Artist Self Interview Vol.3 – Resonance and Distance: On Photography and My Place in Art History

16th July, 2025

Revisiting "To See"—Cézanne, Braque, Picasso, Hockney, and My Distance from the Photographic Medium

In Vol. 1 and 2, I have been tentatively gathering the fragments of sensation that exist within me, before they can be put into words. It was a journey back through memory, a search for the 'fountainhead' of my own expression.

Now that a faint outline has begun to emerge, the question to ask next is where that expression can stand within the larger context of art history. This Vol. 3 is a new endeavor—an attempt to measure that 'distance' by placing the thoughts of the great predecessors alongside my own current position.

Through our conversations in Vol.1 and 2, we’ve discussed concrete methodologies such as "Movement and Stillness" and "Intention and Chance." It seems to me that these are closely related to how you, as an artist, perceive the medium of photography. So, for this volume, I would like to ask about the relationship between you and the medium of photography itself, which lies at the foundation of all your expression.

To be honest, I never set out to be a "photographer." It wasn't so much that I wanted to "create," but rather, I believe I enjoyed "seeing and thinking." I only began to use photography in a serious way as an adult. However, the photo collage works of David Hockney, which I discovered in books as a student, left a powerful impression on me.

When I first saw Hockney's work, I was astonished that a photograph could represent shifts in time or deconstructed viewpoints. It felt as though my own perception of photography as something that "captures reality as it is" was shattered in an instant. That was a major turning point.

Hockney's photo collages are said to be influenced by Cubism—an approach, like that of Picasso and Braque, that deconstructs and reconstructs the very act of "seeing."

Exactly. Hockney himself has spoken of Picasso's influence, and I believe he was continually exploring how the multi-perspectival approach of Cubism could be handled in photography. Just as it began with Paul Cézanne and was thoroughly pursued by Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, what had been accepted as the "correct" principles of perspective in painting were dismantled, making it possible to show multiple viewpoints simultaneously. I realized that photography, in the same way, could be freed from "correct representation."

However, in my own case, I didn't go in the direction of "dismantling and reconstructing" like Hockney. Rather, I feel I have moved in the direction of "receiving what occurs, without manipulation." I find this distinction quite interesting myself.

That stance of "receiving what occurs, without manipulation" is on a different vector from the lessons learned through Hockney's work, yet I feel there is a common thread.

I agree. I think what I learned from Hockney was to not take the medium of photography for granted. It was about deconstructing the nature of photography as a "record that cuts out a piece of reality." From that point, I began to think, "So, what does photography show?" and "How much of it can be controlled, and how much cannot?"

Of course, my work involves my own intention, such as in framing and selection. The act of the photographer deciding on a composition, reading the light, and pressing the shutter is an unavoidable form of control. But I dislike when it ends there. I believe the work is enriched by the entry of contingency that exceeds my own will. Unexpected elements give it a rawness. Embracing that stance is what I feel is important for me.

Hockney questioned the premise that "photography faithfully captures reality" and gave form to the "temporality of vision." You, on the other hand, cherish "the moment that appears, exceeding the photographer's intent." Though the approaches differ, you are connected in the way you both re-examine the medium of photography.

I think so. Ultimately, I can't help but think about "What is photography?" and "What does it mean to see?" Photography is convenient, it preserves our memories, and it has a powerful ability to record reality. But at the same time, it also has a profound falseness. It seems to record, but in truth, it only shows what the photographer wants to show. It's like a documentary, but it also contains its own contradictions. This is due to the control exerted through composition and timing, and it's also influenced by the viewer's imagination.

The phrase "it also has a profound falseness" is striking. While many believe photography to be a "record of truth," where specifically does this "falseness" of photography appear for you? And for a medium that contains this "lie," how do you believe an artist can remain "sincere"?

I don't have a negative view of the conventional acts of a photographer, such as intentionally cutting out a piece of reality through framing, or beautifying reality by choosing to shoot in beautiful light. However, I do feel a certain fear and falseness in the inherent nature of the photographic medium—its power to present itself as truth, as reality itself. I believe that maintaining an analytical stance toward this nature, and never forgetting that this "lie" is a prerequisite, is what leads to sincerity.

And because I know this from experience, I have a slight resistance to both "mere recording" and "mere construction." For me, cherishing and accepting the balance born from the tension between control and chance is my unique attitude in engaging with the medium of photography.

This attitude of accepting contingency has come up repeatedly in our conversation. You've said that the accidental inclusion of your own sweat, the trace of your body, or the shadow of a bird on the water's surface are all "proofs of reality" that cannot be born from control alone.

Yes. Of course, intention is important, and the act of searching for the right composition and timing is a crucial act for the photographer. But by allowing contingency to enter, something I could never have imagined is captured. A single piece of "noise" enters the image I was trying to create. I don't see this as a "failure," but rather embrace it. I believe that is where the fascination of photography lies.

That philosophy of the "tension between control and chance" is fascinating. Could you give a concrete example of how that idea is realized in an actual work? I'm especially interested in your piece using a scanner instead of a camera, titled Drawing, Touching — The Moment of Perspective’s Disappearance.

Yes. That work is precisely an exploration of the "control and chance" theme, but with a completely different approach from a camera. The reason I chose a scanner was because I had a strong desire to 'escape from conscious compositional decisions.'

In conventional photography, we never touch the camera lens, do we? There is always a distance, a "viewpoint," between the subject and the lens. But with a scanner, you can bring the motif into direct 'contact' with the scanbed. In this physical contact, which is impossible with normal shooting methods, I felt the potential for a new approach that could maximize contingency. It was truly an experimental attempt.

In that work, the fingertips and pencil are not "being seen" as subjects. As the scanner's light traces its way across the glass surface, my slight movements and pressure distort, stretch, and separate the image. It's a tactile trace, born by chance from the act of 'having touched,' rather than from looking at the world through a lens.

The resulting image is multi-perspectival, yet it has no central "viewpoint." This is precisely the "moment of perspective's disappearance" from the title. By allowing a subtle physical contact to slip into the "system" of the scanner—a device designed to record accurate images—what appears is not an intended composition or image, but rather 'the moment the order of vision loosens slightly,' a kind of 'fissure.' And it is this moment that has been recorded.

How does your stance as an artist of "accepting contingency" ultimately affect the relationship between the work and the viewer who sees it? A "perfect work" controlled solely by intention might strongly present a specific message to the viewer. On the other hand, a work like yours, which includes "noise" and "unintended elements," might encourage the viewer to participate more actively in the very act of "seeing."

The work I am creating right now is not meant to present "answers" or "narratives." An image perfectly controlled by the artist implicitly dictates an interpretation to the viewer—"this is a beautiful landscape," or "this is a sad scene"—but I believe my work is different. I would be happy if it could function as a kind of "apparatus" that prompts the viewer to re-examine their own act of "seeing." I am also open to my work having an inherent ambiguity, allowing its meaning to shift and transform as viewers bring their own experiences and thoughts to it.

Artists since Cézanne are people who doubted capturing reality as it is, and continued to question "the act of seeing itself." It feels like your work is a challenge to connect to that lineage.

There are many parts I'm still exploring myself, and things I can't fully put into words. But the feeling that I want to reconsider the act of "seeing," that I want to shake up the assumptions of the photographic medium, has always been there. The challenge of connecting to art history has become one of the motivations for creating my work.

By using the medium of photography, I want to accept, as they are, the things that arise on the borderline between chance and intention, between reality and image. I believe that is my current position.

July 16, 2025, Tokyo
Yosuke Sugawara

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