2026-01-02

Shinobazu Pond

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Shinobazu Pond: A Quiet Wetland Beneath Tokyo’s Skyline
不忍池：高層ビルの下に広がる静かな湿地


This view of Shinobazu Pond shows a section where lotus plants fully cover the water’s surface. In winter, much of the color is gone, so I’d like to return in summer, when the lotus flowers are in full bloom.

When I first visited Ueno Park, home to Shinobazu Pond and Bentendō Temple (弁天堂・Bentendō), which you can see in the distance at the center of the frame, I was completely unaware of the fascinating history behind this seemingly humble place.

During the Jōmon period (c. 12,000 BCE), this entire area,which is now about 5.27 km (3.27 miles) from the edge of Tokyo Bay, was once a vast coastal inlet. Over time, particularly throughout the Heian period (794–1185), the sea gradually receded due to regional cooling and sedimentation, leaving behind a naturally formed pond.

The extensive marshlands that remained became an important stopping point for thousands of migratory birds each year. By the 15th century, the surrounding area had developed into a small castle town and was already known as Shitamachi, a name that locals still use today.

In the early Edo period, during the 17th century, a Buddhist priest created a small island in the center of the pond and established Bentendō Temple, visible in the middle of this photograph. Around the same time, the southern portion of the pond was planted with lotus, which now fills the surface with pink blossoms each summer from July through August.

During World War II, water was drained from the pond and the area was temporarily used for rice cultivation due to food shortages. At one point, developers even proposed filling in the pond entirely to build a baseball field. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed: in 1949, those plans were rejected, and Shinobazu Pond was restored to a form that we can still enjoy today.
 
  • Location: Shitamachi Museum, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:10
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/10
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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Post Box

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Vintage Japanese Post Box: A Warm Design Rooted in the Meiji Era
火事に強い鉄製の朱色丸型ポスト（郵便差出箱１号）


After a short photowalk through Tokyo’s Ameya-Yokocho shopping district, I wandered into a nearby park where, near its entrance, I came across this vintage Japanese post box. Though its design dates back to the postwar years, it remains in everyday use, standing quietly in front of the Shitamachi Museum (台東区したまちミュージアム).

The continued presence of this post box aligns naturally with the museum’s mission to preserve and document the everyday culture of Tokyo’s Showa era (1926-1989). It serves as a small but tangible reminder of how ordinary objects once shaped daily life.

This particular cylindrical post box design traces its origins to 1949, when iron once again became widely available for civilian use following the end of World War II, allowing durable public infrastructure to return to cities across Japan.

Nearly eight decades later, I still encounter this style of post box in rural towns and older urban neighborhoods, and it is these small, human-centered design choices that continue to draw my attention. 

Unlike the boxy, utilitarian design of modern post boxes in use today, this earlier form feels warmer and more considerate: the softly rounded lip extending over the slot like a well-worn cap, designed to keep out the rain; the cylindrical body, less obtrusive and better suited to the narrow, crowded streets of Tokyo and other cities at the turn of the twentieth century; and the use of fire-resistant iron, painted in a bright vermilion red (朱色, shuiro), a color also closely associated with Shinto torii gates.

While my initial impulse to photograph this post box was rooted in a sense of nostalgia, standing in front of it prompted a deeper reflection on how thoughtful design, particularly from the Meiji era (1868–1912), seems to have been shaped by everyday needs. In cases like this, those practical considerations have allowed certain forms to quietly persist long after their era has passed, continuing to function as part of the modern city.
 
  • Location: Shitamachi Museum, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:05
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5
  • Classic Negative film simulation

Links to Google Maps and sources for a deeper dive:
Copyright Notice for All Images:
© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
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Punk Icon

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Sid Vicious Imagery in Ameya-Yokocho, Tokyo
東京のアメ横に現れたパンクアイコン「シド・ヴィシャス」


I captured the back of this leather jacket worn by a middle-aged Japanese man while he was shopping at one of the small stalls beneath the railway tracks of Ameya-Yokocho in Ueno, Tokyo. What immediately caught my attention were the vivid neon colors and the unmistakable image of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen rendered across the jacket’s back panel.

I’m not entirely sure why the image felt familiar at first, especially since I was never a devoted punk rock fan. Thinking back, it may trace to a shipmate I had in the early 1980s who was deeply into the Sex Pistols and the Ramones. I likely encountered this image on an album cover or a T-shirt during that time, even if I didn’t consciously register it then.

While researching the origin of the photograph, I learned that it was taken by Steve Emberton, a staff photographer for Record Mirror, a British weekly music newspaper published between 1954 and 1991. Emberton worked extensively during the 1970s, producing images that later appeared in television commercials, album artwork, and publications connected to major artists, including the Rolling Stones.

I’m old enough to recognize many of the musicians Emberton photographed: Cher, Blondie (Debbie Harry), Rod Stewart, Kiss, the Rolling Stones, Joan Jett, Lou Reed, Billy Idol, and, of course, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. The photograph of Sid and Nancy carries particular weight. Emberton has spoken publicly about the shoot, which took place in an apartment in England just a few months before both of their deaths, lending the image a haunting historical proximity.

Emberton primarily worked in black and white, which raises an obvious question: why does this image appear here in such bold, saturated color? The answer seems to lie with Mosquitohead, a graphic T-shirt brand known for reworking punk-era imagery. Their versions of Sid and Nancy introduced false color treatments that became popular in vintage punk fashion during the 1980s and 1990s, extending the afterlife of these images far beyond their original documentary context.

Ultimately, I’m drawn to this photograph for its color, the smooth, worn texture of the leather jacket, and the quiet confidence of the wearer, his collar turned up in a way that recalls pop-culture archetypes like The Fonz from Happy Days. The image unexpectedly pulled me back to my late teens and my first exposure to the music of the Sex Pistols and the Ramones, often playing in the background of chaotic barracks parties during my days in the Navy. In that sense, the photograph became less about punk itself and more about how certain images resurface decades later, in places and moments I never would have expected.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:46
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 1000 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2
  • Astia Soft film simulation

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Komo-Daru


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Komo-daru Outside an Izakaya: A Small Detail of Tokyo’s New Year
居酒屋の前に置かれた菰樽が語る東京の正月


The sake barrels (kazari-daru・飾り樽) often seen stacked high at Shinto shrines, especially around New Year’s, are purely decorative. They are left empty, partly for safety, as securing heavy, liquid-filled barrels overhead would pose a risk to worshippers. As the name suggests, kazari means “decoration,” while daru refers to a cask or barrel.

The barrel in my photograph, however, is a komo-daru (菰樽), the term used for a straw-wrapped sake barrel that is traditionally filled with sake. Komo refers to the straw matting that surrounds the barrel and serves as the surface for decorative labeling. Beneath the straw, the barrel itself is constructed from cedar planks bound together with bamboo braids. I was surprised to learn that these barrels were historically used not only for sake, but also to transport bulk liquids such as oil, soy sauce, and even lacquer.

One detail that stood out to me is that wooden barrels are not used for brewing or long-term storage of sake. Unlike oak barrels used in whiskey production, cedar would significantly alter the flavor. As a result, wooden sake barrels, which are also called sake-daru (酒樽), are typically filled only briefly. Those seen at weddings or ceremonial events usually hold sake for just a few days before it is served.

It took some back-and-forth with an older friend, but we were eventually able to decipher parts of the labeling on this particular komo-daru.

The two vertical black characters and the large central character together form a single phrase: 富久娘 (Fukumusume). Literally translated, it can mean “Daughter of Fortune” or “Lucky Maiden.” This is the name of a long-established sake brand produced by 富久娘酒造株式会社 (Fukumusume Shuzō Co., Ltd.), a brewery based in Hyōgo Prefecture with origins dating back to 1681.

The bold calligraphy feels distinctly old-fashioned to me and immediately evokes a sense of tradition. It’s a style I associate with hanging scrolls displayed behind flower arrangements whether in a tatami room or at an ikebana exhibition in my local city hall.

At the bottom of the barrel, the brand name appears again as フクムスメ in red katakana. This was likely added for clarity, as the main calligraphy is written in sōsho (草書), a highly cursive script that can be difficult to read without prior familiarity or context.

On the left side of the barrel, we struggled to fully interpret the red cursive calligraphy and the circular seal beneath it. One element, however, was immediately clear: the text at the top reads 商標 (shōhyō), meaning “registered trademark,” roughly equivalent to the ® symbol.

Resting on the wooden lid is a bamboo ladle, used to serve sake into newly made square masu cups (枡). These cups are typically crafted from hinoki (Japanese cypress) and often branded with a character, symbol, or name commemorating the occasion. Since this photograph was taken in front of an izakaya called Kassen Ichiba, the name of the pub (活鮮市場) is burned directly into the wood of each cup.

From the Edo period (1603–1867), cedar casks were the primary vessels used to transport sake from breweries to Edo (modern-day Tokyo). By the 1890s, glass bottles gradually replaced them. Today, wooden sake barrels are largely reserved for ceremonial use, such as during New Year’s celebrations, which was when I captured this photograph.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5.6
  • Provia Standard film simulation

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Ameyoko

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A Midday Scene at an Izakaya Beneath the Tracks
ガード下の居酒屋、昼のひとコマ


Positioned between the elevated railway tracks of bullet train and commuter lines, several traditional Japanese pubs were already drawing in lunchtime customers, advertising seasonal dishes and freshly caught seafood delivered earlier that morning.

I’m not a foodie in the slightest, so I have no firsthand knowledge of the menu at this particular izakaya. However, while researching its backstory, I learned that it operates under Asakusa Mugitoro (est. 1929), an upscale kaiseki restaurant known for traditional Japanese haute cuisine. There, elaborate multi-course meals emphasize seasonality, artistic presentation, and precise cooking techniques in stark contrast with this gritty, down-to-earth pub, snugly crammed beneath rumbling train tracks and catering to the everyday working man.

While learning about the contrast between this modest izakaya and the refined kaiseki traditions of its parent restaurant, I was reminded of how differently I experience these two kinds of spaces. 

Upscale restaurants often leave me feeling self-conscious and wondering whether I’ve dressed appropriately, or struggling to make the kind of effortless small talk that seems expected in more formal settings. In contrast, mom-and-pop shops and small neighborhood izakayas allow me to relax almost immediately. 

Conversations with the owners or staff come naturally, and the atmosphere feels grounded and unpretentious. As someone who isn’t a food connoisseur, I’m rarely able to tell the difference between an expensive, meticulously plated dish and a simpler homemade one anyway, which makes these everyday places feel not only more comfortable, but also more welcoming and fun.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2.2
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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Lively Alley Tucked between Shinkansen Tracks, Ueno, Tokyo
北陸新幹線と上越新幹線の高架下に挟まれた上野の路地


Positioned between the elevated railway tracks of the Hokuriku Shinkansen (北陸新幹線) on the left and the Jōetsu Shinkansen (上越新幹線) on the right, this narrow alley is lined with shops that make use of every last centimeter of space beneath the bullet trains and commuter trains rumbling overhead.

Set slightly apart from the wider, busier thoroughfares of the Ameyoko shopping district, this alley is easy to miss. While the main streets draw budget-conscious shoppers and steady flows of overseas tourists, this tucked-away stretch has a different character. Alongside the usual mix of eateries, bars, and cafés, there are a few adult-oriented shops that give the alley a more candid, less polished atmosphere.

I likely would have walked right past this alley if I hadn’t been intentionally slowing down and exploring every nook and cranny of the neighborhood. It was the kind of overlooked, in-between space that often catches my attention when I’m out shooting street photography.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/6.4
  • Classic Chrome film simulation

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Uohama in Ueno

 
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Echoes of the Showa Era in Ameya-Yokocho

上野・アメ横に残る昭和の記憶と賑わい


After visiting Marishiten Tokudai-ji Temple (see previous post), I wandered into Ameya-Yokocho, where the colorful storefront of Uohama Ameyoko-ten immediately caught my attention. This traditional izakaya in Ueno, Tokyo, announces itself with rows of paper lanterns, signaling a classic, old-school atmosphere amid the dense cluster of eateries that define this lively shopping district.

Ameya-Yokocho is home to more than 400 small shops, many tightly packed beneath the elevated train tracks that run between JR Ueno Station and Okachimachi Station. Despite the visual noise and constant flow of people, Uohama Ameyoko-ten stands out. Its oversized tuna replica and glowing chochin lanterns draw the eye upward, almost obscuring the fact that the pub itself is tucked beneath the rumbling tracks above.

While researching the backstory of this izakaya, I learned that it is one of many eateries operated by a larger corporation led by Yoshinobu Hamakura, an unconventional CEO by Japanese standards. Known for his late-Showa-era fashion and flamboyant personal style, Hamakura presents a sharp contrast to the stereotypical image of a conservative, dark-suited Japanese executive.

Hamakura has focused on opening restaurants in former fishmongers’ and grocers’ spaces that were often forced to close as low-cost supermarket chains gained dominance. Rather than discarding what came before, he brings former proprietors into his businesses, valuing their expertise in food quality and their long-standing relationships with fishermen and farmers who supply the ingredients used in each establishment.

A common thread running through Hamakura’s ventures, including the storefront I photographed here, is a desire to revive the optimism and energy of the late Showa era for the generations of Japanese Millennials and Gen Z. These generations have grown up amid decades of stagnant wages and muted expectations, and these spaces aim to counter that mood. 

Beyond nostalgic décor and eye-catching façades, Hamakura’s establishments often incorporate elements of traditional festival culture that incorporate music, dance, and communal participation on a local, intimate scale. In doing so, he wants to encourage interaction among patrons, staff, and neighbors, helping pass down lively traditions that might otherwise fade.

Walking through districts like Ameya-Yokocho inevitably stirs personal reflection. Many of my own old neighborhood haunts have shuttered as proprietors retired or passed away without successors. While market forces ensure that change is inevitable, I cherished those small shops not for bargain prices or branding, but for the human connections we fostered. 

Casual conversations over coffee beans, the familiarity of a local dry cleaner, or a quick visit to replace a watch battery created everyday moments of warmth and community that I fondly remember. Stores like Uohama Ameyoko-ten feel like they are making a  sincere effort to preserve that spirit in a rapidly changing urban landscape.
  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:16
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/4.5
  • Velvia/Vivid film simulation
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© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
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Tokudaiji Temple

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  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・12:58
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2.8
  • Classic Negative film simulation


New Year Prayers at Marishiten Tokudai-ji, Tokyo
上野・摩利支天徳大寺で祈る新年のひととき


Located in the heart of Ueno’s Ameya-Yokocho shopping district in Tokyo’s Taitō Ward, Marishiten Tokudai-ji Temple (摩利支天徳大寺) is dedicated to the Buddhist goddess Marishiten (摩利支天).

In Japan, Marishiten came to be revered as a guardian deity of the samurai. During the Edo period, she was also worshipped by the merchant class as a goddess of wealth, prosperity, and protection.

Although the exact date of Tokudai-ji’s founding is unknown, the temple appears in the Complete Map of Edo (寛永江戸全図; Kan’ei Edo Zenzu) from 1642. This places its establishment sometime during the Kan’ei era (February 1624–December 1644).

A statue of Marishiten was enshrined at the temple in 1708, after which Tokudai-ji gained popularity among both samurai and merchants in Edo (modern-day Tokyo).

The temple’s original buildings were destroyed by fires following the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 and later during the firebombing of Tokyo in 1945. Remarkably, the statue of Marishiten survived both disasters. As a result, many devotees today also pray to the goddess for protection against calamities. The current temple structure dates to 1964.

During my visit, I was somewhat surprised to encounter a life-size marble statue of a boar, its back polished smooth by the hands of visitors rubbing it for good fortune. Marishiten is often depicted in a fierce, warrior-like form, holding weapons while standing or seated atop a boar, or riding in a chariot drawn by seven boars.

The wild boar is traditionally associated with strength and resilience. According to a nearby plaque, rubbing the statue is believed to bestow spiritual and physical strength, as well as financial prosperity.

In this photograph, banners and vertical signboards announce the temple’s New Year Grand Festival Prayer Meeting, held on a reservation basis. Framed by vermilion railings and lanterns, visitors move steadily up the stone steps with some already returning to the flow of Ameya-Yokocho. The temple grounds offered a brief moment of calm and intention tucked inside one of Tokyo’s most energetic shopping streets before I continued my photowalk into the surrounding market.

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  •  Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・12:58
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5.6
  • Provia/Standard film simulation
Copyright Notice for All Images:
© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
Visit www.pix4japan.com to learn more.



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