NISHIMURA, Tamiko - Eternal Chase / Shokei

Background information

"Tamiko NISHIMURA's book of photographs 'Eternal Chase' traces the pulse of her youth spent on the streets of Tokyo. The pictures were taken when she was between 20 and 30 years old - roughly from 1970 to 1983. Most of the shots were taken on the northern island of Hokkaido and the northeastern region of Tohoku, but equally beyond the Kanto (including her hometown of Tokyo) in the Hokuriku and Kansai regions. 1970 was an eventful year for Japan: the hijacking of a JAL passenger plane by the Red Army Faction, massive nationwide protests against the U.S.-Japan 'AMPO' security treaty, Expo '70 in Osaka, and the Mishima Yukio Seppuku suicide at the Japan Self-Defense Force barracks in Ichigaya." (freely translated, © HIrashima Akihiko in 'The journey is the route' / Der Weg ist das Ziel)
In her afterword, the photographer refers to transcending boundaries, and what is travel if not transcending boundaries? The boundaries may not be simply geographical, but between this world and the next.  To travel is to see the world through the view beyond. Photographs give us clues to navigate the uncertain present.
"In the photograph of Mt. Yotei (pp.30 -31), through the window of a moving train at Kutchan Station on Hokkaido, we see a steam engine across the tracks. The train itself may not have particularly interested Tamiko NISHIMURA at the time, but rather the attention she was attracting with the camera - as shown by the curious look of the locomotive driver. In the magazine 'Aruku Miru Kiku ('roam, see, hear'), published monthly since 1967, folklorist Miyamoto Taneichi summarizes his travel philosophy in his article 'Tabi ni Manabu' (= 'Learning through travel') as follows: 'We travel to discover things. There is really no other way but to do it ourselves. The unknown may still grow as we see things, but only by traveling can we verify and clarify the unknown.' Whatever similarities we may sense between Miyamoto's philosophy and Tamiko NISHIMURA's photographic forays, her travels were not about discovering Japan, nor about folkloric questions, but rather a pilgrimage to a bygone era and to spiritual places. It is thus more of a personal quest, like that of the poet Basho on his haiku wanderings. The pioneering folklorist Kunio Yanagida, in his article 'Oshiragami Ko', presents the customs commonly practiced in older Tohoku households, not unlike the spiritual spirit that has come to be known as 'Oshinmei-sama, Oshira-sama or Okunai-sama. 'Matrons of these families, who frequently practice the Oshinmei-sama cult, hear divine inspirations in dreams and go wandering once a year, a wooden statue on their shoulders, to avoid serious illness.' Swap the incriminating wooden effigy for a camera and they will have no trouble identifying the young photographer as the last of these forgotten women who have suspended their wanderings animated by a mysterious spirit.' The Japanese transitive verb 'utsusu', which can mean 'to photograph', originally meant 'to move things from one place to another'. So it transformed to also include the reproduction of color and form, to copy, to emulate. It also includes the perceptual act of seeing. Likewise, the verb 'miru' (見る), 'to see', which comes from the Chinese character 'me' (目 = 'eye', i.e. the function of holding something firmly with one's eyes. In Japanese, 'seeing' does not refer to 'staring' at something alone, but covers a wide range of meanings from observation to knowing, judging, and also caring about something. In earlier times, it seems, male-female relationships were also a kind of 'seeing'.

Content

The black-and-white photographs in Tamiko NISHIMURA's book 'Eternal Chase' are not meticulously composed; neither people nor things are the focus of observation. Composition, the correct exposure or exact focal lengths are secondary. What comes across clearly instead is Tamiko NISHIMURA's direct attitude toward the shot; she captures what her eye perceives, without hesitation or positioning. Her photographic method is not so much the subjective search for the 'perfect' image as it is to allow the chosen object to show itself. She enters into a kind of spiritual expectation, the belief in a solution through 'other forces'. Contrary to the transience of the photographs due to chance, fixing them requires time-consuming effort. Looking at the 'silver particle sandstorms' in Tamiko NISHIMURA's grainy images, it is easy to imagine that she developed her films in high temperatures, long bathing periods, or other unorthodox methods. The deep blacks and contrasting whites, hand shader techniques, are evidence of considerable trial and error. Tamiko NISHIMURA must also have had her benchmarks similar to the 'makura kotoba' sentences of Basho's haiku travelogues. But very few events shown in her photographs can be assigned geographically.  Most are commonplaces, but of captivating expressiveness.

Statement of the Japanese photographer, Tamiko NISHIMURA

"As a student in 1968, I photographed the underground theater group J'oukyou Gekijo', now legendary as 'Teatro de Situation'. The first work I did was about Yui Shousetsu, I was transfixed by these enfants terribles of the stage, Kara Juro, Maro Akaji and Yotsuya Simon. Fujiwara Maki performed the streetwalker 'Miss Yozakura' - 'Cherry Blossoms of the Night' - like poured out, sheer presence. I could picture her, from the stage, slipping back through into complete darkness to a riverside hut in the Edo period. At one point, after I clicked the shutter, beyond the viewfinder, she scolded, 'This is not a shot; if you want a picture of me, you'd better drag yourself over here.' As if Yozakura warned me to take pictures then and there and not half-heartedly, otherwise I would not get a picture of her at all. After graduation, I took unskilled jobs and odd jobs at magazines. I made every trip when there was a paycheck for an article - mostly I went north. As a child, I loved to spread out around me on our tatami mat floor dozens of postcards my father had sent home from his business trips. I never tired of the snowy landscapes and festival scenes. I still have a postcard of the Sendai Tanabata Festival, postmarked 1954. Because of these fond images perhaps, I would go to Hokkaido, Tohoku and Hokuriku to photograph the changing seasons. I like the sea, so even when traveling inland, I plan a route along the coast. Of the cities, I prefer those with sea and mountains, such as Hakodate and Otaru, or - outside the north - cities like Kobe and Yokohama. Famous tourist attractions have never held any fascination for me, but I have always stopped at museums. I especially liked the Ainu costumes and artifacts I saw at a small ethnological museum on Mt. Hakodate; also the cafe halfway up the slope. Arriving by overnight train in Aomori, then crossing by ferry directly to Hakodate to be at the café by early afternoon. I can easily imagine the sunlight streaming in, even in the heavy snow flurries; the ideal starting point for planning the rest of my trip. Opened in 1947, it had become my second home. However, when I visited Hakodate again in 1997, I was told that it had closed several years earlier. I also went to Tsugaru more than once. On the night train from Ueno, I interrupted reading Dazai Osamu's 'Tsugaru' each time. Much of the scenery there looks as it did in his time. When I first saw Tappi, his words jumped into my mind: 'I thought I had accidentally stuck my head in a chicken coop, but no, it was Tappi village.' The scenes before my eyes matched the descriptions perfectly. Years later, when I saw the Sesshu Haboku landscape at the Tokyo National Museum in Ueno, I couldn't help but think, 'This is Tappi.' Of course, the famous ink painting is a view of China, but it reminds me so much of Honshu's northernmost extreme: the lonely inn in the mountains with its liquor banners beckoning me as I finally arrive at the tip of the far north to take a warm sake .When you travel alone, you begin to answer your own questions. It feels good to be carefree and lighthearted. I often found myself humming theme songs to myself for my resien, mostly Enka ballads for some reason. My repertoire consisted of Takakura Ken's 'Karajishi Botan,' Shinichi Mori's 'Minatomachi Blues,' or other popular songs like 'Blue Light Yokohama' and Meiko Kaji's 'Uramibushi.' When I think about it today, all pretty silly. In the early 1970s, every environment I visited had a freshness and its own unique charm. Perhaps because of my youth, these regions beyond the reach of the Shinkansen 'bullet train' had their own strong presence, devoid of urban trappings. Looking back at my images, I reflect on the existence of photography as it speaks to me, after an accumulation of life experiences, subconscious encounters, lost memories, my subjects and the moments when I pressed the shutter, the visions that recognized form before I did. I believe to have recorded what lies beyond the encounter between the viewer and what is seen, in the awareness of giving form to that which has fallen apart, at the very moment it was photographed. Perhaps it is also the indescribable charm of the hidden; lately, however, the thoughts reach me only very weakly." (© Tamiko NISHIMURA, Sept. 10, 2012 / Transl.: © Alfred Birnbaum)

About the Japanese photographer, Tamiko NISHIMURA (b. 1948, in Tokyo)

Photo books by Tamiko NISHIMURA