I ask myself: Is there meaning in taking photos?
I go out to take pictures, sometimes to the farthest corners of Japan. There are so many beautiful landscapes, but often I can’t find meaning in them, and I just pass by without pressing the shutter. But sometimes, I feel a certain attraction to a place, and then I do press the shutter. It’s a mystery. I don’t know why. And so, I’ve continued taking photos in this way. Photography is simple, yet it is difficult. It is judged more by the viewer's understanding than by the photographer's intentions. If the context behind the photo can be shared, then it may resonate with the viewer, overlapping with their own memories and experiences. If the photographer doesn't even understand the meaning of the shot, how could the viewer? That said, I don't necessarily like photos with a built-in narrative. I’m not fond of forcing a story or retroactively creating one to explain a photograph. After all, for me, photography is about capturing moments—if a single shot doesn't hold power, I can't bring myself to like it.

I watched a movie. It was directed by Wim Wenders. There was an interview with the director, where he explained the background of the film. It was important. So, I’ll admit this is going to get a little difficult, but I do understand it. Well, maybe not fully understand it, but I feel something profound. The interview was about the protagonist and who they were, and while the character was fictional, I believe that’s the very essence of the film.
The protagonist experiences a life-changing event one morning. He had been living a successful life, one that many would envy, but he had started to question his way of living. Then, on that particular morning, something happens. Let me quote the director's words exactly. He said: "One morning, Hirayama wakes up from a nightmare, in a cheap and unpleasant hotel room, not knowing why he’s there. His head hurts. He can only stare blankly ahead. Then, suddenly, sunlight pours in and illuminates him. Light shines through the leaves. He turns his gaze to the wall beside him, watching the leaves sway in the wind. When he looks back at the window, the light is streaming through a break in the clouds. At that moment, he suddenly becomes aware of something deeply existential. He realizes that this sight is something no one else has ever seen. This light, this sunlight, is not directed at any other person. No one else is seeing the dappled light on the wall. And he realizes—this light has traveled hundreds of miles from the sun, and it is only for him, a tiny, beautiful miracle for him alone, a wondrous play of light meant only to illuminate him."

I stop for a moment, remembering the director’s words. The sunlight that falls on this spot, at this moment, is something I alone am seeing. It is meant for me alone. A scene that would normally be overlooked, one that most people would simply pass by, is transformed into something special when I stop and notice it. And so, I stand still. The beauty that lies hidden in the everyday moments of life is right here.