写真と記憶、体験：日本思想からImages And Experience Through Japanese Philosophy

In our current era, where every single moment seems to be captured on smartphones, photographs were traditionally seen as a means of preserving cherished memories. Today, however, there is a growing perspective that photographs are no longer simply “memory equals photos,” but rather that “photos ≠ experience,” emphasizing that the act of photographing does not equal the lived experience itself. Society’s understanding of photography is shifting from viewing it as memory itself to something distinct from the actual experience. But then, one might ask, what exactly do photographs record? Or, more fundamentally, have photographs ever truly recorded anything? This question is precisely the starting point of my contemplation. Thus, in this article, I’ll briefly share my perspective on photography, shaped by traditional Japanese thoughts and sensibilities—specifically the Shinto view of nature, Zen philosophy, and the aesthetic sensibility found in haiku.

Until now, photographs have generally been considered a tool for preserving memories. Indeed, looking at a single photograph can vividly revive scenes and emotions associated with the time it was taken. Due to this characteristic of the medium, it has been widely recognized that photographs simultaneously function as records of real-life moments and as triggers for personal memories. Particularly today, with the democratization of photography through smartphones—which allows anyone to take photographs easily, whereas previously this was a privilege available only to a limited few—we frequently encounter people aiming their smartphones to capture every aspect of travel and daily life. This contemporary phenomenon has given rise to criticism suggesting that capturing moments is increasingly prioritized over experiencing them. Indeed, some research suggests that focusing too intently on taking photographs may hinder one’s ability to retain actual memories of the event. But is this truly the heart of the issue?

Personally, when I travel throughout Japan for my research, I also take numerous photographs. Although I never publicly share these images, I have a vast number of photos stored in the cloud—photos capturing festivals, shrines, folk practices, objects, and landscapes from all over Japan. People often ask me why I don’t post these images on social media, and I always reply that it’s because very few people can genuinely understand what I photograph. This is because I photograph not the subject itself, but rather its underlying “心性” (spiritual essence). In other words, for me, photographs are neither records nor memories, and because their deeper meaning would be lost on most viewers, I choose not to share them publicly. This attitude differs completely from the modern context of digital detox or moving away from social media, which has recently gained popularity as a reaction to excessive social media dependence. Instead, my fundamental belief is that these images can only be shared selectively with a small group of individuals who truly understand textual media, at an appropriate time.

Thus, for me, photography is also a medium meant to be read. In fact, I value textual media even more than photos or videos. However, at the same time, this does not simply mean reading what is explicitly written in texts. Previously, even I wasn’t entirely clear about this perspective myself, but intriguingly, the rise of AI has brought greater clarity to what was previously vague to me. This is because the essence of AI’s emergence lies in the reconsideration of the importance of textual media. Yet contemporary individuals, especially those like myself born after the 1990s—who grew up strongly connected to the Internet, social media, and smartphones—seem to find it challenging to grasp this concept, causing a certain intellectual stagnation.

I have always believed that technological democratization should indeed be welcomed; however, without deep contemplation, technology merely devolves into a convenient tool. Therefore, I feel the present age calls specifically upon the few who cultivate deep thinking daily and can actively harness technological democratization. It is precisely because modern society overlooks this critical perspective that unpleasant scenes, visible worldwide, have become so pervasive—what in Japan might be referred to as a “pollution of the new age.” This occurs because the essential aspect of technological democratization lies not in what technology can accomplish, but fundamentally in being the greatest partner in expressing the ideal future envisioned by deep contemplation. Understanding this distinction is, in my opinion, a key to thriving in the new era.

Consequently, I do not photograph subjects themselves. Herein lies a perspective from Japanese thought distinct from the Western context in which photographic media (including cameras) were originally developed. I will only suggest it briefly here, but at its core lies the difference in linguistic structures. Simply put, because Japanese does not inherently require a grammatical subject nor a copula, it uniquely enables a distinctively Japanese understanding of photography. Whether the subject in question is a place, a person, or an object, what I perceive and attempt to capture is the lingering trace of a “movement of the heart (心の動きの残渣)” (“心性”). I position this within a contemporary interpretation of the Japanese concept of fudo (風土), meaning that, fundamentally, concepts such as space and time do not truly exist. This constitutes my foundational approach to photography.

Because I embed this thinking deeply within the photographic medium, my perspective may appear quite unusual. To clarify, in Japanese thought, concepts such as subject and object, or subjective and objective viewpoints, as understood in common Western terms, do not strictly exist. Consequently, the photographic medium is not about “me” photographing a “subject.” The history of Japanese photography and its photographers represents a constant struggle with this issue; yet, due to their failure to pay attention to the linguistic structure of Japanese, they never truly overcame this limitation (I plan to gradually elaborate on this in future articles). This happened because they—like many Japanese—mistakenly assume that Japanese inherently has a subject structure.

My original philosophy integrates a complex array of Japanese sensibilities, such as the tea ceremony concept of ichigo ichie (一期一会), the once-in-a-lifetime encounter, the ancient aesthetic sensibility “Mono no aware” (もののあはれ, sensitivity to the ephemeral), ancient natural worship practices, Shinto, kotodama (言霊), Zen Buddhism, and even concepts such as yohaku (余白) and “Ma” (間, the meaningful interval or space). It is impossible to encapsulate this fully in words alone. Nevertheless, by continually conveying these ideas through textual rather than photographic media, I create opportunities for the few who can genuinely “feel something” through reading text. To a certain extent, the reason I continue to publish almost daily articles on Shitsurae is that I believe textual expression—not subjective perspectives—is the only and most optimal way to convey “Japan.”

I perceive Japan as a “forest of thought (思想の森).” Exploring Japanese thought is akin to stepping into the dense sea of trees (樹海) at the foot of Mount Fuji, entering a deep forest where neither maps nor compasses are of any help. I believe the proper moment for releasing my photographs will eventually come. Until then, nothing would make me happier than if you would continue to read the vast number of texts I publish.