Tokyo Baseball
From way up in the stands the members of the Yomiuri Giants look like little figurines in clean white and orange. Number 6, legendary shortstop Hayato Sakamoto, steps up to the mound and assumes the position, bat cocked, knees slightly bent. A few seconds of stillness, then the crack of wood on leather—the ball sailing high and away into the Tokyo night.
Home run, Giants.
Mr Fujimoto’s Gallery
We meet Kaoru Fujimoto on a beautiful morning in Setagaya, a peaceful corner of Tokyo, surrounded by parks, bakeries and the soft chirp of birdsong. Like plenty of things in the city, the location is understated. A single room that opens out onto the street with a low ceiling and a handful of paintings hanging on white walls.
A Postcard from Tokyo
It’s raining in Japan. A heavy summer downpour; sky the colour of old concrete. A fleet of square Toyota taxis—children’s drawings with polished chrome trim—move through the soup, until one stops. A driver in a pressed black uniform appears and wordlessly manoeuvres us, and our luggage, out of the rain and into the outskirts of the city. Through the mist of the passenger window you can see office blocks and apartment buildings, billboards for teeth whitening solutions and soft drinks.
Editors Picks
Revue: Mark Cho
