Asako Narahashi "1961 They Were Standing There"
PGI
Starts 5/8
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Asako Narahashi
I always knew they were there in the cardboard box. I had opened it before, once, but I was so overwhelmed by the albums and their yellowed covers that I could only take a quick look through them before closing the box again.
There were eight photo albums in all, seven in black and white, the other in colour, each containing contact sheets and negatives from about ten to twelve rolls of film. The contact sheets in the black and white albums were still properly glued in, making it easy to check them against the negatives, although the 35mm and half-frame negatives were all mixed up together. The negatives in the colour album had become almost completely transparent, their images impossible to see, and the corresponding contact sheets had lost all colour.
I’d heard that my father had been to the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe when I was a child. There was even an anecdote told in the family that he’d came home looking rough as a bear and scaring us children to tears, but I have no memory of it. How long have I thought about opening the box again? It has stayed with me for over twenty years now, untouched through numerous moves and the death of my father. Family matters have never been a priority for me, nor something to be shared in public. But I realised that unless someone went through them, the albums would eventually be thrown away, their photos left unseen. I found the resolve to look through them again, at first with hesitation, soon with detached routine.
The stench of acetic acid that filled the room was stronger than I had imagined. The brittle paper sleeves holding the negatives crackled at each touch, as if they would tear at any moment. It felt as if I was doing something I shouldn’t, but I knew I had no choice. There was no one else to do this but me. If I was going to make any prints at all, I had to do it now, while I could still work in the darkroom. And so, in the summer of 2024, I began my work.
My father left behind countless diaries and journals. One day, while sorting through his belongings and deciding what to throw away, I came across several notebooks that looked older than the others. I was about to put them on the pile of things to be thrown away but then noticed the year written on them – 1961.
There were three of them. At the back, my father had carefully listed the details of each photograph he had taken: the negative number, the date, the location, and a brief description. He had even noted which camera he had used, Pen or Pentax, meaning half-frame or 35mm.
With this, I thought, I could compare the albums with my father’s notes and match each photo to a date and location. But it was not that easy – the albums weren’t arranged in any order, and some of the information my father had written down seemed questionable to me. The process was frustrating, but I remained hopeful that things would clear up as I continued.
Over the course of the summer I made rough prints of about three hundred photographs. By coincidence, about half of them were from 35mm negatives, and the other half from half-frames. Since then, I have been making 8×10 and 11×14 prints, taking short breaks from time to time before reviewing the contact sheets again and printing any photos I may have missed.
Each time I print, there are new surprises and discoveries. Some of the negatives continue to change and deteriorate, almost as if they’re alive. My simple, basic approach – to print only what I want to print, only when I feel like it – seems particularly right for this series.
There were eight photo albums in all, seven in black and white, the other in colour, each containing contact sheets and negatives from about ten to twelve rolls of film. The contact sheets in the black and white albums were still properly glued in, making it easy to check them against the negatives, although the 35mm and half-frame negatives were all mixed up together. The negatives in the colour album had become almost completely transparent, their images impossible to see, and the corresponding contact sheets had lost all colour.
I’d heard that my father had been to the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe when I was a child. There was even an anecdote told in the family that he’d came home looking rough as a bear and scaring us children to tears, but I have no memory of it. How long have I thought about opening the box again? It has stayed with me for over twenty years now, untouched through numerous moves and the death of my father. Family matters have never been a priority for me, nor something to be shared in public. But I realised that unless someone went through them, the albums would eventually be thrown away, their photos left unseen. I found the resolve to look through them again, at first with hesitation, soon with detached routine.
The stench of acetic acid that filled the room was stronger than I had imagined. The brittle paper sleeves holding the negatives crackled at each touch, as if they would tear at any moment. It felt as if I was doing something I shouldn’t, but I knew I had no choice. There was no one else to do this but me. If I was going to make any prints at all, I had to do it now, while I could still work in the darkroom. And so, in the summer of 2024, I began my work.
My father left behind countless diaries and journals. One day, while sorting through his belongings and deciding what to throw away, I came across several notebooks that looked older than the others. I was about to put them on the pile of things to be thrown away but then noticed the year written on them – 1961.
There were three of them. At the back, my father had carefully listed the details of each photograph he had taken: the negative number, the date, the location, and a brief description. He had even noted which camera he had used, Pen or Pentax, meaning half-frame or 35mm.
With this, I thought, I could compare the albums with my father’s notes and match each photo to a date and location. But it was not that easy – the albums weren’t arranged in any order, and some of the information my father had written down seemed questionable to me. The process was frustrating, but I remained hopeful that things would clear up as I continued.
Over the course of the summer I made rough prints of about three hundred photographs. By coincidence, about half of them were from 35mm negatives, and the other half from half-frames. Since then, I have been making 8×10 and 11×14 prints, taking short breaks from time to time before reviewing the contact sheets again and printing any photos I may have missed.
Each time I print, there are new surprises and discoveries. Some of the negatives continue to change and deteriorate, almost as if they’re alive. My simple, basic approach – to print only what I want to print, only when I feel like it – seems particularly right for this series.
Schedule | May 8 (Thu) 2025-Jul 2 (Wed) 2025 Opening Hours Information
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| Fee | Free | ||||
| Website | https://www.pgi.ac/en/exhibitions/8591/ | ||||
| Venue | PGI http://www.pgi.ac/index.php?lang=en | ||||
| Location | 3F TKB Bldg., 2-3-4 Higashi-azabu, Minato-ku, Tokyo 106-0044 | ||||
| Access | 4 minute walk from the Nakanohashi exit of Akabanebashi Station on the Toei Oedo line, 8 minute walk from exit 6 at Azabu-juban Station on the Namboku or Toei Oedo line, 8 minute walk from exit 1 at Kamiyacho Station on the Hibiya line. | ||||
| Phone | 03-5114-7935 | ||||
| Related images | Click on the image to enlarge it  |
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