Nobuhiro Fukui

“unknown of the known”and
the“never seen of the already seen.”

You can look at each photograph individually, or you can look at them all together as a single panoramic image. Have you carefully adjusted the color tones of neighboring photographs?

Rather than controlling the color tones to make the photos match, I simply choose photos that happen to match. If you try to exert too much control, you end up with something different. The extent of my control here is making adjustments in tone for printing. I would never try to produce dramatic effects by darkening part of the image or raising the contrast. Then it would look like something from TV or the movies. Certainly, trying to keep things natural brings up the issue of what is or isn’t natural. I am interested in how images that aren’t televisual or cinematic look, in how we perceive them.
In selecting the photographs, I aim to create a display where the pictures fit together so neatly that you won’t know, at first glance, you aren’t looking at a continuous space. The photos are joined; the spaces they depict are distinct.

And the photos aren’t mounted on acrylic panels just to make the exhibition look flashy. They are because it’s the best way to get a borderless edge. Edges with no margin allow me to muscle together images of contrasting spaces. The smoothly joined images create the sense of continuous space and, through the relationships established between them, invite you to compare and contrast what you are seeing. Conversely, because the subjects aren’t actually connected, the frame-like quality of the isolated spaces becomes prominent. At least that is my intention.
In selecting a segment of the vast world, framing determines every photograph, and I think photographs with borderless edges prompt viewers to believe the camera can “crop space.” If you perceive every single photo as a mere part of something, that implies you have leeway to envision not only the world inside the frame but the one beyond it, as well. No matter how you lay out the photos, though, you’ll still see them as so many points with borderlines between them. Perceiving every photo as “cropped space,” however, will give rise to both the missing zones between the photos and the wider area that includes all these spaces. If we can realize such conditions, we can make viewing photography a richer experience. The finite quality of the world inside the photograph links it to the infinite world beyond it. Because I’m really concerned with these things, I always worry a lot when selecting works and installing exhibitions.
On the other hand, we have no sense of the frame in large-scale, “big picture” photographs -- from artists with hang-ups about painting -- that tend to concern themselves solely with what’s inside the photograph. You hear that these images are about “building a world,” but in the end the only world you have is the one in the photo. No matter how enormous an image you make, the photograph can’t help being constrained by its frame. And if you take one step outside this frame, you realize that the world contained within even a huge photograph is a limited one.

Does this have something to do with your hesitation to use the word “subject”?

The reason I don’t like using the word “subject” is that it implies an assumed target for the photograph. With the subject in mind beforehand, the photographer runs the risk of making conventional imagery that only superficially shows the things he or she has seen or experienced. Photography is based on the camera, a device that operates on different mechanisms than we do; isn’t it more interesting to keep this notion in mind when making pictures? If your goal is to portray something you have in your head, perhaps painting is the more appropriate medium. If you choose photography, I think you should orient yourself towards the possibilities of the medium.
We might not even need to use words like “subject” or “object.” When you have words, you become tied to them.

It seems that you exclude narrative elements that might hint at the lives of the people living in the places you photograph.

When I’m photographing, I’m not conscious of excluding or including any narrative elements. The camera doesn’t think. While shooting, I also try not to think, or to limit the possible readings of a photograph. This leads to a richer viewing experience because people can bring their own points of view to bear when looking at the photos.
If some viewers see my images as scary, others report feeling the city’s warmth. You might look at a photo one day and see stories within it, yet see no narrative the following day. I find this fluctuation fascinating. Thanks to the fluctuation, you have the opportunity to question your own awareness and habits of looking. If the image is limited to one subject, you need only interpret the picture. A work that constrains interpretation deprives viewers of the chance to explore how they see things. Some artists use this method of circumscription, but I try to avoid it.

Some viewers stand in front of your photographs and seem perplexed about where to look. There are no elements that say, “look at me.”

Through my photographs, I’m trying to zero in on the “unknown of the known” and the “never seen of the already seen.” For this reason, they are perhaps unlike the photographs you come across in daily life. If they make you say “whoa” and stop for a while to look, that’s fine. But even if you see one for a only second, that moment can imprint the image in your subconscious memory. I’d be happy then, if during your everyday routine, you saw a nightscape and thought “hey, this reminds me of that photograph.” After seeing my works, you may find yourself looking at your city surroundings in a new light. The longer you look, and the more subjective your gaze grows, the richer your “looking” becomes.