Nara and Kyoto 2019
Mount Kasuga
My wife is enjoying a traditional Japanese facial shaving treatment. For women, this practice differs slightly from men’s barber‑shop face‑shaves: it removes fine facial hairs so foundation glides on more smoothly and evenly. Behind us stretches the gentle southern slope of Mount Kasuga. Bathed in bright May sunlight, a path runs straight behind Nara Women’s University. It cuts between the Great Buddha Hall and the Shōsō‑in Repository, leading uphill toward Kasuga Taisha Shrine along the upper ridge. These past few days we have been following routes much like this one. We avoid crowded tourist throngs and seek quiet corners for sketching. From several vantage points, one overlooks the sprawling city of Nara. Judged in isolation, present‑day Mount Kasuga appears neat and elegant — a stark contrast against the old photo album in my hands.
As an elderly patron finished paying to leave, I turned to the barber seeing him out and asked: “What year corresponds to Shōwa 20?” The barber hesitated for a few seconds. The elderly customer, already reaching for the door, replied in a Kansai accent: “1945. That was the end of the war.” Without waiting for my thanks, he stepped out. The ageing barber bowed: “Please come again.” Once the man was out of earshot, he glanced toward me: “My knowledge of dates and history is poor, I apologise.” The click‑clack of the young barber’s scissors resumed, the only sound above the background hum. The album reproduces exactly this southern slope of Mount Kasuga. Though monochrome, the 120‑format silver‑gelatin photograph holds remarkable power, capturing countless fine details. Judging by people’s clothing, it is also early summer in May. The mountain grass grows taller than today’s. Hillsides teem with picnickers: family groups, company outings. Narrow trails wind across the slope. Fragments of ancient architectural rubble lie piled beside paths, and white litter is scattered everywhere. The people in the frame wear serene expressions, yet beneath them simulates untamed vitality — a raw temperament rarely seen on modern‑day Japanese faces. The man who had just left was around eighty‑years‑old, his voice firm, his gaze alert and unyielding. By his age, he most likely did not fight in the Sino‑Japanese War, yet he would have grown up in that era and surely heard accounts of humanity’s cruelty. I lived in Japan for several years. Post‑war Japanese society transformed profoundly. Compared with pre‑war generations, contemporary Japan strikes me as deeply contradictory. On an individual level, the trauma of war taught many that matters of life‑and‑death ought never to be entrusted to others, fostering a fierce belief in personal liberty. Yet the collective social current drifts the opposite way: extreme collectivism and public‑oriented norms continuously erode individual agency.
In many ways, modern Japanese people resemble solitary ninjas moving through thronging crowds. Much of life is spent erasing traces of the past: wiping away footprints as one walks, retracting words once spoken, striving to minimise noise. Every physical mark one might leave is carefully managed. All is done to avoid disturbing others, pursued to an almost absolute degree. I doubt human beings can sustain such absolute restraint. I favour a humanity with flaws. There are moments when we ought to be permitted to discard rubbish, especially when no bin is to be found. Life’s charm may well lie in something less manicured than over‑tended suburbs and parks. The ridgelines of distant green mountains never form perfect straight lines; we need the beauty of irregularity. How much finer if wild creatures startle out of the undergrowth now and then. The sika deer in Nara Park hint at such wild charm — yet knowing they are tamed animals quenches my curiosity, stirring in me a flicker of pity. Some writer — was it Watanabe, or perhaps Mishima? — wrote: “Most of the time I can maintain a respectable façade, but sometimes I simply want to step onto my second‑floor balcony and relieve myself outwards.” That line lays bare a human condition far removed from the ninja‑like discipline of constant self‑surveillance. Upright respectability can hollow a person out, leaving nothing but empty shells wandering across the land. That would kill any joy of rambling outdoors. I prefer the Mount Kasuga in my old album, the scene circa 1945. Without colour, it nevertheless shows litter strewn across hillsides, people laughing openly, and a strange, untamed vitality. “What exquisitely meticulous service. Wonderful. I shall come back to Japan for barber treatments again.” Behind me, the young barber voiced his parting courtesies. I glanced upward. The sun hung at three o’clock. Warm, yet bearable. I took my wife’s hand. “Come. Let us climb Mount Kasuga.”
