On my first visit to Japan in 1993 I bought a little map that showed the locations from which Hokusai had sketched his popular series of woodblock prints depicting Mount Fuji in various seasons and weather conditions from a variety of places and distances — presumably I should add from today's perspective, as I had yet to learn everything about the romantic attitude of the times towards maps — and followed it in a re-photographing project, loosely based on the ideas of the New Topographic Movement which was trying to show changes in landscapes due to human impact through juxtaposition of modern and historic photographs. 

The first image on the series shows Mount Fuji from downtown Tokyo, a view that Hokusai could still enjoy on clear days according to his contemporaries but that is no longer available since the 1970's. The mountain is now represented by an etched line on the glass of the Tokyo Municipal Government Tower Observatory.

I parted company from the New Topographic Movement in significant ways: I had no scientific or political agenda, I felt more at home in the tradition of the ukiyo-e, depicting the ever changing world with a Chinese toy camera rather than matching up angels of view and focal lengths. I will not forget the looks I was given on answering "photographer" to an inquiry about my profession which had nothing to do with my rudimentary Japanese and probably not much either with my "equipment" but everything with me pointing the device in the wrong direction, away from Mt. Fuji. 

Four years and half a life later - a resident of Japan now and a registered alien - I finally made it to the top of Mt. Fuji. It was the last weekend of the official Mt. Fuji climbing season and there were thousands of people on the mountain. I still had my plastic Holga and while I was never sure about exposure or focus, or framing, the camera somehow fit the country I was in, where nothing was ever what it appeared to be. 

Klaus Knoll, 1993/97, 16 x 16”, c-prints,.