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Japanese is the first language I've studied where I've had to learn a whole new word for “photograph.” “Shashin” sounds nothing like the Greek for “writing with light,” and the word is written with kanji, rather than the katakana I expected. Like the Japanese words for many 19th-century innovations, 写真 was formed through a process called “wasei-kango” (和製漢語), or “Japanese word from Chinese elements.” 

 

Unlike “photograph,” 写真 seems to emphasise result rather than process. 写, sha, means “copy” (and to me the kanji looks a bit like a photocopier, or maybe a scribe at a desk).

 

真, shin, means “truth” on its own, and when it appears in compounds it can also mean “natural” or “complete.” It's also the name of the most widely practiced school of Buddhism in Japan, which teaches that one cannot become enlightened through one's own efforts, but only through entrusting oneself to the compassionate Buddha's power. 

 

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Photography was one of my father's many special interests. Our house was full of books by Weegee, Roman Vishniac and Diane Arbus. “Street photographer” seemed to be a position like “scientist” or “judge,” entitled to stand outside, and comment on, the general mass of humanity. Of course photographers were entitled to photograph anyone they chose; of course their images were both impartial and accurate to the point of cruelty. They said nothing and everything at the same time.

 

I feel very differently now. And I almost never photograph people. 

 

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It's not inevitable that a person should “take” a photo, as they take a temperature or take what is (or isn't) rightfully theirs. German speakers “make” photos, Russian speakers “do” them and Italian speakers “snap” them (scattare, a verb meaning “to be released suddenly”).

 

Japanese has a word meaning specifically,  and only, to take a photo or video: 撮る, toru. The original Chinese meaning of 撮 (to) is “to pick up or collect.” And Japanese has a word for “to take,” 取る, that's pronounced the same way. The only non-photography-related word I know of that 撮 appears in is a rare variant form of a word meaning “to pick up with chopsticks” or “to bewitch.”

 

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In December 2025, during one of my bleakest periods of depression, I had to take a bus in the pouring rain to an industrial estate in a poor part of town to buy some sheeting to cover a damaged floor. I came home, stowed the heavy roll in a corner, wrung out my trouser cuffs and prepared to huddle on the sofa. Just then my phone pinged with a notification that Fukuyama Masaharu's new fan club magazine was out. 

 

Pictures of Masha have a way of cheering anyone up. But what moved me most wasn't a photo of him, but a photo he'd taken. In addition to his music and acting careers, Fukuyama has a sideline as a photographer, and he has a deal with Leica to include a selection of photos he's taken with their equipment in each issue. In this issue was a beautifully composed shot from above of orange and lime slices in a glass of clear liquid.

 

Quite unexpectedly, this lifted me out of darkness. Looking at the colours, the circle and semicircles, the light shining through the fruit pulp and the grain of the wooden table underneath, I felt a soft fascination that left no room for pain. But the picture meant more than that. Having felt utterly alone, I suddenly had a sense of connection. I knew Fukuyama had seen that glass and been quietly struck by it, and he wanted others to be quietly struck by it too. 

 

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Recently I visited an exhibition of female Japanese photographers at the Photographers’ Gallery and came away with a book by Kawauchi Rinko. Like Masha's photo of the drink, Kawauchi's pictures capture humble details and ephemeral everyday moments. This opening sunflower, for instance:

Or this lit candle:

When I look at my favourite photos of hers, I feel the same way as when I read Issa's haiku. I join the creator to experience a moment that's somehow outside time and space.

 

You don't have to “take” a photo. You can share it.

 

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I never used to think that photos of me were a true image, or at least I didn't want to accept they were.  I used to reject selfie after selfie, my smile becoming a bit more strained in each one.

 

Fukuyama Masaharu, of course, is comfortable on both sides of the camera:

 

Increasingly, so am I. The camera will never love me as it loves him, but I can face it as if I had a right to be there.

Even when taking photos of other things, I don't edit them as much as I used to. This is partly because of my interest in shodo, where one traditionally doesn't correct mistakes. A work of shodo isn't just a representation of a word or phrase, but a record of having been present in a particular moment. Nowadays I think of my photos in the same way. If I think the moment will move others, I share it; if not, I move on to the next. I trust that I'll capture the light when I need to.