In 2006, after graduating from a vocational school, I wandered aimlessly without a job, but I continued taking photographs.

At that time, there was a lot of debate about digital vs. analog, a typical binary opposition that arises during transitional periods. Being a darkroom enthusiast, I was completely on the analog side, thinking I would never use a digital camera in my life. But to be honest, there was no clear reason behind this; it was merely an attachment to what I had been doing and a kind of small faith in the photographers I admired.

I had plenty of time, but I had no idea what to do or how to move forward. The only thing I could do was submit my work to competitions.

During my time at school, Kōtarō Iizawa visited as a special lecturer and advised us to apply to as many competitions as possible. If we got no recognition at all, we should reconsider our path. Being a relatively serious student, I followed his advice and applied to as many competitions as I could. I thought at least one of them would accept my work, but in the end, I was rejected from all of them.

For about two years, I remained unemployed, living at home, and calling myself a photographer without any achievements or connections—plenty of time to feel anxious about the future.

I realized that something had to change. So, I decided to educate myself by visiting museums and bookstores in Tokyo. But I had no money, so I couldn’t buy books. Instead, I collected flyers from bookstores, taking multiple copies—one for myself and one to give to friends. This was a nostalgic habit from that era, something I rarely do now.

I can’t remember where I found it, but I still clearly remember the flyer. It was unusually long and horizontal, with a symmetrical mirrored photograph printed on both sides. The deep black image was vague and abstract, carrying an eerie atmosphere. It read: “Goodbye Photography, reissued early 2006!”

“Goodbye Photography” (Shashin yo Sayonara) was a legendary photobook that had always been displayed in the glass cases of secondhand bookstores. I don’t remember the exact price, but it was definitely not something I could afford. I was too timid to ask the shop clerk about it, so I have never actually seen a first edition copy in person.

When I learned that this phantom-like photobook was being reissued, I got excited and came up with a personal plan:

I would go to the book signing event at NADiff in Omotesando, get Daido Moriyama’s autograph, and use that as a turning point. I would completely abandon my analog film style and start anew with a digital camera.

Like many photography students, I had unconsciously developed an absolute standard of what “Moriyama-esque” photography should be. Attending the event was my way of breaking free from that influence—my own symbolic farewell to Daido Moriyama.

Although the idea may seem foolish or even rude, to a young man struggling with his future, it was not a joke. It was a small ritual for independence, something I took seriously at the time.

I don’t remember whether there was a talk show at the signing event; I was too nervous. As I waited in line, I watched Moriyama greet each guest with a few words and a handshake.

What should I say to him?

I must have been desperately thinking about that. When my turn came, I stood there speechless.

In my panic, I stretched out my trembling hand and, without meaning to, gripped his hand too tightly. He must have noticed my tension because he firmly squeezed my hand in return. I was deeply moved.

I decided not to open the book I had just bought. Since I had gone there to sever my ties with Moriyama’s influence, allowing myself to be further affected would have defeated the purpose. In the end, I didn’t look at the book for more than ten years.

Now, I realize something surprising—I don’t own any other Moriyama photobooks besides “Goodbye Photography.”

Back when I was most obsessed with his work, I had no money, so I only read his autobiographies and essays. For photobooks, I relied on browsing at bookstores, borrowing from friends, or visiting libraries.

By the time I started buying more photobooks, I had already performed my farewell ritual, and naturally, I distanced myself from Moriyama’s work.

Why didn’t I buy them?

To young photographers who are debating whether to buy a photobook: if you can, I strongly recommend making the effort to get it.

One more memory just came back to me—there was a photobook called Hokkaido that I used to contemplate buying at the secondhand bookstore Hyakunen in Kichijoji.

It was a large book, expensive, and a bit heavy to carry home. Every time I went to the store, I told myself, “Maybe next time.” I kept putting it off until, eventually, I missed my chance.

Moriyama was around 40 when he shot Hokkaido. Now that I’m almost the same age, I can’t think of a more fascinating book for me at this moment.

I was worried that I might not find a copy anywhere, but after checking, I discovered that a few bookstores still have it. I’ll order it immediately.

And with this, I’ll take another deep look at Moriyama’s work once again.