My first friend in Tokyo was my camera. I brought it with me everywhere, with an expectation of what Tokyo “should” look like: busy, stylish, high contrast, a bit blurry here and there, and monochrome.

My first friend in Tokyo was my camera. I brought it with me everywhere, with an expectation of what Tokyo “should” look like: busy, stylish, high contrast, a bit blurry here and there, and monochrome. (Photo: Linh Than)

Raw Japan

How I stopped shooting Japan in black and white

Linh Than Jul 28, 2020 - 1 min read

My first friend in Tokyo was my camera. I brought it with me everywhere, with an expectation of what Tokyo “should” look like: busy, stylish, high contrast, a bit blurry here and there, and monochrome.

Tokyo in my mind before I arrived at the city in August, 2017 was in black and white. It might be due to the amount of B&W photos taken of Tokyo, or it might be that Tokyo was too busy, too detailed that black and white photography really did provide a soothing, therapeutic feel to fresh eyes of visitors. But something... it still felt incomplete somehow.

Of course, Tokyo "should" be simplified… at first. The amount of people, the energy, the summer heat, the lack of eye contact, the constant smoke break that inserted a light haze into the piercing light — everything, everything fascinated me in an unprecedented way and I kept taking photo after photo.

Here's a B&W photo of a somber Japanese lady waiting for her travel group on the side of a bridge at red spider lily festival in Saitama.

A Japanese middle-aged man squats down by the sidewalk and take a smoke break.

Rainy August in Tokyo -- there's nothing as poetic as a B&W photo of Tokyo train crossroads after the rain... So I thought, and this picture still provokes a lot of feelings in me, but I grew to change the lenses I viewed Japan with shortly after this "honeymoon" period.

Customers wait in line for McDonald's near Shinjuku, a scene that is hard to believe for Americans.

Amazingly alive and personified robot in Harajuku, Tokyo.

...And more photos of people smoking outside of konbini. Konbini itself can be, or should be, considered its own subculture in Japan. Konbini, or convenient stores, fulfill their role of bringing convenience to people's lives. They are everywhere; they smell good; they open 24/7; and they play really good music. Every konbini has its own smoking area in front where one could see people of all ages smoke, eat, drink and chat with each other at literally any time of the day.

However, it wasn't before long before I noticed the little details in Japan that called for my closer attention. Here's a photo of a fake plant behind the fence of the elementary school in Ikenoue neighborhood.

Here's the tourists' bright red bus in Shin-Okubo, or Korean Town, in Tokyo. It glowed under the beautiful, gentle, and golden sunset light.

One day, I was running errands in Shibuya and ran into this gentleman crossing the streets. Before I managed to point my film camera at him, he could already sensed my excitement and stopped walking so I could take pictures of him. We exchanged some words with my broken Japanese, but not even once did I question him about the chilli-fangs. I didn't need to - it was just Tokyo being Tokyo.

And life in Tokyo, and in Japan in general, pushed me outside of my B&W comfort zone just like that: the colors of gingko, the colors of the light, of autumn, of the lottery stand by the road, the colors over overlooked details in daily life. Along with this blast of vibrant colors that seemed to be alive themselves, I felt like I could smell and taste the seasonal changes in the air.

Orange juice box rests on a pole on the street of Shinjuku during the cold season.

A random beautifully colored moment during golden hour reminds busy people in Tokyo to slow down.

I needed to capture all these colors my eyes have never seen before. On a hiking trip, I stood in front of our first waterfall. Japan is not just full of busy moments that struggle to be embodied in more than a single tone. It's a country where one could find the part of their soul that is lost after living too long in big cities, only a few hours drive away. We stood in front of this emerald waterfall somewhere in Tochigi, contemplating on how lucky we were to live in the age of color photography.

The deep, blue sky sat quietly on top of the snowy mountain of Nagoya.

Kawazu's sakura or cherry blossoms started around a month earlier than Tokyo. My friends and I had the opportunity to try "sakura udon", a dish made by an old Japanese couple who set up their shop with wood and plastic canvases. The wind was howling outside the "windows", flapping violently the canvas walls but we felt protected and at peace slurping the hot salt-based soup, watching the pink noodles swimming in our bowl like sakura petals.

Around a week too late after ume (plum) blossom, I brought my friend, Hikari, to Inokashira park. Instead of finding cloud-white plum flowers, we were swallowed by a haven of multi-colored azalea flowers that were blooming vigorously in the April sun. Birds were singing, and butterflies winked at us with their tiny wings. I could smell spring coming in all directions.

The windows at the connection between Inokashira Line and Shibuya station provide a great view to the "Time Square" of Tokyo, but only with the help of these guys who make sure the windows are not fogged and dusty.

Before I knew it, Fujisan was already closed to public for the year. Last October we had only four days of sun. Yet, on a rare day in Spring, Fujisan stood tall and undisturbed, not covered by clouds or rain. The mountain carried the entire blue sky on its shoulders — it was so big and gorgeous that everything between us seemed to have transformed into quiet verdant waves that were part of the mountain itself.

The no-one-could-name flowers in my neighborhood that stayed fresh and warm until late April.

Japan in my mind has not always been on 35 mm colored film. For the first few weeks, I saw Tokyo and Japan through a black-and-white lens. I was visually overloaded with everything, so monochrome photography was the easiest way out: by simplifying the colors and unprocessed details, I could focus on the gist of this aesthetically striking place... Or so I thought.

It felt incomplete, and wrong, somehow. I was leaving out colors, because there were too many shades and shapes that I couldn't process. This photo journey, along with detailed captions, was an attempt to tell the story of how I removed filters and portray Japan in her rawest state.

Linh Than @linh.than