2005- digital photographyA series of photos taken inside the homes of elderly people from around the world.世界各国で展開されている高齢者の自宅室内の写真シリーズ。
top:
全てであり、無である| Everything and Nothing
middle:
一番素敵ないす| The Best Chair
bottom:
忘れられた惑星| A Forgotten Plannet
全てであり、無である| Everything and Nothing
middle:
一番素敵ないす| The Best Chair
bottom:
忘れられた惑星| A Forgotten Plannet
作品について（２０１５年、プロジェクトの再開にあたって加筆）
そんなに前のことではないのだが、自宅に庭師を入れた時に、庭師さんが「隣のマンションの部屋の中におじいさんが寝ていて、生きているか死んでいるかわからない」と怖がっていた。庭に骨董の山らしきものがある部屋を見たことがあったが、全く面識がないし、昼寝でもしているところを見たのだろうと特に気に留めなかった。庭の裏の普段全く入らないところに行かないと見えないのですっかり忘れてしまっていたのだが、その後大分経ってから隣のマンションを覗く機会があった。その見たことのないおじいさんの庭にあった骨董の山が片付けられていて、すっかりきれいになっていた。もしかしたら、亡くなっていたのか？声を掛けるなり、せめて警察に通報するなりすれば良かった。ものすごく後悔した。「誰もいない森の中で木が倒れたとすると、その音は存在するのか」という有名なフレーズが頭をよぎる。
人が歳をとると、だんだんと人間性の要素が凝縮されていくような気がして、その強さに胸を打たれる。同じように、その人の部屋の中では、ゆっくりと時間が流れ、抽象化されたその人の内面や身体性とその軌跡を顕著にし、毎日の儀式的な日常の行為が見えてくるようで、想像力を駆り立てられる。
それは、時間軸がずれ自己完結した小宇宙の中で、堆積した時間が時折地殻変動を起こすと、忘れられていた記憶が顔を出すが、現在の時間と接触したとたんに、記憶がそのままそこで凍り付いているようだ。部屋の中はものすごく 触られている場所と長い間全く触られていない場所とがあり、触られない道具は少しずつ意味を失って物に変わっていく。
すべて幻想なのかもしれないが、その部屋がお年寄りの部屋であるというだけで、その人の存在や長い人生に思いをはせることになる。そのために本人は写さないようにしている。本人が入った時点で、「その人の部屋」だという認識が、写真と見る人の距離を離す。モノの写真は私たち自身の「老い」に対する両義性を反映し、そこにあるモノに意味を与える行為によって意味が揺れ動く。色々な時代のスタイルを自由にミックスしたファッションのようにも見えてくることもある。過去からも未来からも切り取られた写真の中に、見えない時間、モノの存在のよくわからない狭間が存在し、それが見る人によって意味が動き、かつモノとして独立した時間が進んでいく。
作品をめぐる話
制作をしていると、なぜこの作品を作っているのかと聞かれることが多い。作品は作品だけで成立して欲しいという思いが強く、プライベートなバックグラウンドを語ることを控えてきたが、長い間プロジェクトを続けてきて、私的な背景や制作のプロセスなども文字にすることにした。このプロジェクトを始めたきっかけは自分の家族だと思う。父が突然病に倒れた時、老いて病んでも、なお生きていかなければならない意味がわからず、答えを求めるようにしていたのかもしれない。病んでしまった父が死にたいだろうということを感じ取りつつ、大好きな父だから生きていて欲しいという私のわがままな気持ちにどうしてよいかわからなかった。それに遊びに行くといつも喜んでくれた祖父母達との時間や、祖父母が住んでいた家に越したことなど、色々なことが関係しているのだろう。それから別の作品でウィーンで独り暮らしをしているお年寄りのお宅を訪れた時に撮った写真が、すごく気になってずっと壁に貼っていたのだが、レトロなものが好きな私にはグッと来たのだ。でも、それがなぜ気になるのか気がつくのに、しばらく時間がかかった。その写真がおもしろかったのは、お年寄りの部屋だからだったのだ。それから見たことがないものが見たいと、国内外の多くのお宅を訪れてきた。
祖母がまだ存命だった頃、年に一回位お呼びがかかって遊びに行っていた。とても喜んでくれて、だいたい夕方までノンストップで昔話、それから夕食を食べて帰るのがお決まりのコースだった。昔話はテレビのワイドショーを参考に細部に脚色が加えられつつも、毎回だいたい同じで、「友達がみんな死んじゃって、さみしいけど、かんばって生きてきて、こうして幸せな老後を過ごしてるおばあちゃんなの」という話だった。
「また始まった」と思いつつ、一年に一回のことなので、がんばって話を聞いている間、ヒマなので部屋を眺めまわしていると、いついっても部屋が同じなことに気がつかされる。窓の横の小机になんども研がれた跡のあるすごくするどい昔風の果物ナイフがあった。だんだん黒ずみが強くなっていっているのだが、なんだかその鋭いナイフが大きなテレビと安楽椅子のある部屋に似合わず、シュールだなと思っていた。たぶん、果物を切って、そこにおいたまま何年も放置されていたんだろう。
祖母が亡くなった時、祖母の部屋の撮影を一緒に住んでいた叔母にお願いした。亡くなった方の部屋を撮影するのは、神聖なものを汚しているようで心が痛んだ。祖母のことや、亡くなった時の家族の苦労などに思いを馳せながら、シャッターを押すうちに、突然そこにあるものが遺品で、自分もそれをもらい受けることができることに気付いた。すると突然全てが宝物の山に見えてきた。そんな自分に吐き気を覚えて、フラフラしながら撮影を終えた。
祖母がまだ存命だった頃、年に一回位お呼びがかかって遊びに行っていた。とても喜んでくれて、だいたい夕方までノンストップで昔話、それから夕食を食べて帰るのがお決まりのコースだった。昔話はテレビのワイドショーを参考に細部に脚色が加えられつつも、毎回だいたい同じで、「友達がみんな死んじゃって、さみしいけど、かんばって生きてきて、こうして幸せな老後を過ごしてるおばあちゃんなの」という話だった。
「また始まった」と思いつつ、一年に一回のことなので、がんばって話を聞いている間、ヒマなので部屋を眺めまわしていると、いついっても部屋が同じなことに気がつかされる。窓の横の小机になんども研がれた跡のあるすごくするどい昔風の果物ナイフがあった。だんだん黒ずみが強くなっていっているのだが、なんだかその鋭いナイフが大きなテレビと安楽椅子のある部屋に似合わず、シュールだなと思っていた。たぶん、果物を切って、そこにおいたまま何年も放置されていたんだろう。
祖母が亡くなった時、祖母の部屋の撮影を一緒に住んでいた叔母にお願いした。亡くなった方の部屋を撮影するのは、神聖なものを汚しているようで心が痛んだ。祖母のことや、亡くなった時の家族の苦労などに思いを馳せながら、シャッターを押すうちに、突然そこにあるものが遺品で、自分もそれをもらい受けることができることに気付いた。すると突然全てが宝物の山に見えてきた。そんな自分に吐き気を覚えて、フラフラしながら撮影を終えた。
大学を卒業して帰国してすぐに父が脳出血で倒れた。クリスマスの時期だったと思う。夕方父が腕がしびれると言っていたが、「また飲みすぎたんでしょ」と取り合わなかった。よくお酒を飲む人だったから。夜、寝ていると母がなにか怒鳴っている声が聞こえた。「これもよくあることなので、しばらく無視していた。が、母が「起きなさいよ」と叫びながら父をどんどんと足で蹴っているらしき音がしたので、「やれやれ。これは、いくらなんでもちょっとひどすぎる」と思いながら、一応様子を見に行った。リビングには父が倒れていて、どうやら失禁しているようだった。顔を見ると、目が完全にイッていた。これはただことでないと思った。そこで人生初の１１９番。ただの酔っ払いだったら申し訳ないと思いながら、電話をした。「すみません。電話をして良いかわからなかったのですが・・・」話をするとやはり深刻なようで、父の体を動かさないように言われた。救急車に同乗し、病院へ。搬送中、トイレに行きたいと暴れたので拘束された。その後お医者さんから検査の結果、脳出血で言語をつかさどる部分に出血していて、手術ができないという話を聞き、父の人生は終わったと思った。
こんなにして書くと、父はどうしようもない人だと思う人がいると思うので、父の名誉のために言っておくが、私は父が大好きだ。大きな会社に勤め、きっと社会的にも成功していた方なのだろう。そして多くの人に好かれている。会社でのあだ名は「仏の江幡」だったらしい。父は心に響く言葉が言える人だ。病気になった今でも、その瞬間に人が求めている言葉を発することができる。すごくやさしくて、いつもダジャレを考えている。病気になってから、ダジャレの繰り返しが更にひどくなった。倒れてからの十八番は「三途の川を渡っている途中に白い布を体に巻いている人がいたので、あなたはキリスト様ですが？と聞いたら、イエースと答えた」というもので、これはかれこれ１０年以上繰り返していることになる。そういえば、小学校の頃、父にアニメの「タッチ」を見に連れて行ってもらったことがあった。記念にと父のインタビュー用の録音機を持ちこみ、映画を録音してみた。帰ってきて再生してみると、映画の本編より大きく聞こえてきたのは、鼻をすする音。しばらくして、それが父が泣いている音だったことに気付いた。なんだかはずかしくなって、それ以上再生するのをやめた。父の弱いところを見るのは複雑な気持ちだ。
入院、リハビリの後、父は自宅療養に移った。口に出さないが、父が死にたいと思っていることはわかっていた。自分の父だから、大好きな父だから、死んでほしくない。でももし私が父だった死にたいだろう。頭も体も自由に動かず、人に迷惑を掛けながら生きなければいけないのはどんなにつらいだろう。病気の身で生きなければいけない理由がわからなかった。老いても生きなければいけない意味はなんだろう。現代の医療の発達は、「自然」ではないはずだ。現代の世の中では自然の状態では死んでいる体の弱いものが生きていける世の中だ。わたしもたいして頑丈な方でもないので、大昔だったら死んでいたかもしれない。でも、生きている。楽しいことだってある。毎朝富士山はきれいだし、夕日には感動する。だから生きていられるのはめっけもので、ラッキーなことなんだと思う。きっと、死んでほしくない人がいたり、死んでほしくないと思う人がいるのは幸せなことなんだろう。でも、やっぱり父が生きなければいけない理由は上手く見つけられなかった。それは自分のエゴではないかなと思った。
デイケアセンターにいる父を見ると、子供の頃は良い子だったんじゃないかと思う。困ったような顔で、おばあちゃん達に囲まれてちょこんと座って、私を認めるとうれしそうにほほ笑む。最初のうちは、ケアセンターにいる父を見るのが本当に嫌だった。特有のにおいは不快だし、父は痴呆症の老人に囲まれ、まるで子供のような扱いを受け、子供向けのテストのようなものや、お絵かき、手芸などをさせられている。父はもっと高尚な文学が好きで、本当に良いモノを知っているんだ。こんなもので喜ぶと思うのか、失礼だと、内心思っていた。実際に様々なケアセンターを回り、私立の施設で、利用者を○○ちゃんと呼んでいるところさえあった。「年寄りを敬う」とは程遠いと感じた。とは言え、介護者の気持ちもわかるような気がする。毎日の労働には子供だと思った方がやりやすいのだろう。
もう１０年以上が経ちだんだん父の状態にも慣れ、父も慣れてきたのだろう。そこまで深刻に考えなくなった。父ケアセンターで書いて来る絵手紙は素晴らしい。絵心があるうえに、達筆だったので、それがうまい具合に崩れてもうすでに涙を誘う上、ちょっと壊れた泣けるコピー。子供の様で子供には書けない壊れた大人の言葉。私が大好きな父の要素は壊れても、まだそこにある。「いつか父の絵手紙の展覧会を開きたい」と言いつつ、相変わらず実家にはご無沙汰で親不孝記録を更新している。
父はカメラ雑誌の編集にたずさわっていたことがある。小さな頃から、何々さんはスゴイ、何々先生はスゴイと有名な写真家の名前を聞かされて育ったので、カメラの世界に対する抵抗感があった。父のテリトリーとは違うことがしたかったし、男の人が集まって、自分たちにしかわからない暗号のような言葉を使って機材の話をしたりする閉鎖的な雰囲気と、写真はこうでなければならないという古臭くて頑固な感じ、ヌード写真に対する複雑な気持ち、その全てが気持ち悪く、あまり写真を撮りたいと思わなかった。デジタルビデオから入り、写真を募集する作品を思いつき、結局人が写真を送ってくれないので、仕方なく自分で写真を撮るうちにはまってきたという、後ろ向きな入り方をした。でも結局、その写真の中に存在する複雑さが好きになった。最近納戸から見つけた父宛にサインが入っているアラーキーの「センチメンタルジャーニー」を見てすごく感動した。美術館に並んでいたときは、なんだか機嫌の悪い女の人が映っていて、「そりゃあ、あんなだんなさんだったら、機嫌も悪くなるわ」という感想しか湧かなかったのだが。学生の頃はロンドンでアラーキーのヌード写真が有名で、本屋に行くとそればかり目に付いた。その頃、ロンドンでは日本の文化が流行っていて、ちやほやされつつ、ゲイシャのようだと思われているかもしれないとひどく反発したものだった。外国での生活で突然自分のアイデンティティーに出身国のステレオタイプが加わったことに対する、よくあると戸惑いなのだが、日本人は受け身なはずなのに、キョウコはちがうなどと言われたり、いや、受け身だと言われたりして、気になったりしていた。そんな折りに本屋にある唯一の日本人の写真がハードコアのヌードだったのは、乙女心が傷ついたものだった。やっと、正面から写真に向き合いたい気持ちになってきたところだ。もしかして長い反抗期を抜けただけなのかもしれない。まだまだこれから登りたい山が沢山ある。
タイトルについて
タイトルの 「ジャムの瓶詰め小屋」は外国の小説の古い翻訳をイメージしていて、翻訳の不思議な感じの日本語にしてある。森の中で森番の古い小屋をみつけ、そっと 扉をあ けると、ぎぎっという音がして、びくっとする。そして、ふっと頭を上げるとマーマレードやグースベリーのジャムなど素敵な物がつまったガラスのビンが並ん でいるのを見つけるところをイメージしている。黄金色の梅酒の瓶があっても良いかもしれない。壁の隙間から射す午後の光がサランラップと輪ゴムで、きっち り留められたボトルに当り、ジャムの色が宝石のようにきらめいているのだ。瓶は灰色のざらざらしたほこりで覆われていて、食べても大丈夫か危ぶまれるとこ ろがあるのだが、ちょっと試しに指をつっこんでラップをめくってなめてみると、口の中でとろける。そんな感じだ。
タイトルの 「ジャムの瓶詰め小屋」は外国の小説の古い翻訳をイメージしていて、翻訳の不思議な感じの日本語にしてある。森の中で森番の古い小屋をみつけ、そっと 扉をあ けると、ぎぎっという音がして、びくっとする。そして、ふっと頭を上げるとマーマレードやグースベリーのジャムなど素敵な物がつまったガラスのビンが並ん でいるのを見つけるところをイメージしている。黄金色の梅酒の瓶があっても良いかもしれない。壁の隙間から射す午後の光がサランラップと輪ゴムで、きっち り留められたボトルに当り、ジャムの色が宝石のようにきらめいているのだ。瓶は灰色のざらざらしたほこりで覆われていて、食べても大丈夫か危ぶまれるとこ ろがあるのだが、ちょっと試しに指をつっこんでラップをめくってなめてみると、口の中でとろける。そんな感じだ。
About the Work (Rewritten in 2015)
When a gardener came to my house, he told me “An old man in the flat next door seems to be sleeping. I am not sure if he is dead or alive.” He looked scared. But I did not know the old man at all and figured that he must have seen the old man taking a nap or something. The flat cannot be seen unless I go to the edge of my garden where I don’t usually go, and time went by. I had a chance to take a look at the flat and discovered that the piles of old things in his garden were all gone,c leaned up . I wondered if he had really passed away. I regretted that I had not had a look and said hello, perhaps called the police or something. It is indeed, the question, “"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
As people age, elements of human nature get condensed little by little. The impression of these elements is striking. Similarly, time goes by slowly in the room belonging to the person; their abstract inner world and their physicality and trajectory become more visible. The ceremonial aspect of everyday life’s gestures can be sensed and that which is imagined can be mind blowing.
The room becomes a self-contained microcosm with a distorted temporal axis. When parts of accumulated time make movements in the crust of time, it reveals a forgotten time. But as soon as the forgotten memory appears in the present, it seems to freeze right in its place again and stay there, perhaps forever. Some parts have been touched often, but some parts have not been touched for a long time. In this space, an untouched tool loses its meaning and becomes a blank object.
The fact that the room belongs to an old person inspires imagination about his or her long life. By adding the owner of the room into the picture, the recognition of it would pusy away the viewer to imagine beyond.The work captures the moment when meanings float in the air reflecting our ambivalent image of aging. Sometimes, it looks like trendy fashion, mixing styles from different generations. There is an invisible time in the gaps between objects in the picture, which is cut off from past and future.
Stories around the project
I have been asked very often why I make this work. I wanted for the work to be able to stand on its own and didn’t want to talk about the personal background to the work, but after continuing the project for quite a while, I have decided to offer the background and process of the project in words. Thinking back, I have to admid that the reason I started to make this series is my family. After my father had a stroke, I felt he wanted to die. I understood but I wanted him to live because I love him. I was not sure why one has to get old and sick and to suffer. And my memory of my grandparents is significant, since I’ve moved into the house where my grandparents used live and where many other people must have had an influence. I was working on a different project and visited an old lady living alone in Vienna. I took a picture of the room. I really liked it because I liked the retro style. One picture was attractive and I wondered why for a long time. Later I realised that the picture was interesting because the room belongs to an old person. Since then I have been looking around the world for views which I haven’t seen before.
When my grandmother was still around, I used to be summoned by her once a year. She always really enjoyed meeting me and wouldn’t stop talking until the evening. Then we’d have dinner and I’d go home. She always talked about her good old times. It was almost the same every time, although I could see embroidered details being influenced by TV gossip shows. Her life was blessed. All her friends died and she was a little lonesome but she had worked hard all her life keeping her chin up.
I have to admit I thought “here it comes again” every time she started to talk, but it was only a once a year ritual, so I sat tight and listened. While she was talking I had nothing to do so I was looking around the room and noticed that the room was almost the same every time. There was a very sharp old fruit knife sharpened and left many years ago. The knife was getting blacker every time I saw it. I felt strange that the knife was there for many years. I guess one day she had cut a fruit and then left it there.
When she died, I asked my aunt who used to live with her for permission to take pictures of my grand mother’s room. I felt bad taking pictures of a room belonging to the dead. It was like I was violating the divine. While I was taking pictures, I thought about my grandmother and how much her family suffered from looking after her. Suddenly, I realise the objects I was taking pictures of were mementos, and I could ask to have them. Then all the objects started to look like mountains of treasure. I started to feel sick at myself and was exhausted by the time I finish it.
My father had a stroke after I graduated from university and came back to Japan. I think it was around Christmas. He told me his arm felt numb. But I didn’t take him seriously, telling him that he must have had too much to drink again. He used to drink a lot. At night, I heard my mother screaming. But this again is not that unusual so I ignored her. But I heard my mother screaming and kicking my father saying “Wake up!” It sounded serious so I went to have a look. My father was lying on the floor in the living room, looking like he had wet himself. His eyes were totally gone. I realised it was extremely serious and called an ambulance. It was the first time in my life to experience such a thing. I felt bad to have thought that he might have just drunk too much as usual. “Hello. I wasn’t sure if I should call but...”: talking to the operator I confirmed that it was serious. I was told that I should not move his body. We went into the ambulance. My father woke up and got violent wanting to go to the bathroom. He was restrained. A doctor told us that the part of the brain which controls language had suffered a heamorage and it was impossible to conduct any operation. I thought my father’s life was over.
For my father’s honour, he is a wonderful man and I love him. He was working for a big company and must have been quite successful. Everybody loves him. His nick name at work was “Ebata, the Buddha”. He can strike words which one needs at the very moment when one needs them, even after he got sick. He is very kind man and constantly thinking about the next joke he has to crack.
His favourite line of joke goes: I was crossing death’s river (Buddhism’s) and saw a man wearing a white cloth. I asked him “are you the Christ”? The man answered “Jesus” (in Japanese, “Jesus” is pronounces like “Yes”).
One day he took me to see the movie “Touch”, a story of young love and baseball. I brought a tape recorder to the cinema and recorded the movie for a memento. After coming back home, I played back the tape, and realise there were noises over the movie conversation. It was my father crying. I found it a bit embarrassing and stopped playing it. It is a complicated feeling to confront my farther’s weakness.
After a while, he came back home from hospital. I knew he wanted to die although he never said so. I don’t want him to die because he is my father and I love him. But if I were him I’d want to die. It must be painful that his mind and body do not work properly and he has to rely on other people. I did not understand why a sick old man has to go on living. The contemporary state led by medical development is not “natural”. People who would have been dead in a “natural state” can survive nowdays. I myself am not that strong and wouldn’t have been here if it were 100 years ago. But I am here now. Wonderful things happen. Mt. Fuji is beautiful every morning. The sunset amazes me every evening. So I guess life is a miracle as it is. We are so lucky to be alive. It is fortunate to have someone who does not want to have you dead, and fortunate for me to not have someone who I want to be dead. But still I couldn’t find a good reason that he has to live. It was my ego that wanted him to live.
When I visit him at the adult daycare centre, I imagine he was a good boy when he was a child. He looks a little troubled surrounded by old ladies. When he recognises me he smiles. At first, I really did not like seeing him there. There are special smells in the atmosphere. My father is surrounded by demented people and treated like a child. He is entertained with short quizes, doodling and craft making for children. My father loves high art and knows the value of really good things. I was thinking deep down that it is so rude to treat him with such rubbish. Having gone around many facilities for the elderly, I notice at private day care places, they call the elderly by their first names in the manner of calling children. This is rude in the Japanese language and I felt it very farfetched to say that this is respecting the aged. Having said that, I imagine it must be really tough looking after these people every day. It must be easier to treat them like children.
After 10 years, I got used to the state of my father and I guess it is the same for him. I don’t think about it that intensely anymore. He does drawings with little texts at the day care and they are wonderful. He can draw and his handwriting used to be superb so the trace that remains of these abilities is very moving. A child cannot do this. There is definitely a beauty only a broken adult can create. The essence of the loving quality of my father is still there. I would like to hold a show of his works one day. However I hardly go back to my parents, taking everything for granted as always.
My father used to edit a well known photography magazine. In my childhood, he used to tell me so-and-so photorgpher is amazing, such-and-such series of work is extraordinary, so, since this was a world close at hand but not mine, I had some sort of resistance towards the world of photography. I simply wanted to do different things than my father. The closed atmosphere; a group of men talking about machines using weird codes, old and rigid attitudes that a photography has to be and work in a certain way, and a complicated feeling towards nude pictures; all of these put me off and I never fancied taking pictures. I was introduced to media art through digital video, when I thought of a project to collect pictures from people, I had to take pictures because no one sent me pictures, and I started to enjoy taking pictures. I feel like I have enter the world of photography through a backdoor. In the end, I love the complicated things within a picture. Recently I found in my shed an original copy of Nobuyoshi Araki’s book “Sentimental Journey” signed to my father, and I was very much moved. When I had seen the series in museums, to me they were pictures of a woman who was in a bad mood. I thought “No wonder. If I had such a husband, I would be in a bad mood too”. When I was studying in London, his book on nudes was famous and every time I’d go to book shop, the book stood out. Around that time, Japanese culture was in fashion and we were welcomed but at the same time, I was worried that people thought I was perhaps like a geisha. It was a typical reaction to life abroad that suddenly a stereotype from one’s country is added to one’s identity. But I felt awaked that I was told I am not like other Japanese people, that I am not passive, or at other times that I am so Japanese and passive, and so on. So the hard core nude photography by the only Japanese author in the book shop was a bit too much for a stupid and fragile girl. It seems now that I am ready to fully face up to photography. It might be that I have just gotten out of the long tunnel of this rebellious phase. There are many mountains that I want to climb.
I have to admit I thought “here it comes again” every time she started to talk, but it was only a once a year ritual, so I sat tight and listened. While she was talking I had nothing to do so I was looking around the room and noticed that the room was almost the same every time. There was a very sharp old fruit knife sharpened and left many years ago. The knife was getting blacker every time I saw it. I felt strange that the knife was there for many years. I guess one day she had cut a fruit and then left it there.
When she died, I asked my aunt who used to live with her for permission to take pictures of my grand mother’s room. I felt bad taking pictures of a room belonging to the dead. It was like I was violating the divine. While I was taking pictures, I thought about my grandmother and how much her family suffered from looking after her. Suddenly, I realise the objects I was taking pictures of were mementos, and I could ask to have them. Then all the objects started to look like mountains of treasure. I started to feel sick at myself and was exhausted by the time I finish it.
My father had a stroke after I graduated from university and came back to Japan. I think it was around Christmas. He told me his arm felt numb. But I didn’t take him seriously, telling him that he must have had too much to drink again. He used to drink a lot. At night, I heard my mother screaming. But this again is not that unusual so I ignored her. But I heard my mother screaming and kicking my father saying “Wake up!” It sounded serious so I went to have a look. My father was lying on the floor in the living room, looking like he had wet himself. His eyes were totally gone. I realised it was extremely serious and called an ambulance. It was the first time in my life to experience such a thing. I felt bad to have thought that he might have just drunk too much as usual. “Hello. I wasn’t sure if I should call but...”: talking to the operator I confirmed that it was serious. I was told that I should not move his body. We went into the ambulance. My father woke up and got violent wanting to go to the bathroom. He was restrained. A doctor told us that the part of the brain which controls language had suffered a heamorage and it was impossible to conduct any operation. I thought my father’s life was over.
For my father’s honour, he is a wonderful man and I love him. He was working for a big company and must have been quite successful. Everybody loves him. His nick name at work was “Ebata, the Buddha”. He can strike words which one needs at the very moment when one needs them, even after he got sick. He is very kind man and constantly thinking about the next joke he has to crack.
His favourite line of joke goes: I was crossing death’s river (Buddhism’s) and saw a man wearing a white cloth. I asked him “are you the Christ”? The man answered “Jesus” (in Japanese, “Jesus” is pronounces like “Yes”).
One day he took me to see the movie “Touch”, a story of young love and baseball. I brought a tape recorder to the cinema and recorded the movie for a memento. After coming back home, I played back the tape, and realise there were noises over the movie conversation. It was my father crying. I found it a bit embarrassing and stopped playing it. It is a complicated feeling to confront my farther’s weakness.
After a while, he came back home from hospital. I knew he wanted to die although he never said so. I don’t want him to die because he is my father and I love him. But if I were him I’d want to die. It must be painful that his mind and body do not work properly and he has to rely on other people. I did not understand why a sick old man has to go on living. The contemporary state led by medical development is not “natural”. People who would have been dead in a “natural state” can survive nowdays. I myself am not that strong and wouldn’t have been here if it were 100 years ago. But I am here now. Wonderful things happen. Mt. Fuji is beautiful every morning. The sunset amazes me every evening. So I guess life is a miracle as it is. We are so lucky to be alive. It is fortunate to have someone who does not want to have you dead, and fortunate for me to not have someone who I want to be dead. But still I couldn’t find a good reason that he has to live. It was my ego that wanted him to live.
When I visit him at the adult daycare centre, I imagine he was a good boy when he was a child. He looks a little troubled surrounded by old ladies. When he recognises me he smiles. At first, I really did not like seeing him there. There are special smells in the atmosphere. My father is surrounded by demented people and treated like a child. He is entertained with short quizes, doodling and craft making for children. My father loves high art and knows the value of really good things. I was thinking deep down that it is so rude to treat him with such rubbish. Having gone around many facilities for the elderly, I notice at private day care places, they call the elderly by their first names in the manner of calling children. This is rude in the Japanese language and I felt it very farfetched to say that this is respecting the aged. Having said that, I imagine it must be really tough looking after these people every day. It must be easier to treat them like children.
After 10 years, I got used to the state of my father and I guess it is the same for him. I don’t think about it that intensely anymore. He does drawings with little texts at the day care and they are wonderful. He can draw and his handwriting used to be superb so the trace that remains of these abilities is very moving. A child cannot do this. There is definitely a beauty only a broken adult can create. The essence of the loving quality of my father is still there. I would like to hold a show of his works one day. However I hardly go back to my parents, taking everything for granted as always.
My father used to edit a well known photography magazine. In my childhood, he used to tell me so-and-so photorgpher is amazing, such-and-such series of work is extraordinary, so, since this was a world close at hand but not mine, I had some sort of resistance towards the world of photography. I simply wanted to do different things than my father. The closed atmosphere; a group of men talking about machines using weird codes, old and rigid attitudes that a photography has to be and work in a certain way, and a complicated feeling towards nude pictures; all of these put me off and I never fancied taking pictures. I was introduced to media art through digital video, when I thought of a project to collect pictures from people, I had to take pictures because no one sent me pictures, and I started to enjoy taking pictures. I feel like I have enter the world of photography through a backdoor. In the end, I love the complicated things within a picture. Recently I found in my shed an original copy of Nobuyoshi Araki’s book “Sentimental Journey” signed to my father, and I was very much moved. When I had seen the series in museums, to me they were pictures of a woman who was in a bad mood. I thought “No wonder. If I had such a husband, I would be in a bad mood too”. When I was studying in London, his book on nudes was famous and every time I’d go to book shop, the book stood out. Around that time, Japanese culture was in fashion and we were welcomed but at the same time, I was worried that people thought I was perhaps like a geisha. It was a typical reaction to life abroad that suddenly a stereotype from one’s country is added to one’s identity. But I felt awaked that I was told I am not like other Japanese people, that I am not passive, or at other times that I am so Japanese and passive, and so on. So the hard core nude photography by the only Japanese author in the book shop was a bit too much for a stupid and fragile girl. It seems now that I am ready to fully face up to photography. It might be that I have just gotten out of the long tunnel of this rebellious phase. There are many mountains that I want to climb.
About the Title
The title “The Gamekeeper’s Jam Cellar” comes from a imaged scene that represents the whole idea of this project. The Japanese title sounds like an old translation of foreign literature and has a hint of the awkwardness of translated words. The scene goes: you go into the woods and find an old gamekeeper’s shed. You open the door. The door makes a noise and you jump a bit. But when you look up there are glass containers lined up filled with marmalade, gooseberry jam and all sorts of nice things. There could be a bottle of golden plum liqueur. The light from the gaps between the wooden slats of the walls hits the bottles and the jam shines like jewels. The bottles are covered with grey dust and look a bit not-so-convincing for eating, But you bring a bit of courage together and stick your finger into one and taste it. The jam melts in your mouth.
