Artist Self Interview Vol.2 – Embracing the Unforeseen in Stillness

14th July, 2025

There are feelings that have not yet become words, fragments still too unformed to be called a “statement.” I feel as though I have carried these fragments within me for a long time.

My previous Self-Interview, vol. 1, was an attempt to give these fragments voice, just as they are. These are memories and sensations with indistinct outlines, not yet ready to be called a “statement.” But by tentatively arranging them, piece by piece, a clearer picture sometimes begins to emerge.

In vol. 2, I want to try to articulate why I am drawn to motifs of water surfaces and reflections, and from where my attitude of accepting chance and happenstance originates.

This is not an “answer.” It is an attempt to use words to look closely at feelings I have not been able to fully organize myself. My hope is to preserve this uncertain process of thinking while speaking, of searching for words while thinking.

In your first Self-Interview, you spoke of a feeling you had when you began photography: “the more I moved, the more my eyes opened.” Could you elaborate on that sense of seeing places and subjects with fresh eyes by traveling?

Yes. At the time, I felt that the farther I traveled from my daily life in Tokyo, the better the photographs I could take. I believed that the act of “moving itself” was the essential switch that turned on my powers of observation.

Leaving Tokyo for other prefectures, I was drawn to iconic subjects—things that seemed pictorial. I was attracted to what you might call the “picturesque” in nature, such as forests, mountains, rivers, and seas. I found the scenery of Tokyo boring and believe I was consciously trying to distance myself from urban life. I haven’t traveled abroad in a long time, but if I had continued in that mindset, I might have eventually gone overseas in search of new landscapes. I’m sure I would have taken many beautiful photographs and had a wonderful time.

But that’s not what happened. With the proliferation of smartphones and social media, photographs became ubiquitous, and I began to question the value of “just taking pretty pictures.” An environment where one could view landscapes from all over the world without leaving home had quietly been established. Instagram and Google Maps are symbols of this shift.

At the same time, I started to feel a sense of dissonance with my own assumption that I “had to travel to be able to shoot.” I began to wonder if there wasn’t something to be found right at my feet, in my immediate surroundings. So, I made a conscious decision to observe things within a range I could comfortably walk from my home.

So that was a rejection of the rule you had set for yourself, that you “couldn’t open your eyes without moving.” Choosing instead to “look more closely, without moving” must have been a significant shift in your gaze.

It was. The area where I live is surprisingly rich in nature for a neighborhood within Tokyo’s 23 wards, yet it also has many tall buildings. It’s a slightly strange area, so there was quite a lot to observe. As I continued this practice, I found myself increasingly photographing the surface of a nearby water channel. I didn’t initially intend to make it a theme for my work; it was a natural progression.

By remaining still, you were searching for a “new way of seeing.” Could you tell me more about how you were naturally drawn to the motif of the water’s surface?

After consciously limiting my travel distance to observe my immediate surroundings, I turned my attention to many different things. There is a large water channel in my neighborhood. Although the water itself was clear, the sandy bottom was dark, giving it a less than pristine impression. I tried photographing it a few times but didn’t feel compelled to continue.

At that time, I was spending many hours searching for and photographing wild birds. Perhaps because of the area’s rich nature, many different species live nearby. Small birds like the kingfisher, the Japanese white-eye, the great tit, and the white wagtail are difficult to see clearly with the naked eye, so I pursued them with a super-telephoto lens, wanting to get a closer look.

One day, while observing the birds, I happened to glance down at the water’s surface and saw the sky reflected in perfect clarity. I remember it was a clear day, and the blue sky and white clouds were reflected on the water as if in a mirror. But it was not the sky as it was; its form was transformed by ripples and distortions. From that day forward, my approach to photography changed distinctly.

That shift in gaze, from searching for birds in the distance to focusing on the water at your feet, feels very symbolic. It could be described as a change from pursuing the faraway to gazing at what was already reflected right there.

Yes, my attempts to capture distant objects were redirected by the reflections at my feet. In that, I think I sensed the mystery of the act of “seeing” itself. The sky I had been looking up at was now reflected as an image below me. I was visually perceiving the physical water’s surface, while also seeing the image reflected in it. Yet that image was in constant flux, changing with the ripples and distortions, impossible to touch. I felt I could watch that ambiguity, where reality and image intersect, forever.

This sounds less like an intentional act of “capturing” and more like turning your attention to what “appears” on its own. Photography is fundamentally a medium that aims to “record” or “reproduce,” but your act seems to question that very nature.

Perhaps so. Photography is premised on the idea that it “records reality.” Of course, the photographer’s intent exists before that. It’s true that I could no longer think of photography as merely the act of looking through a viewfinder and framing a piece of reality as it is. I thought that by photographing a state where the real and the unreal—two opposing things—coexist, something might be revealed.

It became less about creating something from my own intent and more about how to receive the images that “appear” there of their own accord. The feeling is closer to receiving and recording what unfolds, rather than taking a picture.

By accepting what “just appears,” I feel that the chance-based nature of photography and its distance from reality are laid bare. How do I engage with an image that does not bend to my will? This makes me contemplate the act of “seeing” itself and has prompted me to reconsider the medium of photography.

After realizing that “there is something even without moving,” motifs and perspectives like water surfaces, reflections, and ripples emerged naturally. What was your feeling when shooting your early series, “Sky”?

By temporarily ceasing to travel, I had the sense that things I had previously overlooked were becoming visible. There was a fascination in the way that recognizable symbols like the blue sky and clouds were transformed into something else by the ripples. A water surface is not just a mirror; through its wavering and distortion, it always shows a slightly different expression. And though it was distorted, it wasn’t an unpleasant distortion—I found it beautiful. The landscape was changing on its own, without me having to move.

The feeling was less about me manipulating anything and more like gazing at the wavering that was already present. The boundary was not clearly visible; I felt that the “landscape and its image” both existed simultaneously. I think I was gazing at that “ambiguity” itself.

That “ambiguity,” that “sense of a boundary not being visible, yet both things existing simultaneously,” suggests an attitude of seeing both the real and the reflection as concurrently present, rather than separating them. It’s a gaze that lingers in the “in-between,” refusing the binary opposition that most people unconsciously create.

Yes, the image reflected on the water’s surface and the actual landscape there—both certainly “exist.” I have a sense of having accepted that overlap as it was, rather than choosing one over the other. The feeling of both the actual landscape and the wavering image being present at the same time—I think I found the fact of their coexistence fascinating.

Your comment that “it wasn’t an unpleasant distortion” is striking. To perceive distortion, which is often seen as negative, as something beautiful suggests you have an eye for finding order and charm within the uncertain and the fluctuating.

Even when the form broke apart, it felt natural as a movement of water, and I perceived it as beautiful. Familiar symbols like the sky and clouds, transformed by the water’s wavering, become something more than just scenery. There was a sense that the scene was expressing itself of its own accord, before I could even decide “this is how I want to see it.” I was simply and genuinely intrigued by that.

That sounds less like self-expression and more like an attitude of receiving a power that resides within the landscape itself. Witnessing a moment when the world expresses itself without your hand mediating it. This could perhaps be described as the ethic of your “seeing.”

Certainly, the feeling is more about receiving what is already there than it is about me assigning meaning. The act of “seeing” constitutes the majority of my intentional action. I’m not yet sure if this is the cause, but the time I spend thinking about the act of “seeing” itself has naturally increased. I don’t know what my future work will hold, but I approach it with the question of how I can photograph, how I can preserve, that “something” that is definitely there.

You have a work in which a bird’s shadow is reflected on the water. What were the circumstances of that shot?

A bird’s shadow was captured on the water by chance. The area is home to many seabirds. I was drawn to the water’s ripples and was in the process of photographing them. The image in the viewfinder consists of only two things: the real water surface, and the unreal image of its distortion. When I’m concentrating on shooting, I enter a state where it becomes difficult to distinguish between the real and the unreal. In the midst of that, a seabird happened to cross overhead, and its shadow appeared on the water. Because something I couldn’t determine by my own will entered the photograph, I looked through the viewfinder and felt, “this image is real.” There was a sense that the intrusion of chance made the work more vivid.

I know this might be a little hard to follow, so to explain it carefully: the act of taking a photograph involves deciding what you want to shoot, finding a composition, and pressing the shutter—a basic process anyone does. Today, many people do this using the cameras on their smartphones. And that process is carried out based on the photographer’s will and intent.

It’s the same when I photograph the water’s surface; deciding on the composition and pressing the shutter is based on my own intent. However, during the shoot, a bird flew overhead, and I was able to instantly recognize its shadow in the viewfinder and capture it. That was the moment I was able to photograph the water’s surface with the bird’s shadow reflected by chance. I believe this element of chance is also a crucial point in the work “Sky.”

If the bird hadn’t appeared in the shot, I might not have ever released this work. There was a sense that by accepting something not entirely completed by my own will, a new kind of reality was born.

One could say that “chance came to reside in the work.” Does this attitude of “accepting chance” connect to your past professional experiences? It seems you have long been searching for a balance between the desire to control things and the willingness to accept what cannot be controlled.

I think so. In my past work experiences, there was always that balance between the parts I controlled and the parts where I accepted the unexpected. A world that is entirely self-contained has its limits; richness is born when chance is allowed in. I think it’s the same with my artwork. How you receive the unexpected, even if it’s a small element, can change your perspective and the work itself.

In my work, I also feel that when chance or something beyond my own prediction is added, it creates something like proof of reality, or something essential.

Speaking like this makes me realize that perhaps my choice of water surfaces and mirrors as motifs was also a matter of chance. It was by chance that there was a large water channel and river near my home. I made the decision to limit myself to a walkable distance from my Tokyo home, but the environment in Tokyo varies greatly. You could say the subjects I observed were there by chance as well.

The accidental inclusion of a part of your body might also be an aspect of this “acceptance of chance.” It involves including an uncontrolled reality in the work, along with any embarrassment. The attitude of not erasing the foreignness of “I’ve been captured in the shot” also seems to reveal this welcoming of chance.

Yes, there are works where my own body or even my sweat is reflected, and at first, the feeling of embarrassment is significant. But there was also a part of me that didn’t want to erase it. It’s not a composition decided solely by my will, but something that enters on its own. I believe that, too, is part of the photograph, part of reality. Now that you mention it, perhaps that attitude of accepting chance appears in those moments as well.

Finally, what directions or possibilities are you considering for your future work? How do you imagine it expanding beyond the motifs of water surfaces and reflections?

My photographic practice begins with establishing constraints in order to capture chance, and from there, valuing the questions and perspectives that emerge. At the same time, I feel that my own attitudes and thoughts about making work are also wavering and changing.

In the future, I may move away from motifs like water surfaces and mirrors, but I want to maintain a gaze that continues to explore an unknown world, taking sensations of “wavering” and “contingency” as its starting point. I intend to expand the possibilities of my expression by experimenting with various materials and methods, without being tied to specific motifs or techniques.

July 14, 2025, Tokyo
Yosuke Sugawara

BACK TO INDEX