I walk. As I walk, the field of vision before me changes from moment to moment. My two eyeballs rapidly rotate, constantly registering the surroundings. Yet there is no change, no jump in my sight; all lights are smoothly connected. This smooth change that persists throughout my walk is accompanied by a sense of assurance that I am alive. While walking, I find a deep satisfaction in it.
Generally speaking, two kinds of thing exist in my field of vision: tatemono — buildings, or, literally translated, “things that are standing” — and “lying things.” The things that are standing frontally resist my vision while I walk. Most of them stand vertically, rising up from the ground. They include street signs, trees, other humans walking upright, and animals, as well as fences, walls and pillars, houses and buildings, forests and cliffs, hills and mountains, and thunderclouds towering against the sky.
In contrast, the things that are lying down — horizontal things — encompass floors and corridors, grounds and streets, and railroad tracks, as well as sporting fields and airport runways, the surfaces of deserts and great rivers, and the expanse of oceans. They do not resist my vision.
Standing things emerge as I walk. Gradually changing their shapes and sizes, they resist my vision. It is mostly those things that I photograph. I simply press the shutter when I feel I receive some sort of sign from them or when I sense the camera’s frame is filled. That is all there is to it. I have kept at such trivial acts for the past 35 years.
For persons like me who have become accustomed to this kind of behavior, architecture is a truly interesting visual object (or subject) that offers enough excitement and pleasure. I don’t know any other subject that is more complex or richer than architecture among those things rising vertically from the ground and posing a frontal resistance to my vision. In some cases, the architects’ intentions behind their designs may manifest themselves as photographic charms. In other cases, I can palpably feel that form follows function. In yet other cases, I may discover details that relate to history. Above all, it is thrilling and enjoyable to be able to change the balance between the walls and the depth and thereby modify the filled quotient of the frame, by merely shifting the position of my camera by a few centimeters.
The camera constitutes a closed internal space in relation to an open external space. As its etymology indicates, it is a small “room,” which has a window. In earlier times, this window was a mere opening, but a piece of glass called a lens was subsequently embedded into it. Suppose we put this small room on a tripod and look at the whole thing from the outside. What then do we have? Doesn’t it look like a small room or a “shed” with a window? Nobody objects if I characterize a shed as a type of architecture. If so, taking a photograph of architecture by using a camera is tantamount to placing a small architecture against another large architecture and having the small one swallow the larger one.
Nowadays, it is rare to see a large-format camera with bellows, but in the old days, any photographer of architecture would use it. This type of camera allows “camera movements,” called aori in Japanese, wherein the lens plane and the film plane can be independently shifted up/down and left/right or tilted out of parallel with each other. These movements prevent the depth of field from being distorted, or the upper part of a structure from being excessively tapered off, when it is looked up at from below.
It is not pleasant to see an architectural photograph whose horizontal or vertical line is out of alignment. Not just because the architecture seems tilted, but also because our own room — that is, the camera — feels tilted. Today, all perspective control in photography can be done digitally through computer software. However, back in the days when the control could only be achieved through the manipulation of the camera, the camera had to be carefully placed on the tripod on the exact level — just as architecture must be watchfully constructed with exact horizontal-vertical coordinates.
In photographing “horizontal things,” a few techniques help us avoid turning them into mere triangular planes. For example, we may raise the viewpoint (by climbing on a high tower or flying over), or we may eliminate the sky above the field of vision. Through these manipulations, the horizontal things will rise and resist our vision. It then becomes possible to photograph “things that are lying down” as much as “things that are standing.”
It is important in my photography to discuss “standing things” and “lying things” that can be made to stand up. But why? One reason seems to be the changes in the modes of circulation and presentation that took place during my career.
Until the mid-1970s, the word photography conjured up photojournalism, reportage photos, and advertisement photos. Photographers at the time elected to present their works primarily through print media. However, thereafter, partly because museums and art galleries started actively exhibiting and collecting photography, photographers increasingly began to create their works primarily for exhibition. For the purposes of exhibition, a photographic print may be framed, if necessary, and placed on the vertical interior wall, to be seen horizontally by the viewer. Simply put, through this scheme, a photograph is turned into a work of art to be viewed and considered aesthetically.