Nureki Chimuo Archive

Since I had watched “Seven Samurai” all the way to the end before rushing to the venue, the talk event for Tsuzuki-san’s photo exhibition in Ebisu had already been underway for about fifteen minutes.

When I pushed open the stylish stained glass door and stepped inside, I saw what appeared to be a group of about thirty people seated on chairs arranged in a space resembling an aisle between rows of bookshelves, facing the front of the room at the far end.

At the far end of the space, where the bookshelves stood packed tightly together, I could see Tsuzuki-san and his guest, Akihito Inui-san.

(Inui-san is a stranger to both me and Director Nakahara.)

The two of them were seated facing each other, holding microphones and in the middle of their conversation.

Behind them was a screen, and while slides were being projected, Tsuzuki-san was doing most of the talking.

Since both Director Nakahara and I were visiting for the first time, we weren’t quite sure what to make of the place.

Upon closer inspection, the atmosphere suggested a bookstore specializing in expensive art books, with thick volumes, likely imported, packed tightly on the shelves.

It seemed the talk was reaching its climax. Quiet laughter rose from the audience, and a lively atmosphere was building. Drawn in by this, I stopped and turned my gaze toward Tsuzuki-san, who was standing a short distance away from where I stood.

The laughter continued.

It was a refined, reserved kind of laughter, filled with affection and warmth toward Tsuzuki-san.

We decided to postpone our visit to the underground gallery for later, and Director Nakahara and I sat in the back row among the thirty or so guests to listen to their conversation.

From Tsuzuki-san’s vantage point, he could hardly see the two of us.

Director Nakahara did not sit in the chair offered by the staff but remained standing, her neck and back straight as always, her gaze fixed on Tsuzuki-san.

Her expression seemed to be focused on the conversation between the two men, while at the same time observing the scene in the room surrounded by this vast collection of art books.

She is someone who never lets her guard down as the director of the Sex Industry Museum.

Even at that moment, it seemed to me that she was contrasting the museum she manages and runs with the space she was standing in right then.

Her dedication to her work is truly formidable.

Of course, I find that very reassuring.

With a microphone in one hand, a gentle smile never leaving his face, and speaking in a natural, smooth tone, Tsuzuki-san appeared to be glowing brightly in a pinkish light, as if he were bathed in a spotlight.

(It wasn’t just his head, his whole body was glowing.)

No, perhaps it wasn’t artificial lighting at all, but an aura emanating from Tsuzuki-san’s very being.

Images of the underground residents active in the Ueno and Asakusa areas were projected onto the screen, each with their own distinct personalities.

I suppose they were all Tsuzuki-san’s creations.

He speaks with remarkable vitality about his experiences visiting and interacting with these delightful people, who possess a unique charm that ordinary people could never imitate.

I was captivated by his manner of speaking, seemingly plain and unassuming at first glance, yet possessing exquisite nuance.

It is a theme that could easily slip into mere curiosity or eccentricity if handled poorly, yet he never gives that impression. I sensed that this was due to Tsuzuki-san’s character, his reverence for his subjects, and perhaps even a slight desire to identify with those people.

Though it may be presumptuous, I consider myself a small part of that group as well.

That is why I intuitively know that there is no pretense in the words Tsuzuki-san speaks or in the gentleness of his work.

I can clearly sense the sincere and pure curiosity wrapped in that genuine warmth.

The residents of the underground were all happily expressing themselves as they were photographed by Tsuzuki-san.

I instinctively feel wary of the many people who approach me with a sugary voice, saying things like, “I like you guys,” “I really get you,” or “I’m on your side.”

If I let my guard down and accidentally flash a smile, I sometimes find myself suddenly tripped up, sent tumbling head over heels, and left with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Even if I don’t get sent tumbling, I often end up having a really unpleasant experience.

Tsuzuki-san’s smile is gentle.

It’s a smile that doesn’t feel forced.

There are people who approach us with fake smiles, sometimes even offering flattery, all while trying so hard not to hurt our feelings.

I can tell right away. Those who hurt us don’t realize that it is precisely their words and actions that actually wound our hearts the most deeply and cruelly.

I’m usually very cautious, but after just a few words with Tsuzuki-san, I ended up baring the secrets of my private workroom.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Oh, sure, go ahead and take pictures.” I was actually surprised at myself for opening up like that.

“Huh, so I had this kind of trust in people after all,” I thought.

My workroom is, at a glance, a veritable den of all my shame.

Oh, I guess I just ended up rambling.

I’m sure I had other thoughts about Tsuzuki-san’s talk that night.

(It’s a bit of a stretch, but it was something I shared with the emotions I felt after just watching “Seven Samurai.”)

But I can’t seem to put it into words.

I’m not very smart and I have no formal education, so rambling on like this is the only skill I have.

In short, I lack the ability to express myself.

In the gallery, a large, enlarged photo of me standing at the Koba-tei in Asakusa was on display.

(Oh, I wrote about this last time, didn’t I?)

Since the talk seemed to be continuing, I decided to take a quick look around the basement gallery, go up the stairs, pass behind Tsuzukisan, and take my leave.

Sensing that Director Nakahara and I were passing by, Tsuzuki-san turned around.

He recognized us, so we exchanged a brief greeting. The talk was still in progress.

On the way from the gallery to the station, I had some Kitakata ramen.

We also ordered fried rice and split it between the two of us.

I chatted with Director Nakahara while we ate.

“To commemorate the publication of the Tomoshibi photo book, let’s gather our supporters and hold a talk show like that. How wonderful it would be if we could do it just like Tsuzuki-san did,” I said.

“That sounds great. When the time comes, let’s hold it at our museum.”

“Tsuzuki-san’s talk felt very sincere, which was nice. It was a pleasure to listen to. That’s some impressive storytelling. I’m truly impressed.”

“The audience’s reaction was also wonderful. You could sense a quiet, refined passion in them.”

“It was great that the audience was made up entirely of people who understood and were interested in Tsuzuki-san’s work and his talk. The intellectual atmosphere was so fulfilling, a bit different from the typical public interest. I think it was Tsuzuki-san’s way of speaking that created such a refined and warm atmosphere in that venue. In the end, storytelling really comes down to the person’s character.”

“With your talk shows, you’re so focused on making the audience laugh right away that he end up straying from the main point at the very best moments.”

As always, Director Nakahara has some harsh words to say.

Actually, the other day, I held a talk show at a gallery in Ginza with a certain painter known for his unique style.

Including the host, Hiromi Saotome, it was a show featuring three people.

When I stand in front of a large audience, I reflexively feel an overwhelming urge to make them laugh.

When I manage to make them laugh, I get quite happy and end up feeling really good.

At times like that, when Director Nakahara tells me “You need to speak more seriously,” I can’t argue with her because she’s absolutely right.

The first volume of the “Tomoshibi Photo Collection,” titled “The Sunset Room,” was painstakingly edited by Director Nakahara and photographer Yamanouchi. They’ve finished that work and have reportedly just sent the manuscript to the printer.

Since everyone has their own busy jobs, the progress tends to lag behind schedule.

But in the end, we’ll have a wonderful record that truly embodies our photo collection.

After eating half a bowl of ramen and half a plate of fried rice, I headed toward Ebisu Station, but the area around the station, which had been my stomping grounds until a few years ago, had completely changed. It had become a truly tacky, dingy entertainment district, the kind you see everywhere.

Even though we could have easily found our way by asking for directions, we were so repelled by the sleazy atmosphere of the neighborhood that we ended up getting lost, as if we were walking through the dark of night.

We wandered around for a while, but eventually got on the bus that happened to be right in front of us and ended up at Shibuya Station.

And so ends the day of “Seven Samurai” and Tsuzuki-san’s Talk Show.