Two Geishas

This photograph has special meaning for me. Not only has it become one of my most popular portraits, it also serves as a reminder of several core principals that have helped me over the years. That is, persistence and stepping outside of your comfort zone can sometimes lead to great luck.
As the name would imply, I took this photograph in the Gion district of Kyoto. In its prime, Gion was the most exclusive "hanamachi" (geisha community) in all of Japan. In fact, working in Gion was so prestigious that the geisha of Gion were referred to more respectfully as "geiko" or a woman of art. Nowadays, Gion is famous for being one of the few "hanamachi" left in Japan. Due to the rapid development, modernization and globalization of Japan, ancient cultural traditions and art forms have suffered atrophy. This, coupled with the fact that very few girls are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to carry on this unique tradition and it seems to be only a matter of time before geisha slip into historical lore like the the samurai.
I spent hours each afternoon in Gion strolling up and down the narrow streets lined with "ochaya" (tea houses), hoping to catch a glimpse of the famously illusive geisha. After two days of shooting everything geisha except, well, a geisha, I was beginning to think that they were just a figment created by the Japanese Ministry of Culture and Tourism. Then, in the late afternoon of my last day in Kyoto, a chance encounter of a photographer's dreams. As a rounded a corner I saw them, two of them! I walked slowly behind them taking some environmental and detail shots as they shuffled down the street, careful not to disturb the harmony. Once they sensed my presence, stopped and turned towards me I thought my ideal photo shoot was over for sure. After all, I have no idea how geisha feel about being photographed and even I felt a bit uncomfortable, like some kind of geisha paparazzi. Realizing this was my only opportunity, I smiled, showed them my camera and non-verbally asked them for a quick shot. Surprisingly, they giggled at each other and almost seemed flattered by my eagerness. I worked quickly around them, instinctively finding the best possible light and background and then took two frames before giving them a deep bow and letting them once again slowly shuffle towards their destination. "Arigato goziamasu" (thank you very much) indeed!

Fuji in Pink

For the first year and a half of my three years in Japan I lived in the town of Gotemba. Gotemba is mostly famous for sitting right at the foot of Japan's most famous landmark, Mt. Fuji and I was fortunate enough to live in an apartment with this view out my window. Fortunate indeed, for without that window and it's spectacular view I would have probably committed "seppuku" (ritualized suicide also known as "hari kiri") living in that tiny bento box that the Japanese call an apartment, well, "aparto" anyway. Quite to the contrary though, I grew to love that little apartment by focusing on two of the aspects often used in Japanese gardens; reduced scale and borrowed view. I learned (as usual the hard way) to appreciate minimalism, which believe me, for someone raised in the United States doesn't come naturally. I also realized that if you sat in just the right spot, that rectangular window of mine doubled as a perfect frame for one of the world's most beautiful and chameleon like mountains. Actually, now that I think about it, my window was really like a giant version of those digital picture frames that changes photos every few seconds. O.K. so the view didn't change that quickly but "Fuji San" is notorious for always looking different and I must say, considering the four distinct seasons, unpredictable weather and various lighting angles of the sun throughout any given day, the mountain never looked the same for long. Over my eighteen month stint in Gotemba, I never lost the small thrill of walking into my apartment and immediately taking a glance out my own personal frame to see what Fuji was revealing. Often times I even set my alarm for pre-dawn to check the weather and clouds and if it seemed promising, have enough time to set up my camera and tripod on my balcony for the morning "golden hour". I made this picture on one such morning when I was rewarded for shaking off my slumber and freezing temperatures. Fuji's winter white coat was reflecting the inordinately pink hue of the sky behind me just before sunrise. Luckily, I was already set up, hoping for a spectacular view like this one to happen and when it did it made it all worth while. Not only did I get my money shot, I was also reminded of the value of anticipation in photography. Sure many shots are the outcome of serendipitous moments your lucky to capture, but you can certainly increase the frequency of those moments by knowing your surroundings as best you can and trying to anticipate what the light or even people may do ahead of time. Sometimes, I find myself whispering to myself trying to manifest the vision in my head. Of course, a great deal of the time it never pans out. Even professionals may shoot dozens or even hundreds of photos to get those few precious "selects" but this pre-visualization is one of the components that separate professionals from amateurs. It has been my experience that you can actually increase your luck through preparation and anticipation and your alarm clock can be your most important piece of equipment. A few minutes after this image was taken the light changed and the mountain looked completely different and oh yeah, I went back to bed!