Greetings

Moving to the Flower Peninsula

One day, after thirty years of living a busy life in Tokyo as a housewife, my husband surprised me by proposing “let’s move to the Izu Peninsula”. At first, I was hesitant. Although it is only two hours southwest of Tokyo by train, Izu, also called the “Flower Peninsula”, is a forested highland area. It seemed too remote; there were no neighbors close by and the night was extremely dark.

After moving to the area, however, I was soon captivated by the village life there. Thanks to the tropical waters of the Kuroshio Current, Izu is blessed with countless flowers, such as camellia, mimosa, and magnolia. Indeed, a step away from our door, one is surrounded by a panoply of colors emanating from such flowers ― deep crimson, gold, a pure, limpid white. It is a setting that evokes images of my childhood in the countryside.

Embarking on my photographic journey

I find it both comforting and exhilarating to walk in the Izu highland. A tilt of the head of even a few degrees can be revelatory. The drifting of the clouds, the slight breath of the wind, the swaying of the trees ― it all continuously affects the colors of the flowers along with the ever-changing sunlight. For as the light changes, so do the flowers’ colors. It’s as if the flowers and light are in a dance evocative of an impressionistic piece of music ― a different world.

It was my wish to share this wondrous world with others that first inspired me to begin my photographic journey. I started by sending images of flowers and light to old friends, my parents, and others I knew who loved flowers. Astounded by the positive reaction to these images, I undertook a program in color studies in earnest, and apprenticed under three professional photographers. Ever since, I have spent two hours every morning traversing the highland, photographing wildflowers I discover in the fields, trees, and pathways.

Becoming one with flowers

After several years of trial and error, I found my photographic style, my “eye.” I discovered that the act of photographic creativity is not a matter of simply looking at a flower as an object separate and apart from me, but is a way of seeing the flower that is more like a meditative practice ― method that allows me to coalesce with the flower, to feel that the flower and I are one. By exhaling silently and focusing my mind entirely on the flower, I enter into its world. Before long, this approach brings me a feeling of serenity, like moonlight on the surface of a lake. I become aware that I am not “looking at flowers” but am experiencing a mysterious sensation that the flowers are speaking to me. This is the moment I anticipate, when the intersection of mind, light, shadow, and flower reveals itself. I hold my breath and push the shutter button.

I learned later that this method of perception, based on a deep contemplation of an object, is akin to the observation and breathing practice of Zen Buddhism.

The Story of Flowers and Light

I want to share my ongoing dialogue with flowers, which I call The Story of Flowers and Light, with many people. My images are not merely about revealing the color and shape of the flowers. Indeed, the plant’s fragrance, the whisper of the wind, the smell of the soil, the chirping of insects, I believe all of these elements blend to create the impact of each image.

For the past decade, each year, both in Japan and abroad, I have held solo exhibits of my images in which I introduce my new works. There are some who visit my exhibits and spend a long time viewing a single photo, enthralled in their own personal dialogue with the flowers.

I hope that those who feel discomfited by the tumult of the world around them can find comfort and solace from their own personal communion with my images ― and that maybe they will even discover something in the photos that I did not realize or envision.

Today too, I am off to create more images; my journey continues.