Akiko and the Sea

Nothing has a grip on Akiko’s soul like the sea. She loves it in a way that’s slightly sadistic, not in spite of its sight feeling like glass shards under bare soles but because of it. The weather is dreary today, the cloudy blue-gray sky reflected in the frilling surface of the water. Akiko itches to capture the movement, to frame and scale the shot in a way that accentuates the moody drawl of the waves. It’s that itch she loves about the sea, the quiet echo of a dead dream, the shattered glass on the floor of her heart. Today, the itch feels different, unsettling, because she could scratch it if she wanted to. All she needs to do is grab the camera hanging around her neck. It’s older than the ones she uses at her wedding photography studio in Sendai, a relic from times past. Her wife Izumi (flatmate, to her parents and colleagues) convinced her to bring it, but she isn’t sure it was a good idea.

Akiko’s break-up with the art of film was long and painful. She owned her first camera at eleven, began writing scripts for sketches at twelve. When she was accepted at a film school in Tokyo, it was like the gates of heaven had opened for her, and she was certain she’d found her calling in life even if her parents disapproved. But soon after Akiko graduated, she realized the film industry was a different beast from university. Competition was high, funds were low. Production companies didn’t want artistry, they wanted efficiency, minimization of costs, maximization of profit. Unlike her peers, Akiko had never aspired to make it big. All she wanted was to make something that mattered, in the same way her favorite movies mattered to her. So, she persevered, taking on one vapid project after the next and working herself to the bone, patiently waiting for the one to come along. It never did. As the years passed her by, what was once a roaring bonfire of passion became little more than smoldering ashes. Her attitude toward her projects changed from bored indifference to intense loathing. They were empty shells hollowed of meaning, quick cash grabs designed to be formulaic and easily consumable like fast food. She reached her breaking point when she sat in front of the TV, watching an episode she’d written and directed, and thought to herself: This is trash. Who would want to watch this? That evening, she decided to leave Tokyo and hasn’t regretted the decision since. What the sea wakes in her is more mourning than missing, mixed with a timid note of wanting. With a deep breath, she finally gives in to her want and lifts the camera. 

 At home, she holes herself up with her laptop for the entire night and nervously presents Izumi the result, a video-diary-style short film, the next morning. “It’s not very good,” she warns, “I’ve gotten rusty.” Izumi watches the montage of their day at the beach with a concentrated line between her brows. Then her eyes crinkle at the corners and she looks up at Akiko. “It’s beautiful. It’s wonderful. I love it.” Akiko laughs uncomfortably. “You’re just saying that because I made it,” she accuses in a half-joking manner but Izumi answers seriously, “There’s no ‘just’. I love it because you made it, because it shows me the world through your eyes. You say you never made anything that mattered, but today you made this and it matters the world to me. If that’s not beautiful, what is?”