Aihara Eiji: "Tonari kinjo" (1977)

Aihara Eiji (b. 1940, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan) started working as a freelance photographer at the age of 20, but as of 1963 decided to play it safe by pursuing a more dependable career in the textile manufacturing business alongside his artistic effort. This proved to be a wise decision since it took another twelve years for a selection of his photographs to make a first appearance in the photo-magazine Asahi Camera (in the December issue of 1975 as part of a section called twelve up-and-coming photographers). The periodical continued to serve as a platform for his photographs. But it can be argued that the first contribution, entitled tonari kinjo (neighborhood), would always be the most important one because it laid the foundation for Aihara's only ever published photobook of the same name.

Eiji Aihara: Tonari kinjo (1977).

Tonari kinjo - a slipcased softcover of square medium size - was brought out by the publishing house Nora-Sha in 1977, under the supervision of Kitai Kazuo and the help of editor Ōsaki Norio (b. 1940, Saitama Prefecture). By then this duo had already co-produced other noteworthy photobooks, including Kitai Kazuo's sanrizuka (1971), Kimura Ihei's pari (1974), and Hashimoto Shōkō's goze (1974). The new project's layout resembles that of the earlier ones mostly because of the repeated use of full bleed printing. New, on the other hand, is that the image sequence is not interrupted by inserted blank pages or text as utilized for instance in Hashimoto's book, in which the photographer captured the austere lifestyle of blind female musicians (the so-called goze) in accordance with the four seasons.

Eiji Aihara: Tonari kinjo (1977).

The most intriguing feature is paradoxically hidden in plain sight. Only when inspecting the photographs near the gutter it becomes apparent that the book is in fact compiled of roughly 109 juxtaposed black-and-white photographs rather than a smaller number of double-page spreads, as presumed at first sight. Ōsaki apparently chose to pair two images not solely according to their subject matter but rather made efforts to align their unique marginal grain patterns. As a result, two separate shots of the same or even different rural landscapes, street scenes, or interiors often appear to be belonging together, when in fact they are not. This editorial strategy works so convincingly because the majority of photographs depict grasses, flowers, trees or bushes either growing or withering at the margins of the image. Often seemingly untouched by man, these naturally grown structures create a dramatic photographic effect that on the printed page manifests itself in random patterns of stark black and white. It is this richness of detail on two juxtaposed photographs inside that camouflages the missing connection and ends up mimicking a complete landscape shot.

Eiji Aihara: Tonari kinjo (1977).

On the surface, tonari kinjo seems like a simple photographic portrait of life in a typical countryside during the last decade of Japan's Shōwa era (1926-1989). And indeed, for several years Aihara had aimed his camera - in line with the book's title - on the immediate neighborhood of his native Sagara-chō (known today as Makinohara-shi after merging with the neighboring town of Haibara-chō in 2005). The rusticity of this once small town with its dirt roads, untended gardens, often decrepit architecture, and surrounding rice fields is emphasized in every photograph but without the slightest hint of criticism. On the contrary, these images of children (either dressed in shorts and t-shirts but also in yukatas) eating ice cream or playing at a riverbank, of local workers going about their own business, of a shop's refrigerator filled with lemonade bottles, or tomatoes in a vine all posses a strong sense of affection towards their subject. It is safe to say that Aihara portrayed the inhabitants of Sakara-chō as people at peace with life in the countryside and their local traditions. The photographs of children, in particular, evoke a notion of innocence - that precious and short-lived state of mind.

Eiji Aihara: Tonari kinjo (1977).

However, those feelings of affection are promptly followed by an equal amount of nostalgia. It would be going to far to interpret the abundance of withered plants as a reminder of every living thing's mortality, but a certain presentiment of loss can certainly be sensed in Aihara's way of photographing his hometown. In a similar fashion to Araki's self-published Sentimental Journey (1971), the atmosphere created by these images is located somewhere between life and death. Sure, when looking at photographs in retrospect one's view of the things depicted unavoidably becomes biased. No one is able to ignore the apparent temporal difference. Everything that happened yesterday will never be present again. It will therefore inevitably be subjected to human nature's sentimentality which is fostered by the knowledge of the ever-growing gap between now and the past. Interestingly enough, one of the interior shots shows a wall with a calendar from 1977 pinned to it. The words kyōdo no mukashi-banashi (old local folk tales) are small but legibly printed. Why would Aihara include such an image in this particular book? Could Aihara be hinting at the fact that the innocent rural life as presented in the photographs was then already part of the past, thus, nothing more than a tale told by means of his camera? Considering Japan's rapid political, economical, urban, and cultural transformation after World War II - changes that were felt throughout the country -, this theory appears not too far-fetched. Whatever answers there may be, fact is, it is nothing but impossible to look at Aihara's book as the result of a thoughtless photographic habit.

Eiji Aihara: Tonari kinjo (1977).

In times of emotional distress the mind tends to wander to places in the past. In retrospect, these moments often present themselves as a simpler, less hectic and overall more innocent way of life. In the late 1960s and early '70s, a period notorious for its social and political turmoil, more than a few photographers looked back instead of ahead in order to find a link to the old Japan - one that was untouched by the horrors of war and the burden of survivors's guilt. This notion of the past, many thought, could only be still found in the countryside.

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.

The provenance of a photobook - Kimura Ihei: "Gaiyū shashinshū | Impression of Europe" (1955)

Every now and then, while standing in front of my bookshelf, I cannot help but wonder to whom all those second-hand photobooks once belonged before I had the pleasure of discovering them at antique book shops or the like. Did these books outlive their original owners or did she or he simply lose interest in them at some point and decided it was time to thin out the collection? For whatever reason those books ended up with me, it certainly is an eerie but still overwhelmingly exciting thought that they will inevitably end up with another person in the future. In the end, that is what any books are made for: to be enjoyed, cherished and revaluated by generation after generation. By writing this blog, I for one try to do my part in keeping the discussion alive and hope that you will find some joy with me during the process.

Kimura Ihei: Gaiyū shashinshū | Impression of Europe (1955).

When I first laid eyes on this particular copy of Kimura Ihei's (1901-1974) Impression of Europe (1955, Asahi Shimbun Publishing) - a lucky find by my wife for an astonishing price of only 2 euros - it was admittedly not love at first sight. It showed all the common symptoms of an ex-library book. The dust cover had been removed, cut up and glued onto the interior of the volume's front and back cover. The corners were kinked after years of use and it had been labeled on the spine as well as stamped numerous times on the last page above the imprint. Suspecting that other original parts might be missing, I researched the book, and, sure enough, had to face yet another disappointment - a second accompanying volume and a slipcase were indeed missing.

Kimura Ihei: Gaiyū shashinshū | Impression of Europe (1955).

However, after this initial setback, I stumbled across a neatly written Japanese inscription - executed vertically on the book's first page with the help of a brush and black ink. As it turned out, to much of my delight, the signature underneath the inscription actually belonged to non other than Kimura Ihei. Right next to it a purple colored stamp had been placed bearing the German last name Schmidt and what appears to be an obsolete address format referring to a residence in the small town of Wetzlar - the birth place of the Leica cameras. Since Kimura's personal dedication matched the stamped name, the book's original owner was then suddenly verified.

Kimura Ihei: Gaiyū shashinshū | Impression of Europe (1955).

It has been repeatedly noted that Japanese photobooks were practically unknown to the common photography enthusiasts around the world until only about two decades ago. With this in mind, it seemed remarkable that a work such as Impression of Europe would end up on the bookshelf of anyone living in Wetzlar in the mid-1950s. When I took a closer look at how the photographer chose to phrase his brushed dedication, the main Japanese term kintei (engl.: respectfully presenting; with the author's compliments), followed by the recipient's name, certainly stood out. The choice of words hinted at the fact that this book might have been a personal gift. But why would Kimura Ihei - at the time one of Japan's most prominent photographers - give Mr. Schmidt of all people this photobook? A convincing answer to this question was fortunately provided by Kimura himself when he wrote about his travels across Europe in an author's note:

The trip - very expensive for a poor man like me - was made possible only because of help from many friends. I wish to acknowledge that help and express my deep gratitude to those understandings friends. […] Nihon Kogaku […] furnished me with two Nikon cameras with special range finders adapted to my weakened eyes and with various lenses. […] One of the Nikons was stolen in a well-organized theft in Rome. I was reloading it on the street, when a thief snatched it away. Another man, apparently his team-mate, deliberately bumped into me, knocked me down, and prevented me from giving immediate chase. But a windfall came to me in Germany. The Ernst Leitz Co. gave this dispirited man a brand-new M-3 Leica - perhaps out of sympathy and perhaps out of appreciation of my efforts of taking thousands of pictures with Leicas in my career. A number of the pictures in this book were taken with this new Leica. (Taken from the author's note in Impression of Europe; original text in English)

A true windfall for me, too, since it now seemed obvious that Mr. Schmidt must have played a direct role in the interaction between the Ernst Leitz Co. and Kimura. This, of course, is not a fact but an assumption based on the markings found in the book. Yet, considering how nicely all these clues match, it seems very unlikely that they are mere coincidental. Rather, I feel propelled to say that this volume of Impression of Europe - although missing its accompanying volume and slipcase - is actually of some photo-historical importance because it embodies Kimura's gratitude towards those affiliated with the Ernst Leitz Co. in 1954 who were kind enough to put artistic ideals over monetary matters in order to enable him to continue his photographic endeavor.

Kimura Ihei: Gaiyū shashinshū | Impression of Europe (1955).

The provenance of any (photo)book is often not as clearly reconstructable as in the case described here. Often there are only very few or no clues as to whom a particular issue once belonged to or where it has been since its initial publication. But at the same time that is precisely the reason why the excitement is truly beyond all description when we do find those vital clues in the form of inscriptions, stamps or other traces of human interaction with the object itself. With a bit of luck and investigative skills they can tell us not only about the life of the book itself but maybe even a thing or two about those who once purchased, inherited, used or abused it along the way to your bookshelf. 

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

・・・

　今から170年以上前、世界で初めて実用的な写真技法としてダゲレオタイプが公に発表された。しかし厳密に言えば、その作業過程の基となる銀塩の光感受性といった自然条件はそれ以前から存在する。これを考慮すると、基本的な写真の原理に言及する際に、（写真技法を）発明したという言い方が適切ではないことは明確だ。絵画における透視図法の場合とは違って、この自然の変色作用の原理は人間が作ったのではなく、その原理を発見してさらに発展させたのである。つまり、アナログ写真の本質的な条件はその技術が発見される前から存在し、これからも永遠に人間の文化という領域の外にあるのだ。もっと単純に言えば、それは自然現象であり、これからもそうあり続けるということだ。この事実こそ、写真の持つ独特な魅力の一つなのかもしれない。ナダールの著書に、オノレ・ド・バルザック（1799～1850）が写真に対して不信感を抱いていたことが記述されているのは有名だ。バルザックは写真を１枚撮られるごとに、身体を構成する薄い層が１枚剥ぎ取られて、魔法のように銀メッキをした銅版上へと移動し、その層は永遠に失われるものと考えていたのだ。写真の現像過程をさらに詳しく学んでも、バルザックの不信感が減ることはなかった。このため、彼の写真は結局1枚しか撮られなかった。写真に像を写し出すという化学反応は決して人間の目には見えないことを考えれば、バルザックが疑問を抱いたことをある意味理解できる。アナログ写真は確かに得体の知れない質を生み出す。

　今日における写真は（そして芸術写真もますます）、携帯電話、タブレット、デジタル一眼レフカメラといったデジタル端末で撮影され、公開し、消費されている。この新たな技術のおかげで、少なくとも理論的には、誰もが写真を目にすることができるようになっただけでなく、いつでも好きな時に撮影できるようになった。しかしながら、こうした技術の発達を前向きに捉える人たちもいれば、そうでない人もいる。デジタルの技法に疑問を抱く人々は、デジタル写真にはインクや紙の感触、深さが欠けていると感じることが多い。これには、写真がこれまでのようにネガフィルムや紙の上に点在する粒子で構成されるのではなく、デジタル情報を画素格子で構成するようになったという事実に起因していると言って、ほぼ間違いない。暗室などはもう要らないし、写真用紙も、感光させたネガを現像させる化学薬品も、臭い薬品を保存するための容器も、もう要らないのだ。結果的に、デジタル写真は本当に我々を楽にしてくれたと言えるだろう。しかし、まさにこれこそがデジタル革命に違和感を覚える人々が不満を感じる理由なのである。彼らは、かつて存在した錬金術の精神をよみがえらせる必要性を感じているのだ。

・・・

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

　横田大輔（1983年埼玉県生まれ）は、2003年に日本写真芸術専門学校を卒業後、国際的に名前が知られるようになってからというもの、今日の日本で最も有望な若手写真家と言っても過言ではない。彼の同世代の写真家たちは、成功したいと願い、先人がすでに確立させたスタイルを模倣しようとすることが多いが、彼はそのような落とし穴にはまることはなかった。彼の芸術的探求は、確固たる写真理論の根幹と写真というメディアの限界を徹底的に探るという強い意志に基づいている。2010年に自費出版したデビュー作「Water Side」からこれまでの作品で、横田はまさに写真の本質そのものを問いにしてきた。2014年にベルリンのKominek Books、と東京のNewfaveで共同出版された、最新作品「Toransupearento」は彼が使う独特な手法の重要な側面がはっきりと描かれている。

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

　「Toransupearento」は、サイズやページという意味ではなく、全く他の意味で規範から外れている。写真は例外なく全て透明フィルムシートに印刷されており、いくつか白黒もあるが、ほとんどは単一もしくは複数の色あいをしている（おそらくカラープリントの感光乳剤と酸等の化学反応を故意に引き起こして作られているのであろう）。このような透明フィルムシートの写真2〜3枚を重ねて一組とされ、白い紙で区切られている。これらの写真がネガを拡大させたものやスライドフィルムに似ているのは、きっと偶然ではない。メタルのリングで全てのシートとページが束ねられており、それによってその物質的な質が強調されている。青いビニールのジップバッグはお決まりの外箱として機能し、全体の印象を完成させる。透明な素材を選んだことで写真が重なり合って1つのイメージとなり、幻想的な雰囲気をかもし出している。例えば「若い女性の背中」と「暗い地下道の建物」といった「生物」と「無生物」が、まるで溶け合って一つになっているように見える。かつてマックス・エルンストは、ロートレアモン伯爵の「マルドロールの歌」（1868年）の一句を引き合いに出し、2つの全く異なる無関係の現実を1つのキャンバス上で組み合わせてシュルレアリスムの理念を示したが、横田はこの理念に新たな解釈を加えていると言えるのではないだろうか。横田の使う手法は、写真を撮り、再度その写真を撮って、最終的に生じたイメージと元のイメージを重ね合わせて、劇的に様変わりした写真イメージを得るというものであるが、「Toransupearento」のストラクチャーはこの手法そのものの特徴を示している。

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

　今年初めに横田と個人的に話をする機会があった。その中で、彼の行う一連の作業が相当手の込んだもので、そして時間がかかることが明らかになった。彼の説明によると、最初の写真は通常小さなデジタルコンパクトカメラで撮影し、たくさん撮った写真の中から写真を選び、普通のインクジェットプリンターで印刷するという。次に中判のアナログカメラを使ってインクジェットプリントの写真を再度撮影する。その後、沸騰させたお湯でネガを現像して、乳剤を溶かす。ネガフィルムに付着したほこりや引っかき傷は一切気にしない。むしろ、アナログの工程の一部として活用している。銀の腐食と結晶化作用によって、ネガの表面は不透明になり、従来の暗室での写真現像ができなくなる。そこで彼は、ネガをスキャンしてデジタル化させる。Photoshopで、デジタル化した最終的な画像を、その被写体であった元の画像の上にのせる。この一連の作業を時には10回以上繰り返すこともある、と横田は言う。大変興味深いことに、作業は全て東京にある彼の自宅アパートで行われるのだ。これまで出版された作品の中でも、「Toransupearento」を見ると、撮影が繰り返し行われる彼の手法を最も理解しやすい。先に説明したとおり、この写真集は透明フィルムシートの写真2〜3枚が一組となっているのだが、その重なり合った各シートを1枚めくる度、重なっていたイメージが1枚減っていく。それは、まるで最終的なイメージを得るために彼がいつも踏む手順を1つずつ戻すような感覚なのだ。彼が通常行う作業は、写真集で示されている写真の順番とは逆方向に行われている。さらに、作品を見る者はページをめくることで重なり合うイメージを元の単一のイメージに戻すことができるだけでなく、透明フィルムによって各写真の裏側も見ることが可能なのだ。

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

　横田の取り組み方は、スケートボードに没頭した十代の頃に養った真のDIY精神の上に成り立っている。当時、友人たちと共に自分たちでZineを刊行していた。その印刷に使っていたのが、地元のコンビニにあるコピー機だった。横田は作業の中で印刷の質がコピー機によって異なることに気付いた。現在、好評である「Backyard」（2011年に自費出版）の制作時には、写真の質を粗くしようと同じコピー機で繰り返し印刷した。そのため、コピー機のインクが何度も切れてしまったという。1969年8月に出版された同人誌プロヴォーク第三号の掲載に向け、今から遡ること42年前にプロヴォークメンバーも同じようにコピー機を使って印刷された写真の質を徹底的に下げようと試みた。だが、横田を直接的にプロヴォークと関連づけるのは間違いだ。それには実質的かつ方法論的な違い、また歴史的、政治的な違いなど様々あるが、それを今回説明すると長くなるので控えておく。しかしながら、写真とは何なのか、結局のところ写真で何ができるのかを問うという点では、横田はプロヴォークと類似した意見や問いを持っていると言える。

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

　横田大輔は、何かを記録するための道具としての写真ではなく、写真というメディアそのものに夢中になっている。彼はその構造的かつ時間的な特徴、可能性、そして限界を試しているのだ。そうすることで、視覚的に刺激のある写真を生み出し、見る人が写真の本質や条件を再考するよう促している。デジタルとアナログの利点と欠点の両方を利用して、独自のイメージを創り出しているからこそ、横田の取り組みは真に現代的だと言える。横田との会話を通してはっきりとわかったことは、技術が目まぐるしく発達しているにもかかわらず、彼にとってアナログの伝統は決して時代遅れになることはないということである。結局のところ、錬金術の精神がなくなることはないのだ。

横田大輔　「TORANSUPEARENTO」（2014年）

Yokota Daisuke: "TORANSUPEARENTO" (2014)

・・・

More than 170 years ago, the daguerreotype was publicly announced as the first truly successful photographic method. However, strictly speaking, the natural conditions on which the process is based on - e.g. the light sensitivity of silver salts - are disproportionately older. With this in mind, it becomes clear why speaking of invention, when referring to the basic photographic principles, is inappropriate. Unlike the central perspective, the principle of natural discoloration was not designed, but discovered and subsequently cultivated. In other words: analog photography's natural requirements did not only exist prior to their discovery, but will forever be located in a domain outside of human culture. Simply put, they are and will always be natural phenomena. This fact could be one of the reasons why photographs have appealed to their viewers in such a unique and peculiar way. We know very well from Nadar (1820-1910) that Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850) distrusted photography because he believed that with every exposure a thin layer of his body would be magically transported onto the silver-coated copper plate: hence, be forever lost. Simply learning about the photographic process in greater detail did not diminish the writer's skepticism. Only a single image of him would ever be taken. In a sense, Balzac was right to be suspicious, since the chemical reaction that creates the image has always been invisible to the human eye. Analog photography indeed possesses enigmatic qualities.

Today, most everyday (and evermore artistic) photographs are taken, published and consumed with the help of digital devices such as cell phones, tablets or DSRL cameras. Thanks to this new technology, everybody - at least in theory - has not only the opportunity to view photographs, but also to take them whenever desired. Yet, as with all technological advancement, some see this development positively, others do not. Those who doubt the digital descendant often feel a lack of tactility and depth. This arguably relates to the fact that the image is no longer being composed of the familiar scattered grain on a negative film or paper, but as rigid digital information in the form of a grid of pixels. No more darkroom to work in, no more chemicals to develop an exposed negative or photo paper, no more containers to preserve the foul-smelling chemicals - digital photography, one could conclude, really made it comfortable for us. But again, this is exactly why those who are at odds with the digital revolution are unsatisfied - they feel the need to revive the old alchemist spirit.

・・・

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

Yokota Daisuke (b. 1983 in Saitama Prefecture), who graduated from Tokyo's Nippon Photography Institute in 2003 and has since made a name for himself internationally, is arguably the most promising of the younger photographers at work in Japan today. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he does not fall into the trap of trying to emulate his already established predecessors' styles in hopes for success. Instead, his artistic pursuit is based on a solid photo-theoretical foundation and strong will to scrutinize the limits of the photographic medium. Up until now, in all of his published books since the debut of his self-published Water Side in 2010, Yokota has questioned the very nature of photography itself. His more recent 2014 publication Toransupearento - published in collaboration with Kominek Books, Berlin and Newfave, Tokyo - vividly illustrates key aspects that make up his unique working method.

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

Toransupearento is truly an exception to the norm, not in terms of its size or number of pages, but pretty much in any other way. The photographs - some black-and-white but most of them toned in either a single dominant hue or varying colors (most likely produced via a deliberately induced chemical reaction of the color prints emulsion with acid etc.) - are all without exception printed on transparency film, stacked on top of each other in sets of two or three film sheets and separated by an underlying white piece of paper. Their close resemblance to oversized negatives or slide film is surely no coincidence. A metal ring binding that pierces through every sheet and page holds the bundle together and thereby highlights their physical qualities. A blue vinyl zip bag replaces the more conventional slipcase and rounds out the overall impression. Thanks to the choice of transparent material the overlapping photographs create dream-like composite images in which disparate subject matter - even inanimate objects and animate beings such as the back of a young woman and the architecture of a dark underpass - seemingly melt together and become one. It could be said that Yokota puts a new spin on Max Ernst's Surrealist credo which derived from a line in Lautréamont's Les Chants de Maldoror (1868) and suggested combining two completely unrelated realities (usually of no particular artistic importance) on the same canvas. But Toransupearento's structure also points to the very characteristic features of Yokota's working method: that is photographing, rephotographing and ultimately superimposing the resulting images with the original ones in order to achieve dramatically altered photographic imagery.

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

While talking to Yokota personally earlier this year, it became obvious how tricky and time consuming his working process really is. The initial photograph, he explained, is usually taken with a small digital compact camera. Out of the many images a selection is made and a print then produced by using a regular inkjet printer. Then, using a medium format analog camera, he rephotographs the inkjet print and develops the negative in boiling water to dissolve the emulsion - dust on or scratches to the negative film are of no concern to Yokota for that matter but instead embraced as part of the analog process. Due to the corrosion and crystallization of the silver, the negative's surface becomes opaque and cannot be used for traditional darkroom printing. Instead, he uses a scanner to digitalize it. Via Photoshop the digital image is in the end laid on top of the original photograph from which it was taken. This entire process, Yokota explained, is sometimes repeated up to ten times. Interestingly enough, all this is done exclusively at his apartment in Tokyo. Of all of the publications, Toransupearento makes Yokota's method of working in layers most easily comprehensible. By turning over the printed sheets, each initial composite image (made up of a set of two or three layers of transparency film) is gradually reduced to a single photograph as if undoing the necessary steps in order to create one of Yokota’s final photographs. It all happens in reverse direction. In doing so, the viewer is not only granted the opportunity to revoke the process of superimposing but also gets to actually look behind each photograph thanks to the transparency film.

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

Yokota's approach is very much hands-on - he possesses a true do-it-yourself mentality that apparently developed during his teenage years as a skateboarder. At that time he and his friends would create small editions of self-produced zines that were printed using the copy machines in their local convenience store (an integral part of every Japanese city and the place to go when in need for drinks, food, magazines, ATM, or most other useful daily consumer goods or services). As Yokota found out, every machine had its own particular flaws with regard to the printing quality. For the production of his now much sought-after Backyard (self-published in 2011), he once again used the same copy machines to roughen his photographs and in doing so apparently emptied the ink cartridge more than once. Although, 42 years earlier the members of Provoke likewise utilized a copy machine to drastically lower their prints' quality before publishing them in the third issue of the coterie magazine in August 1969, it would be false to peg Yokota as directly related that group. Pointing out the various practical and methodological disparities - not even taking into account the historical and political ones - would go beyond the scope of this text. Rather, it is safe to say that he shares similar ideas, notions and especially doubts about what photography is and ultimately can do.

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

Yokota Daisuke is bent on working with the photographic medium itself rather than using it as a documentary tool. He is testing the medium's structural and temporal characteristics, possibilities and limitations. In doing so, he catalyzes the formation of visually exciting photographs that challenge the viewers to rethink the nature and conditions of photography as well. What makes Yokota's approach truly contemporary is the embrace of both the digital and analog worlds' advantages and disadvantages in order to create his imagery. But in spite of the rapid technological advancement, it became clear while talking to Yokota that the analog tradition will never become obsolete for him. After all, an alchemist spirit was never easy to tame.

Yokota Daisuke: Toransupearento (2014).

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).