Reading *One Summer with Nine People*.

In the summer of 2026, mountaineer Nilmal Purja was caught in an avalanche while climbing Broad Peak and died. He was 43 years old.

In Itabashi Ward, where I grew up, I learned about the achievements of local hero Naoki Uemura when I was in elementary school—he was the first explorer whose name I ever learned.

He was also 43 when he got lost on Denali and went missing.

*On the Long Journey* is a classic that I’ve always carried in my backpack and read over and over again; its author, Michio Hoshino, was also 43 when he was killed by a bear in Kamchatka.

Keiya Taniguchi and Tsuneo Hasegawa also died in an accident at the age of 43.

Apparently, there's a term among mountaineers called "the 43-year-old wall."

It's probably something like the "27 Club" among rock stars.

When I heard the news of Nilmal Purja’s passing, I suddenly remembered this book, which had been the talk of the town, and picked it up at a bookstore.

After finishing the book, I wondered what I was doing when I was 43, so I looked back through my iPhone's camera roll.

As I rubbed my flabby stomach—which hadn’t gotten any firmer despite going to the gym—and realized just how rapidly my physical strength had declined as I entered the downward slope of life at age 43, I found myself reflecting on the few years surrounding that age—the so-called “peak” described in this book—that is, the end of the upward slope and the beginning of the downward slope.

In my late 30s, I was working nonstop day and night under a lot of pressure, and I was completely worn out, both physically and mentally.

I thought that if I kept going like this, I’d ruin my health, so I told my wife, “When I turn 40, I plan to cut back on work and take it a little easier.” She just laughed and said, “I don’t think you’re the type to take it easy—aren’t you settling down a little too soon?”

Those words woke me up, and I resolved to make my 40s a time of ”adventure,” so I took on all sorts of new challenges I hadn’t attempted before.

I felt my horizons expanding as I visited places I had never been to before and met lots of new people.

Even jobs I used to turn down because they were outside my area of expertise—if they piqued my interest, I took them on—and that gave me the opportunity to discover new possibilities for myself.

It was a time when I was further expanding my life—a life I had spent exploring and expanding into uncharted horizons through my energy—and the company was also growing every year, broadening the scope of my work.

However, it was right around this time that the pandemic struck; I myself contracted COVID-19, became severely ill, and was hospitalized for a long time.

In a ward reserved for critically ill patients, as my condition worsened day by day and I was put on an oxygen mask—just as I was beginning to prepare myself for death—I looked back on my life while lying in that hospital bed, and strangely enough, I had absolutely no regrets.

It pains me to cause my family sadness, but my wife is an independent, strong woman, and I’ve already made sure to convey everything I needed to tell our children.

And I realized that I don’t have any goals in my own life—or rather, my goal had already been achieved long ago when I created that place with my friends in Kichijoji, and I’m working hard every day to protect that precious place.

In other words, I realized that I am now living a life within a dream that has come true.

In my 20s, I struggled through a sense of restlessness—feeling as if I were being driven by something—even though I had energy and stamina to spare and couldn’t seem to become anything. In my 30s, I put all the experience and knowledge I’d gained during those 20s to full use and gave it my all. Then, in my 40s, I began taking on new challenges. Just as my world opened up all at once and my career began to take off, I turned 43 and realized that, in the first place, there was no “peak” I had ever aimed for in my career.

I was looking through my camera roll the other day and realized that I didn't start fishing until I turned 43.

Since I started fishing, it feels like another layer has been added to my life; I never imagined I’d gain so many new insights at this age.

If I had started fishing in my 20s, I probably would have sought self-fulfillment through it; I’m grateful that I discovered fishing as I was entering the second half of my life.

For me, fishing might be a source of hope that allows me to aim for a different kind of depth in life, even as I find myself on a downward slope.

I found myself nodding in agreement as I read about the fishing stories and Ken Kaiko’s life in this book.

The songs by Pharoah Sanders that I’ve been listening to sound even better when I hear them in the car on my way to the fishing spot before dawn, and the streets of New York—which I’ve visited countless times—have taken on a deeper meaning now that I walk through them carrying my fishing rod.

Even if I gain experience at work, achieve a certain level of success, and earn people’s trust, out in the great outdoors I feel small and powerless, simply at the mercy of nature. When I’m casting again and again under the moonlight without any bite, it feels as though the fish are mocking me—and for some reason, that feels kind of good.

In the years to come—as I no longer seek to feel the radiance of life amid danger or strive for financial success and growth—I may sometimes feel as if the contours of my life are becoming blurred. But it might not be so bad to drift along with the current of the river, letting those contours fade and the boundary between myself and nature grow indistinct, until one day I melt into oneness with it all.

walking on eggshells

Before I introduce this book, I’d like to explain why I’m recommending it. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved detective and police dramas, as well as suspense stories—I was the kind of kid who would rush home from school just to watch TV shows (lol).

So, the book I’d like to introduce this time is the “Shinjuku Shark Series”!!! Even though I’m supposed to be introducing just one book I’m reading this summer, here I am recommending a whole series… (lol).

The thing is, to be honest, I’m not really the type to read books much. But this *Shinjuku Shark* was so interesting once I started reading it that I finished it in the blink of an eye—it was just too good—so I immediately bought the entire series online.

I'm planning to reread the entire series again this summer.

There was a book I’d been meaning to read for a while.
Probably when I was in my 20s.
A book I came across while working part-time at a used bookstore.
"The Guys from Hamatown."
Isn't that a great title?
I don't know.
Young, frustrated, and a nobody.
What can I do?
Back when I didn't even know what I wanted to do.
The black-and-white cover—with its rugged look, reminiscent of Daido Moriyama’s photographs—is also captivating.
I don't really know why, though.
It looks like there might be something interesting in there.
It sounds like it might be about some sketchy people.
But I thought...
I guess I forgot.
Forever.
In.
On a different note.
Me.
Going for walks is my hobby.
My latest hobby.
A walk and radio calisthenics.
Seriously.
An elderly man.
My hobbies are so old-fashioned.
Well, anyway.
So, why did I start writing this?
With those "Hama Town Guys."
We actually ran into each other again.
Out for a walk.
Amid the voices coming from my headphones.
While out for a walk.
From NHK.
A TV show called “100 Minutes to Master a Classic.”
While taking a walk.
So you've been listening to commentary on classic works all along, haven't you?
Actually, there's a video too.
Because they explain things thoroughly.
You can actually understand it perfectly well just by listening to the audio.
In.
In that context.
There was an episode about Pierre Bourdieu’s book *Distinction*.
And that, too, is incredibly interesting.
So.
A guest lecturer...
Masahiko Kishi is the sociologist I find most interesting right now.
To be honest, it's because of what Professor Kishi said.
It's changed the way I look at art, hasn't it?
A little.
Well, then.
Shouldn't we introduce *Distinction* here?
I sometimes find myself thinking that, though.
It looks difficult, and I don't think I can read it.
In.
This is what was featured on that show.
"The Guys from Hamatown."
The original title is.
In *Learning to Labor*.
Literally translated, it means something like “learning to become a worker.”
As for what kind of book it is...
A sociological field study that closely followed the lives of working-class children to uncover why they end up becoming workers just like their parents.
I guess you'd call it ethnography?
That's just the kind of person he is.
I see.
It kind of reminds me of *Trainspotting*.
The helplessness of young people.
I couldn't help but wonder if that was the kind of story it was.
I kind of feel like it might be a little different, though.
How should I put it?
Just from hearing the title or something.
We tend to make associations or let our imaginations run wild, don't we?
That's all.
I feel like there's a point to reading, you know?
It doesn't have to be reading.
Even when listening to music.
Even when watching a movie.
Even when appreciating art.
It doesn't really matter, though.
Actually.
Buy it.
Just the fact that it's always available to read.
I feel like I've already read it, anyway.
Even if you haven't read it.
Just imagining it is almost like having read half of it, isn't it?
I find myself thinking things like that.
My Reading Habits.
Not when you open the page.
It all began the moment I learned of the book's existence.
There were a few things that came up before I bought it.
Sometimes I read it right after I buy it.
Sometimes I put things off, too.
For some reason, I tend to imagine all sorts of things before I even read it.
Give it a read.
Step into that world.
If you don't like it, just stop.
Even if I quit.
It's just not finished yet.
In 10 years, in 20 years.
You can go ahead and start reading the rest if you like.
You could even sell it to a used bookstore even if it's unfinished.
If I feel like reading it again, I can just buy it again.
Or something like that.
I've written all sorts of things here and there, but...
What I like most about reading is...
Just as I happened to look up from my book.
That feeling when, for a split second, you don't know where you are.
Even though I didn't go anywhere.
That feeling like I've just come back from somewhere.
For now.
I'm still reading it little by little.

As Dr. Hawking once said, “Has philosophy died in the modern age? Philosophy is no longer able to keep up with the progress of modern science,” and for several years now, I have been using quantum mechanics in my thinking as a substitute for philosophy, often tending to view the mind in materialistic terms—as something akin to electrons or particles.

Speaking personally, I think photography in particular aligns well with the concept in quantum mechanics that “the result is unknown until it is observed.” As a device that captures moments where chance comes into play, the camera records not only the everyday world visible to our eyes but—as was reportedly the case in 2019—even moments of quantum entanglement. In that sense, this concept serves as my personal philosophy regarding photography.

Also, in modern urban life, I found it easier to live by interpreting life through science rather than philosophy, so I’ve lived my life with that mindset. However, since the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve been visiting Nara and I’ve been visiting Nara and Kyoto more often, and just as my outlook on life was gradually shifting, I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Marx—who had come to Japan in April of this year for work at Kyoto University—through Mr. Hosoo of Nishijin-ori. That encounter prompted me to pick up this book on philosophy, which I hadn’t read in quite some time.

To be honest, I didn’t fully grasp the book’s central theme—that the world doesn’t actually exist—but Mr. Marx’s view, in which he refutes Dr. Hawking’s statement and argues that physics alone cannot explain the “meaning of life” or the “freedom of consciousness and the mind,” and that philosophy therefore remains indispensable even in our modern age, is something I’ve actually vaguely sensed every time I visit Kyoto.

Reading this book allowed me to grasp that vague sensation in concrete terms and learn how he perceives Kyoto and Japan—which I find fascinating. This experience was similar to when, in the ’90s, thanks to Mr. Hayashi of the magazine *DUNE*, I was able to hear directly from Sofia Coppola herself about her perspective on Tokyo in the run-up to *Lost in Translation*. What she taught me has served as a tool for my photography from my twenties until recently, and now that I’m in my fifties, I’ve been able to refine that understanding through Mr. Marx’s words.

I hope to continue following the motto, “Put down your books and go out into the world,” and to keep discovering new books along the way.

I feel like the term “addiction” carries a certain undertone of contempt toward those who struggle with it. There’s also a harsher term—‘XX addict’—and this one feels somewhat similar. It’s easy to imagine situations where saying something like, ‘Are you an XX addict or something?’ or ‘You’re totally addicted to that, aren’t you?’ to someone serves as a particularly powerful retort.

I suspect that many people, myself included, are afraid of what is called “addiction,” view those labeled as such as being “different,” and go through life constantly reassuring themselves, “I’m not like that—I’m normal.”

In this book, Sayoko Nobuta—a clinical psychologist who has listened to the stories of people struggling with various addictions—examines the structure of addiction and the factors underlying it, drawing on several case studies. In Chapter 1, Nobuta summarizes addiction as follows.

“Addiction, in the final analysis, is when the very acts we perform to stay alive gradually come to endanger our lives. What was once a means of survival gradually becomes an end in itself, thereby putting our lives at risk. Isn’t this the greatest paradox of all?”

The very things I need to survive end up putting my life at risk. For example, I like alcohol, and I often do writing work related to it. But if I go beyond the point where I can enjoy it in moderation and keep drinking even though I know it’s harmful to my health, then that’s an addiction. In that sense, I think I’m walking a fine line.

Even aside from alcohol, if, for example, supporting your favorite idols, actors, or comedians brings you joy and lifts your spirits—which I think is a good thing in itself—but if the money, time, and energy you spend on it reach a level that jeopardizes your daily life, then that’s probably close to an addiction.

As you read this book and reflect on its contents, you’ll come to realize that addiction is by no means something distant or unusual—it actually feels very close to home. Furthermore, as encapsulated in the book’s title, *Living While Drowning*, Ms. Shida never writes in a way that condemns addiction as something negative; instead, she consistently maintains a stance that acknowledges the fact that there are people who need it to survive.

Shida writes that in Japan, the attitude toward addiction and those struggling with it is extremely harsh. She analyzes that because we all have our own addictive urges—and we restrain ourselves so those urges don’t become excessive—we end up harboring harsh feelings, akin to a kind of “hate for one’s own kind,” toward others who are overwhelmed by their urges. There is a passage like this in Chapter 4.

“In Japan, blaming others and relying on them (dependence) are severely criticized. While this may appear to advocate ”independence’ on the surface, it is actually filled with resentment and anger toward having to suppress—or being forced to suppress—one’s desire for dependence. The sight of people struggling with addiction forces us to confront the desire for dependence that lies within ourselves. (…) In this way, precisely because addiction is a common illness that exists right beside us, the lives of those struggling with it serve to shed light on our own ways of living. I believe that welcoming those striving to recover from addiction leads us to examine and accept our own dependencies.”

Reading this book helps me confront the dependency within myself and encourages me to be more tolerant of those struggling with dependency. To one degree or another, we all need something to lean on in order to live.

　To put it bluntly, I just can't read in the summer.

　The old, poorly insulated house where I live is being tormented by the scorching sun and lies in a clammy, listless stupor. Even if I turn on the air conditioner and it gets a little cooler, the mysterious lethargy that always follows leaves my shoulders stiff, and I can’t even bring myself to open a book that’s become heavy from absorbing the humidity. When I flee to a café—though I wonder what kind of customers they’re expecting—the air conditioning is cranked up so high it feels like the dead of winter, and the cold drinks chill my stomach and intestines so rapidly that I end up feeling even worse on my way home. First things first: I just need to stay alive. A luxurious activity like reading comes after survival.

　That said, a lonely bookworm like me simply can’t help but read—it’s just my hopeless nature. So, for someone like me, I’d like to introduce a gem of a book that helped me get through this incredibly annoying season, which is nothing short of my arch-nemesis.

　*The Mozart of Tibet* is the first book written solely by the religious scholar Shinichi Nakazawa, and it remains his magnum opus, still widely read more than forty years after its publication. Takaaki Yoshimoto, who wrote the commentary for the paperback edition, refers to Shinichi Nakazawa’s unique academic approach as “the archaeology of the spirit.” The seeds of this discipline—or rather, its very essence—are vividly etched into this book, even in his debut work. It is a book of great importance to me, one that I return to time and again whenever the occasion arises.

　The author, who studied under Tibetan Buddhist masters in Nepal and India and conducted practical research, gained new insights from those experiences. It was a fluid form of knowledge that emerged beyond the deconstruction of linguistic structures and the expansion of meaning to infinity. Shinichi Nakazawa discovers this fluid knowledge in a variety of subjects. In Mexican shamans, in illness, in capitalism, and even in a round stone. Fixed entities dissolve and are recombined, giving rise to entirely new forms.

　As I'm sure you've all noticed, this is what's often called a ”difficult book.” I understand the urge to say, ”It's already hot enough to make me feel lazy—does this really have to be one of those books?” But when you pick it up and open it, you'll realize that this book is not just a "difficult book."

　When I read this book, I was taken aback by the mysterious katakana and proper nouns that appeared one after another as if they were the most natural thing in the world. Based on my past experience, I thought I’d probably give up halfway through and let it pile up in the corner of my room—but to my surprise, I could read it. For some reason, I was able to read it smoothly and gradually. The reason lay in a certain magic that Shin’ichi Nakazawa had woven into this book.

　Although *The Mozart of Tibet* is generally classified as an academic text, it is far too unique a work to be considered a typical academic book. Here, academic and creative writing—which normally would never intermingle—are presented without distinction. By intentionally blurring that boundary, a flicker of meaning emerges, and the amorphous rhythm of that flicker grants access to fluid knowledge across different times and spaces. Yes, just like music.

　This is the magic that Shin’ichi Nakazawa wove into this book. Perhaps he knew that no matter how many layers of meaning he added, he could never reach that fluid form of knowledge. Therefore, through the magic of rhetoric, he made it possible from the paradoxical dimension of the written word.

　This book is, so to speak, “music to read.” So even if you don’t know any difficult philosophical terms, or even if the heat is making you feel dazed, you can still “read” it—because it’s music.

　If the summer heat has put a damper on your reading routine, I urge you to pick up this book. You’re sure to hear a sound—a rhythmic pulsation that stirs your very soul—striking deep within your consciousness.

　August 26, 2026 Tsutomu Sonoda

Just how many customers have sat here and had a drink? The seats of the round stools and the U-shaped counter both feature gently curved edges. The interior, captured on film in black and white, features a large title set in Mincho typeface. On the book’s spine is the tagline: “It’s not just alcohol that gets people drunk.” I’ve kept it in a prominent spot on my bookshelf, repeatedly pulling it out and putting it back. First edition, 1998. 1,500 yen. 285 pages. A record of an obscure bar in eastern Tokyo: Yotsuya Round. The publisher no longer exists. Years later, it was reissued as a Chikuma Bunko paperback.

“First, I ordered the stew and a beer. The owner, wearing a white apron, nodded silently, then transferred a single serving from the large pot set behind the counter into a small pot and began to warm it up. He took a bottle opener from his jacket pocket, popped the cap off the beer right in front of me, and gently set the bottle on the counter. Throughout this entire time, the owner remained silent. It wasn’t that he was being aloof; he simply gave the impression of carrying out his work calmly yet steadily.”

Just as I was getting a little tipsy from the sake and Hoppy, my husband suddenly asked, “Are you a detective?” “Do I look like one?” “No.” “Oh, okay.”

He didn’t press the matter any further. He stepped away from us and went to take another customer’s order. There were also regulars at the counter. The owner chatted and laughed with them for a while. Of course, he interacted with them more warmly than with us, and jokes flew back and forth, but he never got too cozy with them. I actually think this is very important. I can’t stand izakayas where the owner and regulars are so close they form a tight-knit circle and shut out first-time customers—no matter how good the sake or the food might be. Isn’t a certain sense of tension necessary between the staff and the customers?”

A collaborative work by three writers. With a few exceptions, it is not a compilation of magazine serializations. Each of the three visits shops that seem suitable for everyday use and has a drink there. That is the top priority. There are no listings of opening or closing times. There are no maps either. As a result, it isn’t practical enough to be called a guidebook. And that’s what makes it so good.

I think I first read it around the time I turned 30. The books I read in my 20s were, as expected, literary fiction. Whenever I learned that an author I liked had been influenced by a certain writer, I’d search for that writer’s name at used bookstores. It was the same with music, art, and film. When it came to film—my chosen field—I’d slip into an art house theater, drawn in by a special screening featuring a director who piqued my interest. I’d watch one film, be amazed, and then, as if trying to stretch beyond my limits, I’d keep going and watch another. I often found myself wondering what it would be like if my name were etched among the director’s credits as they rolled up on the screen. If that were the case, then my mission was to write a screenplay that only I could write. I demanded of myself, with intense urgency, a level of originality that could rival the films I looked up to. How can I describe those days? Should I say that I wanted to establish within myself an unshakable story (fiction) that could be called a masterpiece? I worked frantically to create one, but in the end, it never went beyond merely imitating the directors whose films I’d watched. It was around that time that I happened to come across this book.

A local bar frequented by locals—the kind that usually goes unrecorded. The three authors don’t set out to trace the bar’s history; instead, they focus entirely on describing the owner and regulars they observed from their seats, as well as the sake and appetizers. That’s why the atmosphere of the place comes across so vividly. They don’t resort to the clumsy tactic of using the bar’s setting as a metaphor to talk about themselves. It’s an ode to humanity disguised as a guidebook. I’ve finally realized the true appeal of nonfiction. I regretted not realizing it sooner. I’d been reaching for things that were out of reach, when what I’d been trying to grasp was actually right in front of me. Every time I pull this book out, that’s what I think.

Shining a light on things whose value had not yet been recognized. Now I realize that this is a noble calling. And I also realize that this is the form of expression that suits me best.

The words creators use to describe their own work possess a warmth and energy that finished pieces lack. I enjoy reading books that gently offer a glimpse behind the scenes of the creative process through short essays or interviews. The book I’m holding now is *Dialogue* by Virgil Abloh. It was published in 2022. Although it’s a book from a little while ago, precisely because fashion is currently undergoing a major turning point, I felt compelled to revisit what happened before that. When you’re in the industry, your heart sometimes races at the sight of a star’s new creations that appear at pivotal moments. Right now, at major fashion houses, designers are unraveling the history of their brands and weaving new codes. Yet in recent years, no other designer has embodied the concept of “inheriting a house” as powerfully as he has.

As you know, his journey into the world of fashion—as a Black man—and the approach he sought to implement after joining Louis Vuitton were both exceptionally unique, unlike anything anyone else in the fashion industry had done before. This book contains nine carefully selected conversations between various creators and interviewers from 2016 to 2021.

In response to the question, “What if there were a ‘streetwear skyscraper’?” he answered as follows: “A streetwear skyscraper would have a horizontal structure. It would spread out horizontally and develop as a community.” I believe these words encapsulate the very essence of contemporary fashion as he sees it. Through a way of thinking that differed from the traditional fashion system, he introduced new methodologies and values to an industry that had tended to be closed off. He was a figure who clearly embodied the concept of designing an entire brand as a single culture.

I was reminded of two people who received advice from Virgil and, encouraged by his words, actually started their own businesses. One of them left the brand where he had worked for many years and launched his own fashion brand. The other, inspired by the advice to explore various possibilities, launched a beverage brand alongside their main job. Both have found success—not only as businesses but also within their communities. From the way they spoke, it was clear just how revelatory their conversations with Virgil had been for them. Since I heard this story quite some time ago, the details are a bit hazy—it’s merely an impression that remains in my memory—but I remember being surprised that a single person’s words could serve as such a powerful driving force, inspiring someone else to start something new. Come to think of it, perhaps this, too, was an example of the “horizontal structure” he spoke of. Words pass from person to person, expanding into new circles in each place.

Since his passing in 2021, the fashion landscape has changed dramatically. His approach itself is impossible for anyone to replicate—because everything about him—his background, his architectural mindset, and his connections to the world of entertainment—was entirely original. How did this phenomenon—a form of culture-driven fashion—come about? I’d like to recommend this book to anyone interested in that question. His inexhaustible ideas pour forth in the form of dialogue. By the time you finish reading it, fashion shows, logos, and even the way people dress on the street may look a little different to you. It’s sure to inspire anyone who creates something, regardless of their field.

There are several books I’ve been reading this summer, but the one I’d like to highlight here is Yuriko Takagi’s photo book, *Threads of Beauty 1995–2025 —Wrapped in Time, Wrapped in the Wind.” Of course, since this is a photo book, the photographs taken by Ms. Takagi unfold with every turn of the page. Occasionally, Ms. Takagi’s comments on the photographs are printed in the text, so it’s also possible to read the book.

However, the reason I chose to mention this book is that I believe it is indeed possible to “read” a photograph in and of itself.

This might sound like a stretch, but I believe that the physical experience of freely interpreting photographs is a valid way to engage with art. This photo collection is a series by Yuriko Takagi, who, over the course of 30 years—from 1995 to 2025—visited 13 countries around the world to photograph people wearing traditional costumes and everyday clothing.

For example, Iran, China, Bolivia, and India. One of the defining features of Mr. Takagi’s series is that the photographs are in black and white. Black and white, not color.

Generally, when photographing traditional costumes like these, using color would better capture the texture of the fabric, the details of the weave, and even the repaired seams. It would also highlight metal accessories, tattoos on the skin, as well as wrinkles and hair color. It seems that color would convey a richer array of information in these aspects. However, Yuriko Takagi has deliberately chosen black-and-white as her medium of expression. The intention behind this choice likely lies in the fact that black-and-white stimulates the viewer’s imagination more effectively than color.

Take, for example, the photograph of the woman on the cover. The color of her clothing could be brown, or perhaps ochre. Or, while she appears to be a mother at first glance because she is holding a baby, the wrinkles on her face and neck might suggest that she is actually a grandmother rather than a mother. In other words, black-and-white photographs offer a wider range of interpretation on our part, allowing us to engage in a dialogue with the image—and ultimately, to become one with the work itself. Perhaps this is what we mean when we talk about “reading” a photograph.

Another distinctive feature of these photographs is how natural the subjects’ gestures appear. If you think about it, when someone points a camera or smartphone at us, don’t we tend to brace ourselves a little, strike a pose, or perhaps even smile? In the photographs taken by Yuriko Takagi, there is almost no trace of this. This makes the movements of the people in Yuriko Takagi’s photographs feel to us like a kind of moving image.

I think what Mr. Takagi is trying to convey through these photos is something very simple: what it means to look cool in fashion.

Traditional costumes and everyday clothing like the ones shown here are, of course, not subject to changing fashions; rather, they are items that people cherish and continue to wear for a long time. If they get dirty, they are washed carefully; if they fray, they are thoroughly mended. The designs and weaves have been passed down through generations. Behind all of this lies a deep love for one’s own culture—and for the cultures of others. When viewed in this light, what we can glean from this book may well be a mirror reflecting our own feelings.