Open-Air Aquariums Exist
Earthshine reader —
It's me, Dazé, and it's been a long week of brick-and-mortar work. My body needs rest, but nothing is going to stop me from writing this letter to you. This is my long-awaited reward — time to indulge!
In the last transmission, I wrote about a dynamic outing on a festive day in downtown Reykjavík. This time, I'm bringing you an easy-going walk on an ordinary night from the suburbs of Tokyo … How's that for a change of pace?
My archive of walks is extensive, so long in fact that, if this newsletter continues to be monthly, I'm afraid I'll never get to talk about them all … The thought of it makes me sad, but I remain hopeful that I'll be able to catch up one day.
It was November 24, 2023. (At this point, I usually give you a bit of context, but my memory of this random Friday night has withered. If I were to guess, I had been writing all day from home, hadn't photographed in some time, and fancied an evening stroll. What can I say; sometimes you do things for small reasons.)
My plan? Roam around the nearby Futako-Tamagawa Rise Shopping Center and capture some night scenes. Well, that and getting to know the place better before moving away from the country the following month. You see, despite my countless visits to this mall — mainly for movie dates with my wife — I had not once taken the time to explore it; there were stairs I hadn't climbed and corners I had never hidden in. I could not leave Japan without giving this place a proper goodbye hug.
We begin so very appropriately with an entrance. Although I didn't enter via this particular entrance, I did use it as a warm-up spot. That's right, just like an athlete, I too require loosening up, but while the sportsman excites their skeletal muscle, I stimulate my focus — and snap a few bad photos. For me, the path to inspiration is to detach myself from my thoughts and become one with my surroundings. This practice makes me hyper-receptive to the setting and gets me into a flow. (I outline more benefits of photo-walking in this essay.)
Behold the first scene I came across — a "blossoming" light structure. I'm not sure what made me frame it, but it had something to do with the theme of outer space. I remember trying to align the moon with one of the lights as if it were about to absorb it; in this sense, the structure was sucking in celestial bodies to sustain itself — a beautiful thought for the poet, but a horror show for the astrophysicist.
Here's another copy of the funky lights. Notice the messy area behind the fence which they lean towards — it's part of a square which hosts a variety of events year-round depending on the season. In the summer, it's a "beer garden"; on this occasion, an ice rink was being installed in time for the winter festivities.
As for what prompted me to press the shutter, it began with the harsh blue light of the seated man's phone juxtaposed with the warm, soft tones of the scene. Seconds later, I noticed another gleam hovering into the frame and, suddenly, a theme emerged: communication … or the lack of it. I'll explain my point using the white floor lines seen towards the middle of the image: Both men roughly point in the same direction as the lines do, but unlike the lines, the men aren't bound to converge, courtesy of their devices. I'm always fascinated by this paradox: On the one hand, smartphones are communication aids that connect us to faraway lands and nearby relations; on the other hand, they are distractions that sever us from potentially meaningful interactions in the real world. As someone who regularly does photo walks and keeps his phone stored meanwhile, I can confidently say that the real world is a lot more captivating than we may perceive, and therein lies the common blindspot: It's not enough to perceive; one must give their full attention.
After climbing the stairs onto a floor I had never been to before, I came across a balcony easily accessed from the waiting room of Futako-Tamagawa's movie theatre (109 Cinemas). The curiosity of this balcony was that it hosted … aquariums?! And these weren't the only ones; to the right of the frame were three much bigger ones … Since when do open-air aquariums exist?!
The source of this shocker was that I didn't associate aquariums with the outdoors. To explain the feeling, picture yourself as a kid; it's past your bedtime and you can't sleep for some reason; you go into the living room and jokingly ask your mum if you can have an ice cream and she … accepts?! My logic up until this point was "Aquariums belong indoors because they're not safe outdoors"; Japan told me "Oh, they can be outside too; it's fine, see?". God, I miss this country …
Now that I was standing in front of a rare sight, I had no choice but to walk up to the tanks and see the creatures that inhabited them. The reason I approached — and photographed — the three smaller ones was because they seemed more mysterious; the bigger ones clearly displayed fish, all very similar. But as I peered inside, I sadly realised there wasn't much marine life in the smaller. The labels depicted crayfish, but the only resident I could find was this lonely fellow. Hey, at least he lives in an outdoor aquarium — how many crayfish can say that?
A second flight of stairs brought me to the topmost level; this one was even more deserted than the previous one. I should mention there's not much to see on these floors; they're just open, green spaces with several seating options. I suppose the target audience of these areas are the mall employees and office workers.
As I approached the edge and its barricading glass panel, I noticed a party of reflections living inside it and figured I should try to capture as many layers as possible. You might think — as I did while reviewing the photo — that the yellow beam is the aftermath of a passing train photographed at a slow shutter, but it's actually the reflection of the floor illumination.
Another attempt; this one from a lower angle and aiming to include more of the skyscraper. Here you can see the bench responsible for creating the illusion of a passing train in the previous image. I would have liked to see a salaryman standing by one of the windows looking out into the night, but I'll have to make do with that rear-facing bear-like mascot seated on the second floor …
Before heading to the other side of this floor, I stopped at its centre and contemplated the formidable block of light that towered before me. Even at this hour (6:08 p.m.), I could see scattered office workers trying to finish their day's tasks, no doubt eager to get home to their families, friends, or pets.
Suddenly, an urge to experiment struck me so hard that I couldn't ignore it. I set my camera to a slow shutter, aimed it up at the building, and, as I held down the shutter, I titled the camera while wiggling it slightly. The result is this hypnotic mess, and I like it. (As I said in this other essay, when it comes to photography, never be afraid to experiment.)
From this point, the path narrowed and the scene darkened. As I turned a corner, I spotted a cleaning lady dashing into an elevator room to replace some bin bags. With the 35mm lens I had on, framing her alone wasn't ideal, so I aimed the lens down to include the foliage and create some diagonal symmetry. This image isn't the best example of a leading line, but I think the two pockets of light give it at least some directionality.
Fun fact: This is the first black-and-white photo that appears in Earthshine.
Once the lady had left, I looked up and noticed this amusing row of bars just waiting for me to capture its sequential glory. I liked two things about them: the way they arch slightly and how they partly obscure the building. The combined repetition patterns — bars and offices — make this frame rather busy, a characteristic that fits it well when you consider the fact that the subject is the corporate headquarters of the global Internet services company Rakuten.
Yours truly reflected in the elevator you saw a couple of photos back.
In my photo-walking journey, I was late on the bandwagon of reflection selfies. For many photographers, this is common practice; even vintage figures like Vivian Maier have enough of them to warrant a photo book. In my opinion, they are self-centred, easy to produce, and monotonous … and I still believe that. So why show them, you hypocritical buffoon?! For you, of course. You see, most of my work here is text-based, and one of the only opportunities I get to remind people that there's a human behind this site is with … reflection selfies. You're welcome.
Satisfied with my discoveries, I rode the elevator to the ground floor and veered away from the mall towards this little building that flashed a bright red light on its side. In Japan, red lights like these indicate a "kōban" or police box.
Although the light looked cool, what ultimately made me raise my camera were the shadows of passersby cast onto the building by the headlights of rushing cars. It took a few tries, but my intended purpose was achieved: the upper half of a silhouetted man printed onto the doors while his lower half "climbs" the walls.
Thinking the kōban might gift me with another interesting angle, I decided to walk around it and landed on this frame. The only thing missing was a subject, so I waited for a moment until someone on a bike rolled by. As for the reason why it's blurred to oblivion, keep reading because little did I know what happened next …
I had crossed the street and was putting away my camera when I heard somebody shout. At first, I didn't make much of it, but then I remembered that in Japan it's unusual to hear people yelling in the street, so I turned around and discovered a police officer sprinting across the zebras heading straight for … me?! My heart dropped. It didn't take him long to bombard me with questions. My Japanese isn't very good, but I managed to decipher his concern: He wanted to know why (the hell) I was photographing his station. Although I was nearing two years of residency, I figured it was best to tell him that I was a tourist taking souvenir photos — which wasn't entirely false. This seemed to calm him down. Realising I didn't speak Japanese, he tried to communicate in English but quickly gave up and resorted to a voice translation app. After muttering something into the device, he showed me the translation, which kindly asked me not to post the photo on the Internet. I replied with several assertive nods, one good bow, and the two staple Japanese apologies "gomen nasai" and "sumimasen" for good measure.
Luckily, my interaction with the officer ended with a mutual smile and, as he dashed back to his station, he shouted Enjoy your stay! Unfortunately for me, I had adrenaline in my body and anxiety at the wheel, so my reply was none other than Thanks — you too! … Suffice it to say, I left home redder than the kōban light.
Until next time,
D