Photographs from a small group of islands
The other day I posted several rooftop photos looking over and down into one of Tokyo’s many entertainment and shopping districts. It was a truly dazzling vision comprised of modern and mostly massive concrete structures. And yet not that far away in one of the city’s older suburban areas, life at ground level feels a million miles away rather than a mere 30 minute journey.
In a truly massive city of many countless millions, Tokyo is ultimately still comprised of singular and often very solitary stories.
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.
