In 1979, Miyako Ishiuchi received the Kimura lhei, the most notable Photography Award in Japan, which brought her international recognition for her captivating post-war japanese photography. Many years later, with much more artwork in her portfolio, the Getty Museum in Los Angeles opened an exhibition with the largest collection of her work outside of Japan (Tate). This is where I encountered and became enamoured with her dynamic work. Miyako Ishiuchi’s emotional and intimate photo’s express her japanese identity, womanhood, and mourning over the effects of war on Japan.
The series, Scars, is one of many collections that use the body as the subject and reflects her interest in how the body records our life, past trauma, pain, and growth. She began collecting images of people’s “symbols of victory”, as Miyako calls them, in 1991 and continues to capture scars through photographs to add to this series today. Each print is only titled with the series number, a vague cause of the scar, and the year that the subject acquired it (Tate).
Scar #26 (War 1945) by Miyako Ishiuchi is a powerful photograph that prompts the viewer to reflect on their own past as they are shocked by the beauty and repulsiveness of the image. The post war japanese influence is evident in the title of the work, Scar #26 (War 1945), describing that the scar was acquired in combat during World War II. 1945 is the same year that the United States dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and resulted in the Japanese formally surrendering (World War II in the Pacific).
This photograph is a reminder of the harsh effects of war, especially on the Japanese people, and aligns with Miyako’s emphasis on honoring those traumatized by the war and reminding the world of the lasting effects of violence (Tate). Scar #26 confronts you with a large scale black and white image of a scar on the upper back, the kind of scar that someone would be embarrassed to show off because of its size, depth and unappealing effect on the skin. Miyako chooses to celebrate it instead of allowing it to be hidden by clearly making it the subject.
It is forced into the viewer’s face by the sheer size of the print and focus on the scar. The photograph is tightly cropped to expose and emphasize the scar and provides very little other context for the identity of this person. It is so tightly cropped that the first glance does not provide enough information for what is going on in the photo and the viewer cannot help but take a second look to better contextualize the location on the body, and perhaps that it is even a scar at all. There are a few wisps of hair at the top of the image but, the owner of the scar remains anonymous to us, their only identity is this rather distinct scar.
The composition of the scar itself in Scar #26 is intriguing. It cuts diagonally from the nape of the neck, across the spine and over to the inner edge of the left shoulder blade. It is interrupted by a section of unharmed skin, pocketing up over the scar, as if it is a bridge. We, the viewer, can infer that this is from the object that caused the wound entering under the skin briefly and then protruding out again. The skin stretches from the regular, unaffected area to the middle, deepest area where it meets to form a ridge.
This ridge, the midpoint of the scar, a thin straight line, creates a midpoint in the greater image that the viewers eye keeps returning to. The way the skin is pulled and distorted is beautiful, it evokes the feeling of movement in something that is still and unchanging. The complex visual impression reminds me of a natural land formation, something rooted in nature. However, when you recall that this is a scar permanently on a person’s body, an unusual formation made of skin, the scar becomes grotesque again.
This tightrope between beauty and disgust is mirrored in the context under which this scar exists. It is beautiful in that it is a symbol of survival and resilience from a bad experience for the owner of the scar. It is also grotesque, when the infinite possibilities of how it was acquired are pondered, because Miyako provides such a vague description in the works title. As I sat in front of Scar #26, I listened to the conversations that people were having about this and other artworks of the same Scars Series. Many were discussing the cause of the scars in the photos.
The scars represent more than what caused them, they a a reminder of the impact, a physical manifestation and lifelong reminder of trauma. Miyako said that she “cannot stop staking photos of scars] because they are so much like a photograph… visible events, recorded in the past” (Sepia Eye). The event which caused the scar does not compare to the length of time that we carry that scar around with us. This is a beautiful analogy for the way in which we are affected by negative events, they likewise take an emotional and psychological toll on our person.
Scar #26 depicts a wound that happened at the nape of the neck and across the spine, a potentially fatal spot. Imagining the emotional impact of a violent near death experience, and having a reminder of that everyday is eerie. It also demonstrates the resilience in bearing such a mark and living beyond such an event. Miyako intentionally creates anonymity of the person in Scar #26, making it possible that this scar could belong to anyone, everyone. We can project ourselves onto the canvas, being photographed by Miyako.
Imagining yourself with this scar on your back is humbling. Miyako wants the viewer to consider their own past. Perhaps you do not have a scar but there is something that has impacted you so much it left a lasting impression on your mind and shaped your character. This photography by Miyako Ishiuchi is compelling in its complex composition, evokes intense emotion of admiration and disgust, and references an important historical event. Through the intrigue of its visual appearance, Scar #26 opens a path for us to consider our own “scars”.
