Glimpses from the Street | 10 Questions for Koji Takasaki | ISSUE #7

‘ISSUE’ is a series that delves into the sensibilities and thought processes of creators from around the globe, serving as a catalyst for new inspiration.
In ‘ISSUE #7’, we present 10 questions to street photographer Koji Takasaki, exploring his enduring presence on the streets and the context behind his practice.

I was born and raised in Tokyo in 1996. Deeply inspired by the early pioneers of color street photography, who captured eras and people through their unique aesthetic sensibilities, I began photographing with the desire to create similar work in contemporary Tokyo. It’s been about four years since I started.

Currently, I work a day job and shoot street photography on my days off. Recently, I was invited by Shimazaki-kun, who was featured in an article the other day, and held my first exhibition in March (thank you again for that opportunity).

Lately, my focus has been on photographing the city and the people who inhabit it. I’ve always felt uneasy about perfectly composed images—they seem somehow inauthentic to me. That discomfort led me to deliberately seek out highly anonymous subjects, which became the starting point for my current style.
The resilient beauty of the anonymous, the fleetingness of lives bound by time—these are what I strive to capture with my shutter. I crop the mundane yet strangely surreal sight of humans surrounded by artificial structures, elevating it to an art form that transcends the everyday. By shining a light on the individuals who have become faceless in today’s world, I feel as though I am also affirming my own existence, which I often tend to undervalue.

Not only in photography, but also in music and film, I have always been drawn to works that explore these themes. Recognizing that this is the field where I can create with a sense of inevitability, I continue to pursue this approach in my photography.

I’m not sure if it was my very first, but my oldest memory is taking photos in the car during a family trip when I was a child.

I distinctly remember photographing a scene with many flags standing along the highway, shooting past my brother who was sitting next to me. Most other memories from that time are now quite hazy, and the photo itself is long gone—I don’t even recall ever seeing a print. Yet, it’s strange how simply remembering the act of pressing the shutter brings back the atmosphere and sensations of that moment so vividly. The sight of the flags fluttering by, the feeling of the wind on my face through the window, my brother playing Game Boy beside me—these scenes, which seemed unremarkable at the time, now feel beautiful and comforting in retrospect.

It’s often said that photographs can evoke memories, and much has been written about the power of this physical and emotional connection. But even without a tangible photograph, just having the experience of taking (or being taken in) a photo at a certain time and place can profoundly influence your future self. Reflecting on this question made me realize that, regardless of whether others see or evaluate your work, the act of photographing itself can hold deep meaning for the individual. Perhaps this is something everyone in our era, myself included, should recognize.

That said, we haven’t gone on family trips since then, so it’s a bit bittersweet to recall.

I don’t currently do shoots that require high image quality or efficiency, and even when shooting on the street, I often intentionally use slow shutter speeds or stop down the aperture for deep focus, so I rarely seek out high-performance gear.

All my cameras are secondhand: an early model Nikon F3 for film, and a FUJIFILM XT-2 for digital. Including their previous owners, these cameras have had a long life—an SDGs-friendly approach, if you will. What matters most to me is the tactile satisfaction of using the camera and whether it feels worth owning as a product, even after paying for it.

That said, I do have some preferences regarding focal length. I aim for a compressed composition by excluding unnecessary elements, and I value stealth—being able to photograph without being noticed by my subjects. Standard lenses often feel too wide for my style. So, with the F3, I use a 105mm Nikkor prime, and with the XT-2 (APS-C), I use the 18–135mm zoom, favoring the telephoto end. I rarely use anything else. While 50mm or wider lenses are common for street photography—and I started with a standard lens myself—my pursuit of a particular expression naturally led me to favor medium telephoto lenses.

Not just recently, but for the past few years, I’ve been a fan of the folk musician Nick Drake.

They may not all be creators in the conventional sense, but the people who have influenced me most are Keiichiro Hirano, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Saul Leiter.

I was drawn to Keiichiro Hirano’s well-known theory of ‘dividualism’ and deeply resonated with his affirmation of ambiguous existences in society. I love Kazuo Ishiguro’s ‘Never Let Me Go’. As for photographer Saul Leiter, I became a fan during the second exhibition of his work in Tokyo, which sparked a bit of a boom. If I hadn’t experienced the impact of that show, I probably wouldn’t still be shooting street photography that no one sees. I’m also constantly inspired by contemporary street photographers, both amateur and professional.

Nikon 35Ti, FUJIFILM 6×7/6×9 format. Also, something as outlandish as a telescope that can see Saturn, or a Polaroid.

The street—on any day except when it’s cloudy.

Until recently, I was the kind of person who would get worked up over every mass-market piece of content, but I suddenly realized how pointless that was and stopped.

If I had to say, it’s people who reject the mainstream just for the sake of it—avoiding the essence by always taking a contrarian stance. That’s me, too.

Yahoo! Auctions.

I sometimes shoot people’s feet at 1/30 shutter speed and f/16. For digital photos, I adjust the RAW files afterward, but lately I’ve been experimenting with retouching to achieve consistency when displaying them alongside film photographs.