成果であるべきだ。2014年3月に蒼穹舎より出版された藤原敦（1963年滋賀県生まれ）の2冊目の写真集「蝶の見た夢」は、一連の作品が本という形で大いに意味を成す素晴らしい例である。ここでは作家が、写真と本という2つのメディアが持つ特有の質を組み合わせることに懸命に取り組んでいるからだ。作品は母親の不運な人生を美しく私的に（そして時折感傷的に）描写しているが、それを見守る複数の視点が作品の中で度々重なり合うかのように表現されることで、生と死の狭間にある夢のような世界が描かれている。

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

　表紙には海辺に立つ女性と子どもの写真が印刷されている。その写真は青写真のような様で、他の写真と重なり合っている。それによって本を開く前の段階から、現実で重複する視点という発想がうかがえる。この表紙の写真でいくつの写真が重ねられているのかははっきりとわからない。これは藤原が、物事をもっとよく見ることの大切さを私たちに伝えようとしているのかもしれない。実際に、加藤正樹は写真集に寄せたテキストで、詳細に注意を注ぐことは本当に価値がある、と重要なヒントを書いている。それを怠ると、知的に構成された写真の順番、写真の中に重ねられた写真、ちょうどいい量の後書きなどを見落とすことになる。つまり、63枚のモノクロ写真は、単に時間軸に沿った古典的な物語として結びつけられているのではなく、時間の循環が強調されているのである。ある主題が過去、現在、そして未来を通して繰り返され、変化しながら描かれる。それは音楽のフーガに似ている。ところが、「蝶の見た夢」では、そうした時間の観念だけでなく、生の世界と死後の世界という別々の領域が不思議に混ざり合う。

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

当時、彼女は新宿のとあるBARでアルバイトをしていたが、本職は女流緊縛師であった。聞くと彼女の父親はプロの昆虫ハンターで、［中略］数年前に自ら命を絶っていた。そして父親の死とほぼ同じ時期に、夫の浮気や借金に苦しんだ挙句離婚した彼女は精神的に不安定になり、愛する子供二人を母方の故郷宮古島に預けたのだった。進級の春や運動会の秋など、年に数回は宮古島へ子供たちに会いに行った。［前略］彼女が慕った父親が探し求めていた蝶は、ヒラヒラと舞い、現世と幻世を行き来していたのだった。（「蝶の見た夢」より） 　

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

　蝶は古から「魂の象徴」だったと加藤は説明しているが、若い母親が日本列島の最南端・宮古島を訪れると、まるで亡くなった父親が蝶の姿になって、かつて彼も存在していた現世を見守っているようなのだ。写真家自身は自分の作品で自ら姿を現すことはないため、作品を通して蝶と藤原の視点が重なり合っているように思わせるという面白い設定となっている。

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

　時折、フレームを傾け、ショット・リバースショットといった手法が使われることで、写真を撮る側がまるで宙に浮いているような感覚（さらには遍在しているような感覚）を呼び起こし、この幻想はさらに説得力を増す。あたかも蝶がひらひら飛びながら見ているかのように、編集されている。このような手法が一番効果的に表れているのは、海に浮かぶ船の上にいる母と娘2つの写真が並べられた見開きページだ。同じ主題の写真を2つの異なるアングルからほぼ同時に眺めるという同時性の観念は、人間というよりも素早く動く蝶を連想させる。その結果、私たちは写真家でもない、不思議な第三者の目を通してその風景を見ている感覚になる。

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

　比較的に小さめの本（約21x17cm）は、藤原の撮る写真が与える私的な雰囲気によく合っている。気軽に手に取って、膝の上に置いてページをめくることができるのは、作品の複雑な内容に深く触れるためには理想的である。本の手に取りやすさは展覧会で展示された写真とは対照的に、見る者が手元の写真作品全体に対してすぐに反応しやすいため、重要な要素なのだ。展覧会では、大勢の人々が同時に写真家の作品を見ることができる構造である（見るという行為が、集団的な経験となる）一方、本のサイズではそれが禁じられている。本の内容を一緒に見ることができるのは、わずかな人数だ。この理由から、すでに言及されているとおり、本というのは本質的に私的なメディアなのだ。藤原敦の「蝶の見た夢」は間違いなくそれを裏付ける。

藤原敦：「蝶の見た夢」（2014年）

Fujiwara Atsushi: "Butterfly had a dream" (2014)

The decision to distribute one's own photographic work in the form of a book should not be a market-oriented one. Not even today, when the photobook's status as a serious work of art has finally come to be acknowledged by a larger audience. Instead, it should be the result of a conscious artistic practice that seriously takes into consideration the various unique characteristics of this particular medium. Fujiwara Atsushi's (b. 1963, Shiga Prefecture, Japan) second photobook Butterfly had a dream, published by Sokyusha in March of 2014, is a very fine example of a body of work that makes great sense as a book. That is because the artist clearly undertook considerable efforts to incorporate both mediums' distinct qualities in order to create a beautifully intimate (yet also unsettling) portrayal of a mother's ill-fated life, which is presented through a recurring motif of interlocking gazes amidst a dream-like world that exists somewhere in-between life and death.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).

Even before opening the book, the superimposed cyanotype-like photographs of a woman and children at a beach introduce the idea of overlapping perspectives on reality. The number of images used to create the front cover is difficult to distinguish for sure and consequently it could be argued that Fujiwara informs us about the importance of having a closer look at things. And indeed, as we learn from the important hints provided in the entailed text by Kato Masaki, paying attention to details is truly worth the effort. Those who neglect to do so will ultimately overlook the book's intelligent sequence, picture-in-picture imagery and economical yet efficient use of text. Altogether, rather than simply linking the 63 black-and-white photographs together as a classical chronological narrative, a circular time structure is emphasized that behaves similar to that of a musical fugue which likewise features repetition and alteration in order to reference about past, present and future parts of the piece. However, in the case of Butterfly had a dream, it seems as if not only time but also the otherwise separated spheres of life and afterlife mysteriously begin to intermingle. 

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).

"Back then she worked part time at a certain bar in Shinjuku, but her real profession was that of female Japanese bondage master. Her father had been a professional insect collector, […] but took his life a number of years ago. Then, after suffering an unfaithful husband and heavy debt, she grew mentally unstable around the time of her father's death. So she sent away her two beloved children, to live in the hometown of her mother's family on Miyakojima Island. A few times a year, she would visit them on Miyakojima - in springtime, when the children moved up a grade in school, and in fall for their yearly school sporting event. […] The butterfly sought after by her father, whom she loved and respected dearly, flitted between the earthly realm and fantasy." (Taken from Butterfly had a dream.)

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).

As soon as the young mother visits the island of Miyakojima, one of the most southern islands of the Japanese archipelago, we are made believe that the butterfly, described by Kato as an ancient "symbol of the soul", becomes a vehicle for the deceased father who, through the body of a cherished insect, is seemingly observing a reality he was once a part of. The implied interlocking of gazes between the butterfly and Fujiwara's perspective is an interesting set-up since the photographer himself is never physically visible in his work.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).

The illusion is even more convincing because of Fujiwara's use of a tilted-frame and shot reverse shots from time to time as a means of evoking a feeling of levitation (and even omnipresence) on his part. The suggested movement between pictures taken and edited in that specific way seems consistent with that of a butterfly's flight. Arguably the most successful implementation of this method can be seen on a double page showing two juxtaposed photographs of the mother and daughter on a ship at sea. Looking at the same subject matter, seen from two different angles presumably almost at the same time, a notion of simultaneity originates, which rather corresponds with the quick movement of a butterfly than that of a human being. Consequently, we seem to observe the scenery through the eyes of a third enigmatic party other than the photographer. 

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).

The relatively small format of the book (ca. 21x17 cm) suits the intimate nature of Fujiwara's photographs well. The ability to hold it comfortably in our hands or place it on our lap while turning the pages back and forth provides an ideal setting from which to acquaint oneself with this complex work. The book's tactility, in contrast to a display of prints in an exhibition, is an important factor that heightens the chances for the viewer to experience a more immediate reaction to the photographic body of work at hand. While an exhibition's structure tends to provide even larger groups of people access to the artist's work simultaneously (the act of looking then becomes a collective experience), a book's size on the other hand normally prohibits this. Its content is accessible to no more than a few individuals at once. For this reason, as it has been said before, it is an inherently intimate medium. Fujiwara Atsushi's photobook Butterfly had a dream is undoubtedly proof of that.

Fujiwara Atsushi: Butterfly had a dream (2014).