62 Years, The One Shot He Could Not Take [Limelight]

The Final Wish of Ninety-Year-Old Photographer Shisei Kuwabara

Still cut from the documentary film "The Face of Photography."

"I do not know if I will live for another year, or perhaps two more years. It saddens me to think I may not be able to capture that moment."

This is what photographer Kuwabara Shisei said in an interview with The Asia Business Daily on August 26. Visiting Korea ahead of the release of the documentary film "The Face of Photography," which covers his own life, he gazed down on the city from the 17th floor of the Eulji Korea Building in Jung-gu, Seoul, saying, "There is one photograph I have yet to take." That photo is of Korean reunification. "Germany and Vietnam both achieved reunification, but Korea still remains divided."

Kuwabara is one of the few foreign photographers who have experienced both the South and the North. Since 1964, he has traveled back and forth to Korea dozens of times and has visited Pyongyang on several occasions. For him, reunification is the last unfinished scene. However, time is running out. He will turn 90 this coming October. Since his surgery for a blood flow problem, he has been visiting the hospital every three months.

Though his body is not what it once was, the faces remaining in his heart are still vivid—especially that of an unnamed soldier he met 61 years ago at Busan Port. He recalls that he can never forget the scene of a young man saying farewell to his mother while shooting the Vietnam deployment train in 1965. "I have always wondered who that soldier was and whether he ever made it home alive, but we have not crossed paths again." Though he captured countless faces on camera, the fate of this one soldier, which he never managed to learn, has remained with Kuwabara for many years.

Kuwabara Shisei is reminiscing about the soldier saying farewell to his mother, shown in a photo he took in 1965 of a train deploying troops to Vietnam. Photo by Jonggil Lee.

Korea was a country that had long been close to Kuwabara's heart. His hometown, Shimane Prefecture in Japan, is geographically near Korea, and many Koreans lived in his village. While he was a student at Tokyo University of Agriculture, one of his friends was a stowaway who had fled the Korean War. Whenever they ate together, the friend would tap his chopsticks on the table and sing "Arirang" and "Doraji." Kuwabara recalled, "Listening to those plaintive songs, I made up my mind that if I ever became a photographer, I would go report on Korea."

He could not head straight for Korea. First, he had to raise money for the trip. He photographed the site of Minamata disease and held a solo exhibition in 1962, which helped him gain recognition and gather funds. His chance finally came in 1964. He was commissioned by the Japanese publisher Heibonsha's monthly magazine "Taiyo" to report on Korea. The assignment included ten topics: the lives of citizens in Busan and Seoul, rural and fishing village landscapes, Crown Prince Yi Un, women who married Koreans and did not return to Japan, and harbors in Geoje Island and Geomun Island, among others.

At that time, Korea and Japan did not yet have official diplomatic relations. In Tokyo, there was only the "Korean Mission in Japan" instead of a formal embassy. Kuwabara was able to secure a visa thanks to the help of acquaintances and the personal guarantee from the publisher of the magazine "Arirang." Arriving at Gimpo Airport that summer, he traveled on unpaved roads covered with dust and finally reached Seoul. It was eleven years after the armistice, and the Korean economy was in dire straits.

Still cut from the documentary film 'The Faces of Photography'.

While Korean intelligence authorities strictly controlled the work of domestic journalists, they were relatively lenient toward foreign reporters. Of course, there were exceptions. When Kuwabara was photographing a train carrying the Marine Corps, who were being deployed to Vietnam from Busan Port in 1965, he was detained by counterintelligence agents. While being escorted away, he discreetly rewound the film and hid it in his pocket, putting an empty film into his camera. He recalled, "The agent was puzzled, wondering why there was nothing on the film, and returned the camera to me," adding, "The Korean journalists filming alongside me were taken away on the spot."

Kuwabara also took his camera to Vietnam. His experiences there changed his entire perspective on photography. Until the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, he viewed photography as a means of "communication," but after moving his base of activity to Hanoi, he began to view it as "documentation." He explained, "Photos are a trace of history because you have to be present on the spot in order to take them." With this conviction, he tirelessly documented protests, modernization, and democratization in Korea from the 1960s through the 1980s.

He believed that how you approach your subject was just as important as what you photograph. He never just pressed the shutter in front of his subject without any warning. He would first build rapport, perhaps by holding a baby or handing out printed materials. Once he received permission to photograph, he would take only one shot. "Most people would ask, 'Is it over already?' or 'Aren't you going to take more?'" he said. "While one could say I was using psychology, there was no ill intent. I always approached with gratitude for those who allowed me to take their picture."

Documentary film 'Faces of Photos' still cut.

Of all the subjects Kuwabara delved into in Korea, porcelain was the one he pursued the longest. He photographed about thirty ceramic artists—publishing two photo books in Japan—and even authored texts on the artists themselves. Although this does not play a major role in the documentary, his interactions with those ceramicists continue to this day.

Continuing old relationships and documenting present-day Korea are entirely separate challenges. Ironically, Korea today has become the hardest country for Kuwabara to photograph. Although he wants to leave a record of its progress, he cannot figure out exactly what or how to capture it. "Korea changed too fast," he said. "Most of the subjects that symbolized those turbulent days have disappeared. Now all that is left is the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ)."

The one scene Kuwabara most wants his camera to capture lies beyond that barbed wire. "I want to photograph the moment of reunification with my own hands," he said.

This content was produced with the assistance of AI translation services.