侘
寂
侘寂
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Wabi-sabi
[ perfectly imperfect ]
JApanese
nostalgia
captured on
expired film
a perfectly imperfect journey across Northern japan
侘寂
Wabi-sabi is a Japanese concept and philosophy that embraces the beauty of imperfection, transience, and simplicity.
It recognizes that everything is imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete, and values the natural world. Wabi-sabi encourages people to find beauty in imperfections, such as cracks in plates, tears in jackets, and life's losses. It can help people find strength and beauty in the process of healing and repair, and frame challenges rather than finding faults in them.
I moved to Japan around 5 years ago by accident, it is a very long story which I will share with you later in another article but, all you need to know for now is that my entire life has been full of these "uncertain" moments (how did I, a Mexican artist, end up living in Japan and marrying an amazing Korean woman?).
After a few (probably too many) of those uncertain moments I learned to embrace the fact that the beauty of life lies in imperfect moments, which is kind of funny if you think about it, since I grew up in a family that taught me that in order to be successful I had to control every aspect of my life.
"if we aren't perfect, then why should art be?"
I've always been a vintage camera geek—there’s something about the buttery smooth mechanisms, the history, and the unmatched build quality. It’s like holding an old Audemars Piguet, A. Lange & Söhne, or Patek Philippe; you can instantly sense the craftsmanship behind them. It just looks and feels right.
One day, after months of searching, I came across a Leica M4 (1966) for sale in a Japanese second-hand camera store. The conversation with the seller, a retired photographer, revealed his deep love for the camera, though he could no longer shoot with it. He warned me about the scratches and missing bits of leather, which to me felt like scars. As a traveler, I have many of those myself, so I saw a part of myself in that camera. Today, it travels with me everywhere, carrying the legacy of both its past and its new owner.
"My camera is older than I am (1961 vs 1990).
It's full of scars, just like me.
When I use it, I see myself in it—and in
everything I shoot."
"she goes with me everywhere, I live through the lens"
Part of the reason behind my love for expired film is the uncertainty that comes with it. It's a fifty-fifty gamble whether the roll will come out or not. Why? Well, these rolls of film have been stored for several years in camera stores that discarded them since they are well past their expiry date. Sometimes it's one year, sometimes it's ten or more. Imagine how the chemicals on the film have been affected by this. That's why it is so unpredictable. It's that loss of control that allows me to feel free.
Walking around Hirosaki during a snowfall is one thing, but it never crossed my mind that shooting with a 1966 camera, built from a solid block of metal, would feel like holding a block of ice. That day, the temperatures dropped to -10°C or 14°F for those Americans reading this. I could barely shoot, but the scenes were just too good to let pass, so quitting was not an option.
As my father used to say "soldiers walk on their stomachs", so I had to try a Kaisendon which is a Japanese dish of sashimi slices served over rice, and is part of the Donburi family of Japanese cuisine. It's often topped with raw fish, such as fatty tuna, salmon, mackerel, squid, crustaceans, shrimp, and uni (sea urchin).
There is nothing like finding one of these restaurants, they are hidden gems that make the trip unforgettable! Everything was as fresh as can be, feeling the chu-toro (fatty tuna) melt on my tongue, the delightful creaminess of the shrimps and uni (sea urchin), all this perfectly paired by a warm miso soup and thick green tea, I am just at a loss of words for how much joy this meal brought to me, it is always during these breaks when I take time to reload film, clean the snow from all the cameras, review and take notes of what shots are where…
