Photographs from a small group of islands
It has no doubt been a good while since this lady’s dry cleaning shop closed, and it’s similarly likely that the building has also been her home for many more years on top of that, so how much the view has changed from that small, upstairs window, must be nothing short of a daily source of wonder.
After years of rumours and premature reports galore, the demolition of Tokyo’s iconic Nakagin Capsule Tower is sadly now underway. Completed in 1972, the building was, and has remained, a striking example of Japanese metabolism. An architectural first, its 140 capsules — measuring 2.5 m by 4.0 m with a 1.3 metre diameter window — were all designed to be removed, allowing them to be individually replaced over time so they could evolve in accordance with societal changes and trends.
The problem was that never happened, meaning the capsules, and indeed the tower itself, slowly fell into disrepair. Leaks and serious decay were visible everywhere, and even the hot water has been shut off since 2010, forcing residents to use shared, on-site portable shower units. In reference to this, the two first and last shots below were taken a week ago when demolition was already underway, but the interior photos are from a decade ago, and the decline was very obvious back then.
Needless to say there have been campaigns to save it over the years, along with numerous calls for donations, but the Nakagin’s demise always seemed inevitable as the cost of repairs would have been nothing short of astronomical. Yet as impractical as living there must have been in many ways, it was a truly special structure, and there’s no doubt whatsoever that Tokyo will be a less interesting place without it.
For me at least, the regularly repeated philosophical view of Japan’s cherry blossom representing transience and the fleeting beauty of life always seemed a little overplayed, particularly so as the general practice is to get comatose under the trees rather than attempt any kind of contemplation. But that was then, this is now, and my opinions have changed considerably.
The full bloom last year coincided with the news that my wife’s time was limited, and as Akiko never got to see the blossoms again, this spring’s flowers felt especially poignant. So much so in fact that I didn’t seek them out, and on the whole didn’t have any real urge to photograph them.
The scene below, on the other hand, was different. I liked the urban element, and the petals gradually falling away, but most of all it was the peacefulness, along with a strange sense of the boat and its occupants being somehow significant.
When it comes to exploring abandoned buildings, long lost mountain villages are probably my favourite as they provide poignant hints about the people who used to live there and the lives they once led. Elements that to some degree are also present in the house below.
Abandoned in the summer of 1997, it has stood the test of time surprisingly well — even the floors felt relatively safe which is something of a rarity in old wooden structures left open to the elements.
The calendars, as ever, made the year its occupants disappeared easy to identify, and the photos left behind suggest the property housed several generations of the same family, although considering the obvious age gaps, it’s difficult to say how many of them actually lived there at the same time. What is certain, however, is that it was once very much a home, and then all of a sudden it simply wasn’t.
This keen Tokyo golfer may well live way out west in the mountainous, decidedly non-urban outskirts of the capital, and yet the lush fairways of his dreams must still seem incredibly far away.
Public telephones are still a surprisingly common sight in Tokyo, and the very distinctive green models never fail to catch the eye, so with that in mind, it seemed like a good idea to put some photos together as a small homage of sorts.
The timing also makes sense, as last spring a decision was made to gradually reduce their presence to about a quarter of the current number, marking a very definite turning point in the future visibility of these once invaluable devices. They were also made obsolete on all shinkansen, with the still installed but no longer operational unit in photo 8 presumably the last one I’ll ever see.
Perhaps more than anything though is that there’s just something about them. Something that’s admittedly hard to define, and yet along with the obvious element of nostalgia, they also seem to posses a kind of quiet dignity. Maybe even a sense of loneliness in their always ready to serve but now rarely used state. All of which is probably a little over the top, but what’s for certain is that visibly at least they will be missed.
