Mistake House Magazine: You have said that you “look for beauty in scenes that evoke a sense of longing and timelessness.” What does “longing” and “timelessness” look like to you, and how do you photograph the beauty in these experiences? By extension, do you capture scenes as they occur in the world around you, or do you conceptualize them in the studio?
Sayuri Ichida: For me, photography is a way to create a space that evokes nostalgia—a kind of emotional screen onto which I can project my feelings of longing. It allows me to express moments that feel just out of reach, suspended between memory and imagination.
Timelessness is a crucial element in my work. I strive to make images that are difficult to place in a specific era, so they remain open and resonant across time. My years in commercial photography exposed me to countless powerful images, often featured in prestigious fashion editorials, that faded quickly with changing trends. That impermanence deeply affected me and inspired my desire to create enduring photographs—works that won’t become outdated, but instead hold emotional weight well into the future.
My process is a blend of intuition and intention. Sometimes I capture moments as they unfold in my daily life; other times, I carefully stage scenes to express a particular feeling or thought. It all depends on the project and what it calls for emotionally.
MH: What kind of camera do you use, and has your choice of camera changed over time? On the subject of cameras, how important is the camera in your creative process? In a series like Ctrl Shift + J, for example, you go beyond the camera by altering the photos with folds, cuts, and the addition of geometric forms like lines, triangles, and rectangles. In Absentee, you combine negatives with positives and use mirrors for a “doubling” effect. The result is a kind of collage photograph. Does this “sculptural” approach reflect the content of your photos, or are you experimenting with form for other reasons?
SI: It is definitely a “sculptural” approach. Over time, I’ve looked at countless photographic works and realized that I no longer feel as excited by classic photographic prints as I once did. Instead, I find more inspiration in sculpture and conceptual art, where photography often serves merely as a tool for visual documentation. My approach falls somewhere in the middle—it’s still photography, but with a sculptural twist.
The camera remains an essential tool for me, allowing me to capture the world from different perspectives, but I’m not a camera geek. I don’t delve deeply into technical details. I use various cameras depending on how I’d like to present the images in exhibitions—Leica M6, Mamiya RZ, Fujifilm GF670, and Sony Alpha 7 IV. For example, Absentee was shot entirely on the Fujifilm GF670, while the self-portraits were initially taken with the Sony Alpha 7 IV. I then printed them on paper and re-photographed the prints with Fujifilm GF670 to achieve the same grain. For Ctrl Shift + J, I used a mix of digital and film cameras, including one image shot on my phone. However, with photogravure, the final result always takes on an analog feel, so the choice of camera becomes less significant.
MH: You worked on Absentee during the lockdown period of the coronavirus pandemic. The focus of the series is the “temporality of our existence, centered around [your] own body, juxtaposed with everyday objects we normally overlook.” The photos depict “a sense of detachment, an absence from self and reality” which speaks to the human experience of grief and death. Could these photos be thought of as self-portraits? If so, what “self” is being photographed? How did you think about your own body in this series—as a subject, or as an object? How did you take the photos?
SI: In this series, I approached my body as an object, rather than creating a self-portrait. My aim was to capture body parts in a way that emphasized their sculptural qualities, rather than highlighting curves or defining features. I sought angles and perspectives where the body became abstract, evoking a sense of detachment. The goal wasn’t to explore the concept of “self,” but rather to focus on the body itself. My own body became the subject, simply due to the self-isolation during the pandemic.
As I briefly mentioned above, I initially attempted self-portraits with my Fujifilm GF670, but found it challenging to pose and focus simultaneously. So, I switched to my Sony Alpha 7 IV, mounted on a tripod, and shot remotely via my phone. The app’s live view feature allowed me to monitor my positioning in real time. Once the image was captured, I printed it on A3 paper and then re-photographed it with my Fujifilm GF670. This process ensured that all the images maintained the same grain, creating a cohesive aesthetic throughout the series.
MH: You mentioned that Absentee “enabled [you] to overcome emotional difficulties such as uncertainty and anxiety caused by the reminder of death.” Is there something about the photographic medium—and the process of photographing yourself—that helps you overcome, or give form to, these emotional difficulties?
SI: Photography has always served as a form of distraction for me—a way to disconnect from reality. Since I first started taking pictures, looking through the viewfinder has created a space where I can momentarily step away from the world. The black frame becomes a tool that separates me from everything around me, offering a quiet place where I can connect with my inner self. This feeling remains consistent, whether I’m photographing myself, other people, objects, or landscapes—I experience it every time I hold my camera.
MH: Absentee began as a self-published book before it was exhibited in a gallery setting and re-printed in a book designed by Tomasz Laczny and printed by Robstolk. In an interview, you said, “I want the audience to have a new experience by adapting a sculptural approach. I want to play with space, exhibition space” (University of Westminster). How did you “play with space”—in the first self-published book, and again in the gallery exhibition and in the collaboration with Laczny and the printer? We are especially interested in your choice behind the slipcase cover that pulls out along the lines in the photo.
SI: Physicality plays a vital role in my work, as I believe it brings an intimate, tactile element to the experience. The first version of Absentee—my self-published book—was also designed by Tomasz Laczny. We incorporated gatefolds, inspired by Kikuji Kawada’s renowned photobook Chizu (The Map). While Chizu uses a single horizontal image in its gatefolds, we chose to include four vertical images instead. We also opted for a compact, almost A6 size, so the reader could hold the book comfortably even when the gatefolds were fully open. I wanted the audience to physically experience the work through the book—as if holding a small object charged with emotion. This sense of physicality carried into the gallery exhibition. I used glassless walnut frames to preserve the raw texture of the Kozo paper, allowing its fibers to be visible and tactile. I installed the framed prints in two different sizes along a continuous line, with no space between them, creating a rhythmic flow reminiscent of musical notes. The walnut frames and no-glass presentation were also inspired by shoji—traditional Japanese sliding doors. I grew up in an old house in the countryside surrounded by shoji, and incorporating them was a way of embedding my own memories and cultural references into the presentation. My sculptural approach is also reflected in the slipcase design. I wanted to experiment with the idea of a book becoming a sculptural object. The slipcase pulls along the lines of the photograph printed on it, adding a dimensional, interactive element. It becomes part of the work, not just a container—a way to extend the spatial experience of the images beyond the pages.
MH: In your series, Mayu, you photographed the ballet dancer Mayu striking poses in outdoor locations in New York City. You have said that the series conveyed “some part of the jarring experiences” that you and Mayu “independently shared as immigrants looking for their place in a foreign country.” How has your experience as an immigrant shaped your process and your choice of subject matter? In this series, your choice to photograph Mayu in the streets and away from the stage frames her, quite literally, as an “outsider.”
SI: When I lived in Japan, I wasn’t particularly interested in exploring themes of identity in my work. But after spending many years as an immigrant, I naturally began to reflect more on who I was and where I belonged. This started to influence the subjects I gravitated toward. In a way, my projects have become a means of tracing my personal journey. I don’t usually begin with a clear, fixed concept; rather, I discover the meaning along the way. That process itself is revealing. It’s fascinating how photography can surface questions about identity I wasn’t consciously asking at the outset of each project.
Living far from Japan has made me appreciate its cultural richness in a way I never did when I was there. I began to see how unique and profound certain aspects of Japanese culture are, and I now feel proud to have been born in such a place. As a way of honoring that, I’ve deliberately incorporated traditional Japanese paper into my work, not only to express appreciation, but also to reflect my cultural background and identity.
MH: Thinking about color in your work, you transitioned from a vibrant color palette in the Deja Vu and Mayu series to black and white images in E3 2JH, Ctrl Shift + J, and Absentee. What prompted this turn to black and white? Looking at E3 2JH, for example, the lines of the objects exist in a still, silent space. You’ve described this silence and space in terms of the Buddhist concept of “Yohaku”—the empty space around a rendered object. Is it possible that the black and white image heightens or accentuates this experience of Yohaku?
SI: As you pointed out, prior to the Absentee series, I was working exclusively in color. However, during the lockdown, I wasn’t able to develop color film because all the labs in New York were closed. That limitation led me to switch to black and white, as I could process it at home. At the same time, I didn’t feel drawn to working in color—there was something about its brightness that felt too cheerful and didn’t reflect the emotional weight of that period.
E3 2JH also exists in a color version. That said, I do agree with you—black and white imagery can heighten the experience of Yohaku, or the presence of empty space. Still, I don’t think it’s strictly about the absence of color. It’s more about how the space is treated within the frame—how stillness, silence, and absence are composed. That’s where I feel the sense of Yohaku emerges most strongly.
MH: You were inspired to make the E3 2JH series after encountering Czech photographer Jan Svoboda’s print, titled, Space for Pink Picture (1972). What happened—mentally, intellectually, creatively—in that initial encounter with Svoboda’s print? Where did this encounter take place and what ideas did you glean from it?
SI: I encountered Jan Svoboda’s print at The Photographers’ Gallery in 2020. I was struck by the entire exhibition, but that particular image—Space for Pink Picture—truly stayed with me. There was a quiet power in its simplicity. The composition—the object placed slightly off-centre, the tonal balance, and the use of space—felt so refined. It was minimal, yet deeply expressive.
What moved me most was how Svoboda created such a compelling presence with so little. That encounter prompted me to think about how I could construct a subject or object for the camera—something quiet, deliberate, and resonant. It marked a shift in how I approach image-making, encouraging a more conscious engagement with space, form, and stillness.
MH: Continuing this thread on influences. A FotoRoom article mentions that you have been influenced by the works of Todd Hido and William Christenberry, as well as Uta Barth and Richard Misrach. Can you talk about what you have learned from some of these artists and how their thinking about photography informs your practice? We noticed some connections between your work and that of Andy Warhol—the way, for example, you transform and photograph everyday objects in response to events in contemporary culture. Would you consider Andy Warhol—or Pop Art in general—an influence?
SI: I’ve always admired Andy Warhol’s screenprints, though I’ve never consciously thought of my own work as connected to his, so I was quite surprised—but also deeply honored—that you found a connection. I do enjoy looking at Pop Art and exploring printing techniques, but I wouldn’t say they’ve been direct influences on my practice.
The FotoRoom interview was done a while ago, and my influences have evolved since then. Uta Barth remains one of my key inspirations, with her use of repetition and the way she invites viewers to reconsider the act of looking itself. Her photographs often employ intentional blur and subtle shifts in light, prompting viewers to engage their own imagination and become acutely aware of how they perceive an image. In my work, I extend this idea by presenting near‑identical repetitions—variations so slight they are almost imperceptible—creating a similar pause that invites each viewer to question what, exactly, they are observing.
Since I began working in black and white, especially after the start of the pandemic, I’ve found myself drawn to artists like Jungjin Lee and Laurent Millet. What draws me to them is a shared sense of simplicity and restraint, both in their image-making and in their printing techniques. Their work has resonated with me and shaped how I think about form, materiality, and atmosphere in photography.
MH: You talked at the Daiwa Anglo-Japanese Foundation about leaving photography for two years after you “lost your sense of direction” as a fashion photographer. Your first series after that period was Deja Vu, where you photographed houses that reminded you of the dollhouses you played with as a child. Can you talk about this change of subject—from the formal elements of fashion photography to taking photos of houses—and how this project renewed your interest in photography?
SI: I left fashion photography in an almost traumatic way, so when I returned to photography after a two-year break, I wanted to move as far away from that world as possible. At first, I was taking pictures aimlessly—whatever caught my eye: the sky, clouds, cats, street scenes. There was no clear direction, just a need to reconnect with the act of looking and photographing.
One day, I took a trip with my camera to upstate New York. Among the images I returned with, there was one of a house that I found myself deeply drawn to. The house photograph sparked an interest in me, and I returned to the same area again and again, seeking out houses with a similar feeling of nostalgia. That’s how Deja Vu began—it was the first series I created after changing course away from fashion.
In a way, it felt like coming full circle, back to the very beginning of my relationship with photography, which started when I was 15. I decided to follow my own instincts and simply photograph what interested me. I stopped worrying about how others might perceive the work. At that point, I just wanted to create images for myself.
MH: In a recent interview with PhotoWorks, you described your plan to visit and photograph schools in Niigata that are closing as Japan experiences depopulation. Can you talk about this project and how it extends or departs from your earlier interest in constructivist materiality and photographic sculpture? How will you view these schools in Niigata once you arrive?
SI: I grew up in a small town in Niigata and have witnessed Japan’s depopulation issue firsthand since childhood. For example, two out of three elementary schools in my town closed while I was still there. Last year, I learned that my former junior high school would merge with another school in a larger town, and the building would be closed. More recently, I came across an article revealing that the UK’s natural population is predicted to begin declining this year.
Although I’m not typically a photographer who directly addresses social issues in my work, I felt a strong sense of responsibility to create a piece reflecting this theme, especially given how deeply it has impacted my hometown, and because I now live in the UK, which may face similar challenges in the future. I wanted to share this with a UK audience, as it feels particularly relevant.
For this project, I plan to merge my interest in constructivist materiality and photographic sculpture. I aim to create photocollages with a distinctively constructive aesthetic. The original images are quite straightforward; I’ve photographed the school buildings from various angles to gather enough material for the collages. The process will involve transforming these seemingly simple images into something more dynamic, engaging with the schools’ current state in a more sculptural way.
Additionally, I plan to print the image on a chalkboard, and to display it as a freestanding piece in the gallery. This will evoke the presence of a large concrete structure left behind, emphasizing both the physical and emotional absence these schools represent.
MH: Do you ever play hooky? If you do, what is your favorite thing to do when you take off suddenly, as in a dérive?
SI: I’ve been very busy over the last year and a half, so I can’t remember the last time I played hooky. However, I feel thankful for all the work and opportunities that have kept me occupied. That being said, I used to enjoy visiting places I found on Google Maps. I especially like wandering around unfamiliar residential areas with my camera, rather than going to the more popular spots. For instance, while working on my project Deja Vu, I visited places like Sleepy Hollow, Newark, and Westfield. I began by using Google Street View to research areas and find houses that seemed ideal for the project. Once I had my locations, I set off to explore them in person, wandering through unfamiliar streets and capturing images of the houses. This process of wandering and discovering became central to the project, allowing me to capture moments that felt both personal and universal.