The New York Times printed my portrait of Shigeko Sasamori, a well known atomic bomb survivor who died this week in Los Angeles. It’s my first portrait of an atomic bomb survivor that they’ve ever published. I’m proud that a larger audience will know about Shigeko because her life deserves attention. After everything she endured, she still gave empathy to the world every moment of every day.
https://www.nytimes.com/…/asia/shigeko-sasamori-dead.html
I received the sad news that Shigeko Sasamori passed away in her sleep this week at the age of 92. Shigeko was 13 years old when the atomic bomb detonated over Hiroshima and suffered deadly injuries. She was so badly burned that she was unrecognizable. Her father found her days after because she kept repeating her name. In 1955, Shigeko was chosen to be part of a small group of young girls called the Hiroshima Maidens. They were brought to New York to have reconstructive plastic surgeries. Shigeko immigrated and lived the majority of her life in Los Angeles.
I photographed Shigeko while she visited New York through Hibakusha Stories to speak with students at high schools and universities. Hibakusha Stories gave several hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors) the opportunity to communicate with thousands of students for almost a decade.
The first photograph is of Shigeko dancing with students at Hunter College, and the other is with high school students at Brooklyn Friends during 2013. It was amazing to see the connection each hibakusha had with students who were 60 years younger than them. The attention and respect that the students had was surprising. I often wonder after all these years if they still realize how lucky they were to have met hibakusha like Shigeko.
I’ve never exhibited photographs of Shigeko in any of the From Above exhibitions. Maybe because my time around her dictated that the photographs were more documentary than the portraits in the project. It feels like I took these photographs yesterday, but more than a decade has passed. I’m grateful for that small amount of time Shigeko allowed me to be there with my camera.
“I thought the bomb was dropped right next to me. But actually the bomb was detonated 2,800 meters (almost 2 miles) away.” -Takeshi Minekawa
I recently received the sad news that Mr. Takeshi Minekawa passed away on January 5th, 2024. He was 87 years old. I photographed him near the hypocenter where the atomic bomb detonated over Nagasaki. This portrait has only been shown at the From Above exhibition in 2018. I took the photograph nearly a decade after I began photographing hibakusha, atomic bomb survivors.
Mr. Minekawa was nine years old when the atomic bomb exploded. He was with his parents when the plane carrying the “Fat Boy” atomic bomb flew over Nagasaki. They went outside to look when the air raid siren sounded and were overwhelmed by the enormous boom, flash of light, wind, and heat immediately after the explosion.
This portrait is part of my project From Above, which is a collection of portraits and reminiscences of atomic bomb survivors and firebombing survivors from Dresden, Tokyo, Coventry, Rotterdam, and Wielun. From Above is permanently exhibited at the Nagasaki Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims. It has also been exhibited internationally in museums, exhibition spaces, and at the United Nations. From Above was released as a limited edition book that was sold at PhotoEye.com. It is sold out, but I have the last copies. Contact me if you’re interested.
“My sister kept asking, “Where’s mother?” Suddenly, she went silent. That was probably the moment she passed away. The next morning, I arrived at my home and found my mother’s body. All of her clothes were burned off. She was 39 years old.” -Jouji Fukahori, atomic bomb survivor
I received the sad news that Mr. Jouji Fukahori passed away on October 28th at the age of 94. Mr. Fukahori was 14 years old when the atomic bomb destroyed Nagasaki. He lived 500m (1/3 mile) from the hypocenter in the Urakami district. It was home to 15,000 Christians and the Urakami Cathedral, the largest cathedral in East Asia.
The area was transformed into a field of ash. It’s estimated that three-quarters of the population in Urakami died. Many of the residents who survived only did because they were away from the area. The stone cathedral was split into pieces. Its twin bell towers were pummeled to the ground. One tower was thrown down the hill, which the cathedral was built on top of. I photographed Mr. Fukahori standing next to damaged religious statues that remain on the grounds of the rebuilt Urakami Cathedral.
This portrait has been shown on-line, but has yet to be seen in a From Above exhibition. I’ve worked on preparing an exhibition print and want to show it at the upcoming From Above exhibitions. I didn’t photograph him until ten years into the project. There are a lot of portraits in the project, I’ve begun to rotate some in during the middle of exhibitions so that more can be seen.
From Above is a collection of portraits and reminiscences of atomic bomb survivors and firebombing survivors from Dresden, Tokyo, Coventry, Rotterdam, and Wielun. From Above is permanently exhibited at the Nagasaki Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims. It has also been exhibited internationally in museums, exhibition spaces, and at the United Nations. From Above was released as a limited edition book that was sold at PhotoEye.com. It is sold out, but I have the last copies. Contact me if you’re interested.
“I was 4 years old when the atomic bomb was dropped.
So I don’t know “normal life.”
I hated the war for a long time, but realized having a grudge does nothing.
I have to speak and leave messages to the next generation.”
-Hidetaka Komine
Yesterday I received the sad news that Hidetaka Komine passed away, a couple of days before his 84th birthday. I met Mr. Komine during the second day of my initial trip to Nagasaki. He was the fifth hibakusha, atomic bomb survivor, I met. I remember it clearly because he was an unforgettable and remarkable person. He left an impression even before we were introduced. When I was walking back into the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, I caught a glimpse of a man wearing a leather jacket and smoking a cigarette. He looked like he rode a Harley Davidson. Twenty minutes later, when it was time for my next interview and photograph, the man with the leather jacket walked in, it was Mr. Komine. He immediately started speaking and using his hands like I do, more direct and aggressive than any person I met in Japan. Even though I had no idea what he was saying, I knew he was interesting. He reminded me of the characters from my childhood in Brooklyn.
Mr. Komine lived a tough life, but he fought through the struggles and lived with dignity and pride. He could admit to the pain, anger, sadness, and regrets. There was no veil of secrecy in his words. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone who was tougher, sincere, or more compassionate. This is what real strength is to me.
He became my friend from the first moment. I returned to Nagasaki many times, and he was always there to greet me, and developed a friendship with my translator Seiichi. On my second visit to Nagasaki in May 2010, I exhibited the first portraits at the Nagasaki Peace Museum so that everyone I photographed could see. At that point, the project was seen once in Tokyo and there wasn’t any interest from venues in Nagasaki. Izumi and I were persistent. When Mr. Komine came to the exhibition with the other hibakusha, we spoke about my trip to Dresden to photograph firebombing survivors. But I will always remember him speaking with another person I photographed and saying that he didn’t recognize them because “Paule made them look better in the photograph.” That was Mr. Komine’s personality, like a character from Brooklyn and not like anyone else in Japan.
“If I had not encountered the atomic bomb, I don’t know what kind of life was waiting for me.”
The atomic bomb was one of Mr. Komine’s first memories of life. He was the first to tell me that the life of an hibakusha was cut in two. The life before the atomic bomb, and then the sharp cut the moment after the bomb exploded. His entire life he was subjected to discrimination, and prejudice. One day as a child he had enough of the fierce bullying because the atomic bomb left him with injuries that made it painful to walk. He fought back, risking serious injury, but he considered it a salvation to stand up for himself.
It wasn’t until he was 50 years old that Mr. Komine publicly spoke about his experiences. He was ready earlier in life to speak than most hibakusha. It was an honor that Mr. Komine was my friend. He made me a better person, and had more compassion and strength in one of his fingernails than I have in my entire body. The world was a better place with him in it. He will be missed.
…December 1st, World AIDS Day…On October 13th, 1996, the entire AIDS Memorial Quilt was displayed on the National Mall in Washington, DC, for the last time. It was unbelievably sad to see how massive it was. Each small quilt was made for a person who has passed away from AIDS. The quilt was laid from the Capitol to the Washington Monument. A large amount of space. The names on the quilts spanned all demographics and ages; male, female, young, elderly, middle age, children, husbands, wives, lovers, partners, friends, artists, business people, a few famous people and mostly ordinary people who were loved by someone. I remember wanting to find the quilt made for Freddie Mercury, but as soon as I saw the landscape, I realized that its entirety was more important than finding just one in a sea of millions.
The AIDS Quilt is the largest piece of community art ever shown. The enormous size of the project demonstrates how serious a problem AIDS/HIV still is. I wish the quilt would still be exhibited every year so we don’t have the excuse of saying AIDS/HIV was a problem for a brief moment, affecting only certain people. It’s easy to believe stereotypes when you’re wearing blinders.
Today, there is barely a mention of AIDS. AIDS still ends too many lives. I don’t want to forget those who have been affected. A few of my friends succumbed to AIDS; they just disappeared into the ether because they kept their illness a secret to avoid the stigma. I lost some friends who were HIV positive to suicide that was a result of the culture of ignorance and intolerance allowed to fester. I miss them, and they should still be here, selfishly making me a better person
