將這本攝影集取名為《Evoke》其實是受到日本六零年代集結森山大道、中平卓馬、高梨豐等人的攝影雜誌《Provoke》所啟發，這本五十多年前結合思想、詩集以及影像的攝影雜誌現今來看依舊是前衛性十足，即使時代以及政治背景早已不同，對比日本六零年代反安保條約、全共鬥等事件下的躁動、抑鬱與反思，現今那股反抗的能量彷彿已經消散，七零年代後中平卓馬燒毀了自己過往詩意化的照片走向記錄世界的樣貌，森山大道依舊像隻流浪犬在街頭捕捉記憶的殘片，如今當我們反問自己在影像氾濫的年代影像還有什麼可能性時？我從自身的行為察覺到沒有意義以及目的地追尋真實以及運用想像力的自由來作為拍攝方式是一個沒有解答的方向。
《Evoke》的概念像是某個瞬間的影像觸發了拍攝者直覺反射性的按下相機快門，而這樣產生的影像又再喚起觀者的感知，如同喚起了某一段記憶或是對某個事件的反思，這樣子的循環建立起人跟他人、時空與世界的連結。幾年前，我時常拿著Ricoh GXR開著高對比度黑白模式拍照，後來因為喜歡上Olympus所拍攝出真實透亮的色澤就在Covid-19疫情前購入一台E-M10 Mark III，沒想到剛好遇到疫情就只能塵封相機直到現在才又將相機拿出來，但拍照時我仍然習慣直覺性的選擇影像的色彩，即便拍攝的彩色照片比黑白照片多很多，黑白照片為感官所帶來的衝擊還是無可取代，只不過就像中平卓馬在《Provoke》時期當中從帶有黑白粗粒子晃動感的照片在他對「私寫真」的批判後走向了紀錄、圖鑑式的拍攝方式，我也碰巧因為器材的改變而離開了原本較為極端的森山大道模式，但我所思考的是「私寫真」的那種主觀的拍攝也許可以與紀錄世界的真實共存，這或許有些矛盾，但也許不是沒有取得平衡點的可能，這兩種觀看方式或許並不矛盾，對觀看者而言他可以自由的從作者來理解影像也可以由自身的理解來感受影像。
二戰後高度資本化下的日本都市近乎可以滿足人的各種慾望，也成為了台灣人短暫逃離苦悶的地方。作為遊客，去日本遊玩已經不是單純的旅遊而是選擇一種生活方式，那種在日本行走的日常感與鄉林間的清新感變成了一種嚮往，我們不免拍攝了美好的異國景象成為了中平卓馬在《決鬥寫真論》所批判的，這只不過是旅人的傷感與千篇一律的旅遊美景，但隨著遊日次數的增加，異國的感覺變得越來越淡，想看到的景象也變得有所不同，那些在日本拍攝的照片反映著拍攝者對世界的看法，人的構成並不只是人的形體本身，而是由人的一連串行為所構成，而影像也構成了拍攝者的生命軌跡、與世界的關係以及情感的投射。
因為在東京都寫真美術館看了深瀨昌久的1961-1991攝影展，讓我深深被烏黑的鳥類形體所吸引，但要達到他所拍攝的境界就我自身來說是相當困難，但也是因為這樣的侷限性，讓我在嘗試之中得到樂趣。都市的景象與人的流動也是相當吸引我的部分，就像是在窺探世界運作的樣貌，即使是靜止的影像也能感受到這世界流動的真實。透過黑白定格出的時間殘片彷彿凝結了時間，尤其當鐘錶、時鐘被拍攝後，他製造出了人類有辦法暫停時間的假象但與此同時他也是那一刻的真實，影像的虛構成份總是帶有危險以及樂趣。
在琉球島上各處的美軍基地下所衍生出的沖繩美國村的度假氛圍，像是一種異國文化對琉球的佔領，被鮮豔色彩的建築所掩蓋的歷史，在被黑白化後又讓歷史浮現，帝國霸權的幽靈徘徊在上空，商業設施的氾濫填補了旅人、逃離者的空虛，但比起迪士尼樂園，美國村的文化佔領在錯綜複雜的色彩與建築設計下反倒呈現出佔領的荒謬與諷刺。
當今隨著串流影音的興起人們讓各式各樣長短篇幅的影片佔滿了眼球，我們接收的太多回應的卻太少，那些靜止的照片反而喚起人們主動去意識到某些隱藏起來的生命經驗，像是想起某部電影情節，某一張唱片封面，某一個跟照片相似的人，那些記憶圖像的暗角，那些早已被時間沖刷掉的體驗，如果人能從照片中得到連結某些過往經驗的自由，那他的觀看行為也讓他從資本主義社會競爭與生存壓力的束縛中短暫獲得了解放，甚至觀者對眼前照片毫無感受所喚起的虛無，也是一種對當下社會框架與結構的逃離。
近年來面對生成式人工智慧下的影像入侵，真實比以往來得更加重要，所以透過物理、生理性的拍攝記錄方式來對抗虛構成為了一種抵抗，風格可以無限被機器模仿，但能感受到這世界所產生出來的東西才能稱得上是真實，但照片本身是曖昧不明的，它同時帶有虛構與真實的成分，不過影像能喚起的東西卻是人可能真實的記憶與體驗。有點遺憾今年沒能看到中平卓馬在東京國立近代美術館的《火―氾濫》回顧展，但很感謝《決鬥寫真論》與《為何是植物圖鑑》兩本攝影評論的經典帶給我的啟發與反思，還有森山大道的《犬的記憶》再次喚起記憶對我而言的重要性，沒想到這些書籍能在我三十歲的後半段帶給我強大的衝擊。也許是我一廂情願，但總覺得這些照片像是在跟他們跨越時空在對話一般，或許這就是攝影的魔力吧。
The title Evoke for this photo collection was inspired by Provoke, the Japanese photography magazine from the 1960s that brought together figures like Daidō Moriyama, Takuma Nakahira, and Yutaka Takanashi. Even more than fifty years later, that publication, which combined thought, poetry, and images, still feels strikingly avant-garde. Although the era and the political climate are entirely different now, when compared to the unrest, gloom, and introspection of 1960s Japan under the shadow of the anti–Security Treaty protests and student movements, today that rebellious energy seems to have dissipated. In the 1970s, Nakahira burned his earlier, poetic photographs and turned toward recording the neutral appearance of the world; Moriyama continued roaming the streets like a stray dog, capturing fragments of memory. Now, when we ask ourselves what possibilities remain for photography in an age saturated with images, I realize through my own practice that pursuing truth and exercising the freedom of imagination—without predetermined meaning or purpose—has become my way of working, though it is a path without a definitive answer.
The concept of Evoke is that a single moment in an image triggers the photographer’s instinctive, reflexive press of the shutter—and that image, in turn, stirs the viewer’s senses, as if awakening a memory or prompting reflection on an event. This cyclical exchange forms connections between people, across time and space, and with the world. Several years ago, I often photographed with my Ricoh GXR in high-contrast black-and-white mode. Later, drawn to the luminous, true-to-life colors produced by Olympus, I bought an E-M10 Mark III just before the COVID-19 pandemic. As it happened, the camera was shelved for years until recently. Even now, I still choose image colors intuitively while shooting. Though I now take far more color photographs than black-and-white, the sensory impact of black-and-white remains irreplaceable. Just as Nakahira moved away from the grainy, blurred monochrome of his Provoke era—after critiquing the notion of “private photography” (shi-shashin)—and adopted a more documentary, catalog-like style, I too, through a change of equipment, drifted away from the extreme Moriyama mode. Yet I wonder whether the subjectivity of “private photography” might coexist with the objectivity of documenting reality. This may sound contradictory, but perhaps the two modes of seeing are not mutually exclusive; for the viewer, an image can be approached both through the author’s intent and through one’s own interpretation.
Postwar Japan, under rapid capitalism, could almost satisfy every human desire, becoming a place for many Taiwanese people to temporarily escape their own frustrations and boredom. For tourists, visiting Japan is no longer simply a trip, but a choice of lifestyle. The everyday rhythm of walking its streets and the freshness of its countryside have become objects of longing. Inevitably, we photograph its beautiful foreign scenery, falling into the trap Nakahira criticized in A Duel on Photography: sentimental traveler’s images, endlessly repetitive. Yet as my visits to Japan increased, the sense of foreignness faded, and what I wanted to see began to change. The photographs I took there came to reflect my own view of the world. A person is not defined solely by their physical form, but by the sum of their actions. Likewise, images form a record of the photographer’s life path, their relationship with the world, and the projection of their emotions.
A visit to the Tokyo Photographic Art Museum to see Masahisa Fukase’s 1961–1991 exhibition left me deeply drawn to the black silhouettes of birds in his work. Reaching the level of what he captured is, for me, exceedingly difficult, but the attempt itself is enjoyable. The cityscape and the flow of people also captivate me, as if offering a glimpse into how the world operates. Even in still images, one can sense the reality of movement in the world. Black-and-white photographs, freezing fragments of time, seem to suspend time itself. When clocks and watches appear in the frame, they create the illusion that humans can stop time, yet they also affirm the reality of that instant. The fictional nature of an image always carries both danger and delight.
In Okinawa, the American Village that grew out of the surrounding U.S. military bases projects a vacation-like atmosphere—an occupation of Ryukyu by foreign culture, its history masked by brightly colored buildings. Rendered in black-and-white, that history reemerges, and the ghost of imperial hegemony seems to hover overhead. The glut of commercial facilities fills the emptiness of travelers and escapees, but compared to Disneyland, the American Village’s cultural occupation, woven into its intricate colors and architecture, becomes an absurd, even satirical, display of domination.
Today, with the rise of media streaming services, our eyes are saturated with videos of every length, yet our responses grow feebler. In contrast, still photographs prompt us to actively recognize hidden life experiences, like recalling a scene from a film, the cover of a record, or someone resembling the figure in the picture. These are the shadowed corners of our mental images, experiences long since washed away by time. If a photograph can give someone the freedom to connect with past experiences, then the act of looking can grant them a brief liberation from the pressures of competition and survival in capitalist society. Even the emptiness evoked when a viewer feels nothing toward a photograph can be a form of escape from the frameworks and structures of the present.
In recent years, faced with the intrusion of AI-generated imagery, the importance of truth has never been greater. Recording through physical, bodily engagement with the world becomes an act of resistance against forgery. Style can be endlessly imitated by machines, but only what arises from lived experience in this world can be called real. Yet a photograph itself is inherently ambiguous, carrying elements of both fiction and reality. Still, what an image can evoke are genuine memories and experiences in the viewer. I regret not being able to see Nakahira’s retrospective Burn—Overflow at the National Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo this year, but I’m grateful for the inspiration and reflection I’ve found in two classic works of photographic criticism, A Duel on Photography and Why an Illustrated Botanical Guide, and also for Daidō Moriyama’s Memories of a Dog, which has once again reminded me of the importance of memory. I never expected these books to have such a powerful impact on me in my late thirties. Perhaps it’s just my own sentimentality, but I feel as though these photographs are in conversation with Nakahira and Moriyama across time and space. Maybe that’s the magic of photography.
