Looking west from the top of Roppongi Hills (click on the photo for a larger version)

A couple of weeks after the March 11 earthquake, I received an email from a long-time Flickr contact (who runs a great group on Flickr called Tokyo-Ga/東京画) and I was asked if I’d like to contribute two photos to a book he and a couple of others were organizing. All proceeds from the book will go to the Red Cross and help people in the Tohoku region. The book is going to be absolutely beautiful in terms of design (one of the organizers is an art director) and it will feature some really fabulous Tokyo photographers.

I will not post the photos here (you’ll have to buy the book!), but both of the photos depict one lone individual in the city. I was asked to write a “message for Japan” to go along with the submissions. The original guidelines for the message gave a fairly generous space to text, so my “message” was rather long. As it turned out, space was more limited, so it had to be shortened considerably in order to fit on the page.

This is the original version of what I wrote:

“I often think about the individual amidst the vastness and chaos of the city, confronting the city, trying to carve out space in the clutter and the noise – I’m intrigued by the forging and/or preservation of individual identity in such a vast, complex, web.

I know that it is the strength of all of these individuals, all of us, Japanese and non-Japanese, coming together and working together that will lift Japan out of these very trying times. We will all do our own little bit (some a tremendous amount more) to help and support the people of Tohoku and any affected by this life-altering event.

As for Tokyo, I know deep down in my heart that this great city, my home, a place with a history filled with devastation and rebuilding, will continue to thrive and grow and amaze us all.”

Of course, I could write about the photography aspect of this, but I’ll save that for a later post. At the moment, I want to focus on the last part of the quote; I want to write about the unrelenting motion of this city: a metropolis that has been in constant flux for centuries, a city that has rebuilt itself from the ashes (quite literally) numerous times, and a city that constantly embraces and incorporates anything new.

As we move into what everyone is calling “the new normal” in Tokyo, I can’t help but think about the fact that if there is any one thing that has defined Tokyo throughout the ages it is, quite simply, C-H-A-N-G-E.

I think this is sometimes hard to see or feel here because there are many old customs and aspects of behaviour that seem to have existed forever and it sometimes feels that change moves at a glacial pace. Also, there are certain things that have remained constant in the landscape, visual threads, so to speak.

The most obvious visual thread might be Mt. Fuji: when looking at the shot at the top of this page (and I do recommend you look at the large version), it is hard not to be reminded of something like the image below and then think about the fact that Fuji-san has stood over this city since its inception:

As much as we have these visual threads (Fuji-san, Sensoji, Nihonbashi, Zojoji, the Sumida river, etc.), there is also so much that has changed and so much that is changing all the time.

The Marunouchi area is a great example of  change in the landscape of the city. Before the arrival of Tokugawa Ieyasu in the late 16th century, it was an inlet of Tokyo Bay. It was then filled in and became part of the grounds of Tokugawa’s Edo Castle. After that, it was taken over by the government and served as a parade ground for the military. It is as recent as the late 19th century that the Marunouchi area was a large field that was considered somewhat dangerous to walk through at night. All of the action was on the Yaesu side of Tokyo station (because it was closer to the heart of the old city, Nihonbashi), so the Marunouchi area was fairly deserted. Finally, it became the 三菱ヶ原 (Mitsubishi-ga-hara), or “Mitsubishi field”, after it was purchased from the government for the unbelievable sum of ¥1.5 million (less than $20,000) in the 1890s and the Mitsubishi company started building its offices.

I love to think of the fact that it is only 120 years ago (in my grandfather’s lifetime) that one of the prime real estate areas in Tokyo was a big, empty space. Of course, this has as much to do with the expansiveness of Tokugawa’s Edo Castle grounds than anything else – if he hadn’t built such a massive castle complex with inner moats and outer moats and areas allotted to certain groups of people radiating outwards in concentric circles (more important people/families were closer to the actual castle while craftsmen and tradespeople were on the outer perimeters), it may have been quite a different history (but, at the same time, it may have remained an inlet of Tokyo Bay a lot longer).

However, to rescue you from this Mitsubishi/Tokugawa digression, let’s return to the primum mobile for this blog post: CHANGE.

(Just so you know, I was chuckling to myself after typing primum mobile. When I typed it, I was on the shinkansen drinking an Asahi and it seemed so ridiculous to actually put that in a sentence, but that’s what happens when you mix Lit majors with alcohol. And, if you want the complete picture, I was listening to this and sitting next to a sleeping salaryman.)

A fresh coat of paint on one of the gates at Sanjūsangendō in Kyoto

Anyway, I’ve always been struck by the fact that, when visiting Japan for the first time, it is very different from visiting Europe in terms of how history “feels”. Japan is not a place where one can always “feel” history in the visual sense.

The first-time visitor to Japan might be struck by the fact that everything about the grounds and buildings of a particular temple look new and, in fact, they might be. As an example, Ise Jingu, the most revered shrine in Japan, is rebuilt every 20 years, so the building you are looking at really is new.

By contrast, when we visit an old castle or cathedral in Europe, not only can we see the age of the place, but we can also reach out and touch the age. Of course, part of this comes down to wood and paper vs. stone and glass as primary building materials for significant buildings, but there is something else to it as well.

In Japan, at a deep cultural level, newness is valued and even revered. What’s fascinating about that, however, is that it is often done within a rigid framework or performance of changing to the new (for example, the renewal of Ise Jingu is done every 20 years in a highly ritualistic manner that has been going on for 1300 years).

How this translates into the urban landscape is the simple fact that there really doesn’t seem to be any sentimental feeling about knocking buildings down, moving things, replacing old buildings with new ones, etc., so the urban landscape is always changing – sometimes quite rapidly. It’s never really the physical structure that has any emotional value, but, rather, the land itself that has meaning and history and value.

In recent years, there has been some movement within the city to preserve some buildings and even the view (which is related to Mt. Fuji and the visual thread, above) but those efforts are often hampered by the fact that there is a priority placed on property owners’ rights over almost anything else.

An elderly woman waits for the bus in a newly built shelter as the neighbourhood changes around her

So, getting back to post-quake change in Tokyo, one thing that really amazes me about “the new normal” is just how quickly everyone took to enacting it and then living with it.

Almost overnight, in a city of close to 13 million, it just became a fact that there would be fewer lights on everywhere, most escalators would not be running, office building elevator service would be limited and train services would be reduced. There was no discussion, there were no government meetings or pronouncements about it, and there was no hand-wringing about the inconvenience, it was just done and everyone carried on.

This is not to say I don’t have some comments on how it was done or where or why, but just that it was done and there was virtually zero resistance or discussion: things had to change immediately and they did. End of story. I honestly cannot imagine any city of a comparable size or even half the size doing the same thing so quickly and with so little dialogue or discussion.

lights out on the Rainbow Bridge since March

Of course, a lot of this has to do with jishuku (自粛, or “self-restraint”) and the feeling that each individual should do something (anything) in order to feel like he or she is helping the situation and showing support to those who have suffered more.

However, I also think this rapid embrace of change and the “new normal” has to do with the fact that change is built into the fabric of this great city. Of course, like any large city (New York, London, or Paris), this one has, for a long time, been a city of migrants from other regions (it is somewhat rare to meet a true Edokko). And, like any big city, it is full of people seeking to escape something in their hometowns or seeking to reinvent themselves or just wanting to be a part of a large, dynamic city.

But, more than that, it is a city that shifts and morphs constantly, underpinned by the notion that “new” is good and things will always be better than they were before. Whether that is true or not is highly subjective, but I always get the feeling here that not many people stop to ponder change or its ramifications: change just is and, as we say here, shouganai… *

*(しょうがない, which sounds like “show-ga-nye” and I like to translate to “whaddyagonnadoaboutit…?”)

This is this week’s entry for Show Me Japan – click the image below to visit some more Show Me Japan goodness: