Snow rarely settles in Tokyo. Winter here is mild compared with many other parts of the world, and when enough snow falls to cover the streets, the city tends to lose its usual rhythm. Trains are delayed, journeys take longer, and what might be an ordinary winter day elsewhere becomes a small disruption to almost everything.
Photographers tend to welcome it. There is something irresistible about watching a city you know change its appearance in a matter of hours, especially one that already offers so many reasons to carry a camera.
One February a few years ago, as soon as I saw the snow beginning to gather, I set off for Kuhonbutsu, near Jiyugaoka. It has long been one of my favourite places in Tokyo, a temple I return to for its trees, its wooden gates and the quiet of its grounds. I knew it would be beautiful under the snow, and I wanted to get there before the moment passed.
After an hour on the train, I reached the entrance just as an elderly guard was preparing to close the gate early. The reason, of course, was the snow. I had crossed the city to see the temple transformed by it, only to discover that the same weather would keep me outside.
He was not going to let me in, but we spoke for a while, and eventually he agreed to let me take a photograph from the threshold. From there, the path led towards the wooden gate through branches covered in white, with the dark edges of the steps still showing through. I could not explore the grounds as I had hoped, but the view from the entrance was enough.
The photograph has remained one of my favourites of Tokyo. It shows a quieter, older face of the city, familiar to me yet briefly changed into something I rarely have the chance to see.
I chose it for my exhibition Fluire～時の流れ. Looking at it now, I remember both the scene beyond the gate and the small negotiation that allowed me to photograph it. I had hoped for an afternoon inside the temple, but came away with this one view, just before it closed.
