On 27 April 2007, the world-famous Russian cellist and conductor Mstislav Rostropovich, who was also a leading supporter of democracy during the Soviet era, died in Moscow, aged 80. His close friend Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn said in grief: “Rostropovich’s death is an unbearable, profound loss for Russian culture.” Whenever this legendary artist performed in Tokyo, there was a place he would always visit: the famous Tsukiji fish market.
Rostropovich loved Tsukiji. It was where he could appreciate exotic East Asian culture at first hand and indulge in culinary delicacies inside busy small eateries. He even brought his fellow musicians along to experience what Tsukiji was like early in the morning. Rostropovich was inspired by what he regarded as the most precious and essential characteristic of those who worked in Tsukiji: their indefatigable energy and enthusiasm towards other people, their work, and their environment. Extremely sensitive to sounds, he commented on those primordial rhythms and pulses that poured in from all directions in the market: “Listening to Tsukiji is like listening to a Japanese symphony, one that is steeped in cultural meaning and entirely authentic. For Japan, the Tsukiji fish market is like a homeland of the soul.”
Of the various creative projects that I have embarked on at different times, Tsukiji Fish Market must be my earliest and longest-lasting subject. From 1993, when I was a student in Japan, to 2009, by which time I had returned to Taiwan, I found myself year after year among the early-rising people in Tsukiji during my business and private trips to Tokyo. Situated as it was in a foreign country, Tsukiji was a place that nourished my mind, a place that helped me hone my photographic skills for more than a decade. It has taken root in my life, becoming an unforgettable hometown that seems far away yet is always close by. To be honest, I never imagined that the fish market would be relocated. Nevertheless, the disappearance of an object or site that has been photographed throws into sharp relief the value and meaning of photography as a medium that serves to re-present and to preserve. In other words, vanishing things may yet receive a new lease of life, however fleeting, through photography.
What was it that forged this connection—this intimate relationship which lasted for nearly 17 years—between Tsukiji and me? Was it my own strong determination to learn? Was it the visual excitement of the external world, the desire to peep into a foreign place? Was it cultural differences, or simply my appetite for seafood? I have brooded over these questions.
The answers, as I have come to realize, lie in that sense of fateful encounter, the hustle and bustle, those clear and reassuring rhythms, that swarming crowdedness, that surging and ever-shifting flow of people, that gentleness which seems rude, that sense of artisanship which is worth savoring, that pristine, nostalgic air, those culinary delights which make visitors linger, that precious feeling of a permanent bond, that unpretentious straightforwardness, that expansive generosity of spirit, that untrammeled freedom, that order amidst apparent chaos... and that gentle breeze which accompanies Rostropovich’s rich and mellow music, sometimes cold and frosty, sometimes sunny and warm, as if varying with the seasons.
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
(photo by Shen Chao-liang)
