Fragments of Eternity

In the spring of 2012, I photographed my mother in a white hospital room—clean but bleak—with a view of the mountains in Kobe behind the window. She was without any fabric covering her skin, and no other person was present.

My mother was about to undergo major surgery. My father said it wasn’t going to be the most difficult surgery, but for the first time in my life, I felt my mother was dying. Father, I knew how much you were worried. When I told Mother I would take time off work to come home, she told me to bring my camera. I packed my suitcase and carried my Hasselblad on a flight from Tokyo to my only home on the planet.

When I arrived in Kobe, where I could see the ocean and the mountains of the city where I was raised for some time, Father was sitting alone in the living room. The home smelled as usual, but without Mother’s presence, it wasn’t the same place.

My father is not a good chef. He cooked for me only once in his life, making instant ramen for his two sons—my older brother and me—and creating a huge mess in the kitchen. Perhaps because my mother is the best chef both he and I know, he never learned to cook. For some days, my father ate bento boxes bought from a nearby department store. I know they didn’t satisfy him.

After we ate a bento lunch together, Father and I walked to the station. He bought multiple tickets from a vending machine and handed me one. Before I could ask anything, he said, “I’ll be going there many times, so I bought a book of tickets.” I knew he was thinking about saving money—buying a book gives a discount, and he likes that. I remember thinking, “What is he thinking? Can we just hurry and go?” After looking at his face, I decided not to say anything. I don’t remember what we talked about on the train. The 20-minute ride passed quickly.

When we arrived at the hospital, we took an elevator to the floor where Mother was staying. As we walked down the corridor, the hospital smell made me uncomfortable. Father knocked on the door and, without waiting for Mother’s answer, opened it.

My mother was lying in bed. She smiled at me and sat up. I didn’t know what to think, so I smiled back, then looked out the window. I wanted to escape the painful reality before me, staring at the mountains and the station I had just left.

I started loading film into the back of the camera. Although it wasn’t the first time I had photographed someone without clothes, photographing my own mother nude was the strangest experience of my life. She looked down at her stomach and said it wouldn’t be the same the next day. Mother told Father to wait outside.

It was no more than 10 minutes that I spent photographing her. She didn’t pose, and I didn’t instruct her to. She sat on the bed, naked. I shot two rolls of black-and-white film, but I can’t recall what I was thinking during the shoot. I wasn’t there to produce art or seek beauty. I photographed my mother quietly, without much conversation. I spoke to her through the act of photography, and she spoke to me by letting me photograph her.

She put her robe back on and started talking about Father, expressing concern for her husband because she thought he didn’t know how to cook or manage at home. After a while, Father returned. She then asked me to photograph them together. I shot a few photographs, this time with color film. Without hesitation, she linked her arm with his. I had difficulty focusing—and later found out I hadn’t. I remember seeing black lines on the screen, growing darker each time I released the shutter.

The surgery went without any problems. The doctor showed Father and me what he had removed from Mother and said they were closing her stomach. Father, you were so worried! I don’t know if you remember, but you said, “Something must have gone wrong. Is it normal for the doctor to ask us to visit him in the middle of the operation?” Father, the doctor said everything went well; he was just giving us an update.

Not knowing what had happened to my camera, I took it to a camera store after returning to Tokyo. The owner told me the issue was likely due to moisture inside the screen.

Mother, I know very little about the world, life, or you. I don’t yet know what it feels like to watch my own child sleep or to see the mother of my child holding them. I can only imagine. But I always feel that I am living inside you, and you are living inside me. The scars on your stomach will disappear when you turn to ashes one day, but the memory of you and your warmth will live within me for the duration of my life. Perhaps when I have my own children, I’ll understand you a little better than I do now.

I work with an artist in New York whom I admire. I live and work in New York, on the other side of the planet from where my mother sleeps and wakes. In 2013, he produced a work titled Music (Everything I Know I Learned the Day My Son Was Born). I’m thinking of asking him one day what he learned. I still don’t know what it feels like to have a child, but one thing is certain: I want to raise my child with the same love and care I’ve received from you.

I don’t yet know when, or if, I’ll make the photographs from that day public. I know it’s not time yet. But today, I feel I can make fragments of eternity visible through this short writing.

This is dedicated to my mother, who is still alive today. I am grateful for growing old and sharing fragments of time with someone like you. Thank you, Mother.