Nulla luctus odio at massa hendrerit, in cursus eros tempus.
Seen from a distance, Hashima Island might be mistaken for the Japanese equivalent of Alcatraz, a rugged slab of concrete rising out of the ocean. Only 40 years ago, this tiny island in the Nagasaki Prefecture, near the coast of Japan was the site of a thriving community with the highest population density on earth. At the end of the 19 th century, Mitsubishi Corporation successfully launched a project to tap the coal resources on the sea floor below the island, and by 1907, it harbored huge industrial coal mining facilities as well as giant dormitories, all surrounded by a high sea wall that followed the contours of the island.
In Hashima, Japan, we slowly approach the island, cautiously circling it, taking in the high building blocks that, seen from a distance, seem to waver because of the (s)light current of the ocean. The hermetically grey sky mysteriously forecasts what we are to about to encounter on the dot of land coming out of the sea. A slowly oscillating low and monotonous sound leads us into a perceptive journey: remnants of the past confront us, revealing an apocalyptic site of deserted apartment buildings and secluded industrial remains. The seemingly still images are brought to life by the delicate movement of a blade of grass or a drop of water falling into the projection, the pulling sounds linking with the past, prompting an underlying catastrophic feeling. The minimal soundtrack, with its electronic oscillations, is joined by the ring of a soft but persistent bell , minutes later followed by subtle crackling and vibrating sounds that suggest communication failures or the hum of distant machinery. As a suspicion of imagined catastrophe imposes itself upon us, the slow pace of the images of industrial ruin and human disaster, led by the intriguing audio narrative, seduces us into profound rumination.
The documentary quality of Hashima, Japan, brought upon by the stillness of the video sequences, at times reminiscent of the formal industrial photography we know from Bernd and Hilla Becher, further reinforces the cinematographic experience of the work. The minimalism in image and sound offers enormous potential for involvement in the havoc, inciting reverence in the magnitude of the whole.
The thirty-minute journey consecrates Hashima as an inescapable reflection of humankind’s development, illustrating a past life that is enamored with itself rather than with existence.
