Photographing Tsukiji Fish Market

After 83 years, the inner Tsukiji Fish Market closed its doors in 2018.  Majority of the businesses there relocated to a modern facility at the new Toyosu Market in Koto City, a special ward in Tokyo Metropolis.  Sadly, in my opinion, the new fish market lacks the old charm and cultural significance of the original location.  Restaurants and small retailers still remain in the outer Tsukiji, but the historical fish market known by many around the world no longer exists. In 2009, I thankfully had the opportunity to explore and photo document inside Tsukiji.  That was unfortunately my first and last visit to the inner market.  Shortly after my visit, I wrote a journal (Revised and edited for this post) about my experience there so I could occasionally return to the vivid memory of this unique place.  All the photographs were taken during that morning on October 28, 2009.    

Wednesday, 10/28/2009

My hotel alarm clock beeped loudly right at 4:00 am and man, it was tough getting out of my nice warm bed.  I was out late last night having shabu-shabu dinner with friends, so I didn’t get much sleep. The Maguro (Tuna) auction I was told starts exactly at 5 am, so I got ready fast. Without washing up, I put my clothes on, grabbed my camera gear and came down to the front lobby in just under fifteen minutes.  (My camera gear: Pair of Canon 5D-Mark II DSLR, one mounted with EF 24-70mm f2.8 L glass and the other with EF 70-200mm f2.8 L Zoom).  I rushed outside the hotel and hailed for a taxi that was parked near by.  It was too early and the trains weren’t running yet.  Taxi was much quicker anyway.  From Shinagawa, it took about twenty minutes and ¥3,000 yen to get to the outer Tsukiji Fish Market.

Maguro Swordsman, © Pak Han 2009

Tight Maneuver, © Pak Han 2009

This place was huge with maze like walkways flanked by small wholesaler stalls on both sides.  I got lost right away.  As I navigated quickly across the market to get to the auction, my senses exploded with the pungent smell of ocean, and fresh caught fish familiar and exotic. It was bustling with active people moving about in all direction, on foot and on their highly maneuverable motorized carts carrying crates and all sorts of seafood.  The energy of the marketplace rushed through my body as if I got poked with adrenaline.

After getting confusing directions from security guards, I found my way to the auction site right when they opened their doors to a dozen or so eager visitors. I started getting really excited as we stepped into the chilly warehouse.  The first sight of huge frozen tunas neatly lined up in rows on the wet misty concrete floor was eerily amazing.  A man in blue uniform escorted us to a small area, where it was cordoned off from the workers and valuable tunas on display.  Our visitor space was rather small and packed. It was also located at one end of the warehouse, so there was some distance between us and the activities on the floor. I tried my best to get into a good position to observe and take photographs. My 70-200mm glass came in very handy for capturing many of the action at the far end of the building.

Maguro Buyer, © Pak Han 2009

It was preview time and a group of buyers all wearing dark rubber boots, carrying flashlights and menacingly looking pick hooks roamed the floor, carefully inspecting the tunas.  They went from tuna to tuna, picking, poking, touching and even taking small pieces of meat from the tail end of each fish to taste. The buyers then scribbled diligently on their small wrinkly notebooks and chose their favorite fish. It was fascinating to see the very meticulous evaluation process, which made sense given that premium tunas can fetch millions of Yen.

The cowbells clanged, signaling the start of the auction. An auctioneer stood up on top of a wooden stool and began shouting into a crowd of bidders without a microphone. What I heard next sounded like ritual chants, a rhythm of voices and hollers orchestrated by auctioneers and buyers placing their bids. As one auction ended, another began. This ritual continued until most of the tunas were sold on the floor.

Frozen Maguro, © Pak Han 2009

Maguro Cutter, © Pak Han 2009

Once I left the warehouse, I toured the inner fish market at a relaxed pace, trying to take in as much as I can. There were stalls selling eclectic assortments of fresh fish and molluscs; even live ones and some specialized in just few specific types of seafood.  People working in the stalls were restlessly cleaning, cutting fish and making transactions with their customers. I also got to see where many of the tunas from the auction went.  The frozen tunas were carted to vendors who sawed them up into various pieces.  Some of them were packed into vehicles to be transported outside the market and some were carted to wholesalers in the market to be sold. I spent most of the morning wandering with a curious eye and observing the market’s customs. 

When my stomach started growling, I realized I haven’t eaten anything all morning.  It was time to eat.  Finding a good place serving fresh fish in Tsukiji wasn’t too difficult.  There are an abundance of restaurants, mostly small family owned establishments not far from the main inner market.  I stumbled onto a restaurant with a long line of hungry local folks waiting to be seated.  This was the place for me. The menu was simple.  I ordered the Chirashi-don (Sashimi over sushi rice) with Toro (Fatty tuna), Uni (Sea Urchin) and Ikura (Salmon roe). There was no doubt about the quality and freshness of the main ingredients. The thick portions were firm and bright. Toro had the nice pale pink color and it literally melted in my mouth. Uni was delightfully sweet with a mildly nutty taste. It was the perfect meal to end a busy, fun morning at the market. I decided to take the train back to my hotel. In the train, I sat quietly and savored my morning adventure, and imagined my return to the Tsukiji Fish Market when I make another trip back to Japan.  

My Photography, My Life

I grew up around oil paints, smelly thinner in brush washers and stacked canvases cluttering the walls.  Our house was in Osan, Korea with an art studio on the first floor.  My father was an artist, a painter of expressionist works.  Even to this day, I get nostalgic from smelling fresh oil paints. I used to watch my father paint at his wooden easel nearly everyday inside the cozy studio space.  Art was a regular part of our family’s life and while growing up, I believed I was destined to become a painter.  

It was 1977 and I had barely turned nine years old when our family immigrated here to the United States.  My father struggled as an artist and wasn’t able to enjoy the success he once had in our new country. He had difficulty supporting the family, so my mother started working a full time job to keep us afloat. Living through the financial struggles during my teenage years dampened my desire of having an artistic career.  

My life became relatively stable after I set out on my own and found a decent paying job, but it was a place absent of art. I put together a small studio space inside my garage where I painted in my spare time.  This went on for many years.  Once I moved to the East Bay in 2002 and into an old warehouse turned loft space, there was finally enough room to paint comfortably. I did a couple of gallery shows and sold some paintings, however I lacked the confidence and aspiration to seriously pursue it as a profession.  Perhaps there was always that fear of failure looming in my subconscious. Painting became a way of therapy for me and it also relieved my artistic itch. Yet the satisfaction was always fleeting.

Artist Ralph McQuarrie in Pak Han’s studio, 2004 | Photo: Caroline Kieu Linh Valverde

In 2008, I bought my first pro-grade DSLR (Digital Single-Lens Reflex) camera, the Canon 5D Mark II after I fell in love with photography. It all started one afternoon, when a photographer friend generously let me play with his Leica M8 rangefinder.  He looked at some of the shots I’ve taken and gave me some great feedback.  After that day, I knew photography was the missing puzzle piece in my life.  Holding the camera to my face and hearing the clicking sound of the shutter gave me a euphoric rush. I was hooked. The unusual thing is, I had an old Canon AE-1 camera that my father gifted me on my 18th birthday, but I rarely used it.  I never felt the spark for photography all that time I had it. Perhaps it’s all about the timing or I just needed someone to give me a nudge. 

Few months later, I took the Canon 5D with me to Japan.  I spent most of my time there getting lost on the streets of Tokyo, taking photographs of people going about their lives.  I loved every minute of it.  Street photography was my calling. My passion for photography blossomed quickly and I began building my portfolio. The following year, one of the shots taken during my trip was published in The Japan Times newspaper, and two other photos became part of a group exhibition in Tokyo.

Walking Home, © Pak Han 2009. Published in The Japan Times

Photography opened up a whole new creative outlet.  It presented an opportunity to share my eye with an audience and tell stories through the captured moments that connected with me during my explorations in cities near and far.  It also gave me the confidence I didn’t have with painting. Making art in my studio was a solitary process, but photography lead me outside where interaction with people and the surroundings were essential.  It also showed me a fresh perspective of the world, and I began to recognize the subtle nuances of everyday life that were once ignored. It was like suddenly having a third eye. Photography gave me a new purpose, fulfilling my need for creativity in a very satisfying way.  

Promotional photo shoot for Choreographer Nina Haft’s King Tide, 2015 | Photo: Nina Haft

My photography led me on an unexpected journey.  Quite by accident, I became a Performance Art Photographer, photo documenting rehearsals, doing production and promo shoots for theatremakers and choreographers.  I did this for nearly ten years.  During that time, I took on a yearlong personal photo project called, Transfiguration and had my first solo show in San Francisco.  Although I was working professionally as a photographer, I was also a student at the same time, learning and refining my craft literally on the job.  Through both valuable experiences and difficult challenges, I’ve become a better photographer today. There is still a lot to learn, which is wonderful.

In 2018, I decided to step away from performance art.  It was a difficult decision to make, because I really enjoyed collaborating with so many amazingly talented folks in the Bay Area and I was also offered plenty of work.  In the end, I felt I’ve hit the peak creatively and was becoming stagnant as an artist. For me, the best way forward was to not get too comfortable, so I made a decision to move on and give my full attention to street photography. This is where I want to challenge myself at the moment, but who knows where my photography will take me.  I never had a master plan. It was my art that navigated me through the twist and turns on this joyride of life. What’s clear to me now is that I’m the happiest when I have a camera in my hand and my feet pounding the pavements. Each day is an opportunity to discover something new and that’s really exciting to me.