In Japan my lens pretends to be a local: it scurries among farmers in the fields and rubs shoulders with old men in pubs; shadows priests stepping into dawn prayers; coaxes a smile from a creature of the night; and clicks in cadence with the bullet train so as not to wake the slumbering couple rocking along the rails.
It holds the glare of a salaryman who despises camera-toting tourists, tails cats down narrow alleys, pesters young families and passersby, and caresses the soft underbelly of the nightlife under the guise of documentary work.
Every frame owes both an apology for disturbing the subject’s everyday life and gratitude for their grace. It is all held in the Japanese word sumimasen — an apology and a thank you rolled into one.
It holds the glare of a salaryman who despises camera-toting tourists, tails cats down narrow alleys, pesters young families and passersby, and caresses the soft underbelly of the nightlife under the guise of documentary work.
Every frame owes both an apology for disturbing the subject’s everyday life and gratitude for their grace. It is all held in the Japanese word sumimasen — an apology and a thank you rolled into one.
