Heartstrings

Shigeo Mori cuts out the Shogi (Japanese chess) and Go columns from the newspaper every day, Kyoto, Japan. Four days before he went missing on 15 August 2013, he was no longer able to cut the columns properly. After he disappeared, Itoko Mori, Shigeo’s wife, found this newspaper in their house; the photographer placed it against a white background for this image.

“I used to work at a fish shop. I lost track of the numbers when serving shrimp. The numbers I counted in my head – 1, 2, 3 – would quickly disappear. When I got to about 5, I couldn't remember how many I had counted.” – Atsushi Shimosaka, Kyoto, Japan.

In 2019, at the age of 46, Atsushi realized something was wrong. At the hospital, he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. The photographer obtained these shrimp and photographed them against a white background.
 

“Where am I? I should know this place well. My mind is covered in haze. Calm down. I take out my phone and tap on the map. Clarity shines through the haze.” – Atsushi Shimosaka, Kyoto, Japan.

Atsushi's smartphone displays a map app that shines through the haze. The photographer worked with Atsushi to represent his testimony, placing the smartphone inside a cardboard box and filing it with dry ice. 
 

A window seen from the bedroom of Atsushi's house in Kyoto, Japan. “Is it morning? Afternoon? Or at night? I couldn’t figure it out sometimes. I look at the brightness outside my window to check.” – Atsushi Shimosaka.

An old family photo showing Masaharu and Kimiko Taniguchi and their two children, in Japan. Kimiko was no longer able to recognize her family due to dementia. Photo scanned and blurred by the photographer. 

“New Year's Day 1997. I called out to her and she did not respond. It was the day that the heartstrings that connected us broke. After a while, she called me ‘father.’ I was no longer her husband.” – Masaharu Taniguchi.
 

The road near the bicycle parking lot that is known as Shigeo's last known footsteps. The photographer took this photo six years later, on the same day, at the same time of the day, in Kyoto, Japan.

The parking lot of the shrine where Shigeo used to take walks, in Kyoto, Japan. This shrine was located along a mountain, about five kilometers from Shigeo's house.

Shigeo Mori’s spare glasses. His wife Itoko continued searching even after Shigeo had passed away. She wanted to find his glasses, which were not near his remains. She wanted to know the path he had walked last. Most of all, she wanted to stand in a place where she could feel Shigeo. But there was no such place.

A cylinder containing Shigeo Mori's remains. Itoko always carries it with her. A year after her husband’s death, Itoko scattered his ashes in the places he loved the most: the sea and the mountain where they used to go for walks.

Itoko Mori cherishes her husband Shigeo’s favorite shogi (Japanese chess) piece, hu, meaning “walk,” seen here. She still enjoys walks and recalling moments she spent with her husband in beautiful places. Since Shigeo’s passing, Itoko has joined a community organization that runs a dementia cafe, hoping to raise awareness and prevent disappearances. She says: "It's strange, but I feel that Shigeo is with me even though he's not here. He is inside me, there’s no doubt about it.”

A half-transparent person sits in a place where Shigeo Mori loved to go. Shigeo brought his wife Itoko here and said, "Isn't this a nice place?" The photographer wanted that the person depicted here could be seen as both Itoko and Shigeo. Shigeo is no longer in the place he loved. The half-transparent image represents Itoko's sense of loss after losing her husband. On the other hand, the afterimage left in the landscape shows that Shigeo continues to live on in Itoko's heart.

Atsushi Shimosaka sits on a futon in his bedroom, in Kyoto, Japan. In this image he recreates a moment when he lost track of time and woke up too early. Some of the artistic effects seen throughout this project were created in collaboration with Atsushi, who is also a photographer. 

An ambiguous sun low in the sky near Atsushi Shimosaka’s home, in Kyoto, Japan. Atsushi says, “Is it morning? Afternoon? Or at night? I couldn’t figure it out sometimes.” The photographer captured the sunrise for this image, inspired by his words. He took a picture in which the viewer could not know whether it was sunrise or sunset, morning or evening.

“When I get lost, my mind becomes blank.” – Atsushi Shimosaka, Kyoto, Japan. The photographer worked with Atsushi in this photograph to recreate the sense of losing one’s bearings in space even during mundane activities, like walking to work. 

Atsushi Shimosaka, a caregiver for elderly people who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, finds meaning in simple gestures at a day-care facility. Holding the hand of a person with dementia, he learned the importance of emotion over intellect in our society. Since his diagnosis, he treasures each moment with his wife, opening his heart to others, and embracing life's beauty. He believes a shift in societal values towards empathy could enrich the lives of those with dementia and he continues to share his experiences both as a photographer and a person with dementia. Kyoto, Japan.

Flowers displayed at Atsushi Shimosaka's house, in Kyoto, Japan. While his fear of losing himself never goes away, he has learned to live with the disease. He now says, “Iʼm happy. I donʼt want to go back to life before my diagnosis. I learned something important when I developed dementia. I realised that the bluebird of happiness is always with me.”

1989
“I found sea bream sashimi not only in the refrigerator but also in the closet. My wife probably went out to buy it several times, forgetting that she had bought it already. It was for me to enjoy with my evening drink. She was being thoughtful, so I couldn’t find it in my heart to be angry.” - Masaharu Taniguchi.

1992
“Kimiko said: ‘I want to die. I want to die.’ She sat by the window, sinking into despair.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

1993
“I asked home caregivers to come to help watch over her. Singing, origami, knitting, and doing things together helped stabilize her emotions, and the progression of dementia seemed to slow down. The wonderful caregivers helped us find joy. My view of caregiving changed completely, from pessimism to optimism. My wife was able to enjoy several active, cheerful, and happy years, as if she had been reborn.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

1993
“With a little help from our daughter, she was able to use the sewing machine. My wifeʼs family ran a tailoring shop. The sewing machine had been part of her bridal trousseau. She had always made clothes for our family. Seeing her so lively while sewing, there were moments when I felt as though she had recovered.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

1994
“I started cooking instead of my wife. What I made was so awful that my wife wouldnʼt eat it. Her weight dropped from 45 kilos to 37 kilos. Four people, including a nutritionist, taught me how to cook. My wife regained the weight she had lost.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

1996
“I struggle with housework. Meanwhile, my wife tries to get my attention in various ways. She put her muddy sandals on the cutting board while I was chopping vegetables. I got mad and threw the food on the floor, but that only made things worse. My wife gets tired of staying at home and goes out. ‘Iʼm lonely, Iʼm lonely. Letʼs go home, letʼs go home,’ she says. This also happens when she feels lonely or is forced to do something she is unable to do.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

New Yearʼs Day 1997
“I called out to her and she did not respond. It was the day that the heartstrings that connected us broke. After a while, she called me ʻfather.ʼ I was no longer her husband as a spouse. I reconnected the heartstrings to her by playing the role of father.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

2000
“She also lost her ability to use the toilet. Constipation and bladder control are difficult problems. When her skin or underwear becomes soiled, I have to give her a bath to get clean. I renovated our bathroom to be make it barrier-free.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

2002
“In my first dream of the new year, I was viewing cherry blossoms with my wife. I wanted to show her the cherry blossoms. I discussed this with my daughter and the home care worker, and they happily agreed. On Sunday, 31 March, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. How many years had passed since we last saw them? After that day my wife changed: she showed her smile more often and talked more. We were even able to take walks around the botanical gardens and parks, and I felt the joy of living with my wife.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

2005
“The time that she falls asleep was gradually becoming irregular. This meant that I often had to be up in the middle of the night to give her the help she needed. Nursing care services were not available at night or in the early morning. The reason seems to be that there are not enough caregivers; caregiversʼ wages are too low, which is a social problem. It needs to be recognised that there is a need for nighttime care services. One caregiver who feels the same way started a business offering early-morning home care service. I also met another person who was so angered by the poor quality of nursing care services that started a nursing care business. – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

2008
“Our journey has been marked by repeated failures and crises. A crisis can be an opportunity, and failure can lead to the discovery of new ways of caregiving. We have met caregivers who are like angels, have overcome failures and crises, and have been living a happy, active life.” – Masaharu Taniguchi. 
 

2013
“Kimiko reached the end of her natural life. She was 88 years old. We have been blessed with the loving support of many people. My heart is filled with gratitude and appreciation.”
 

In late 2019, six years after Kimiko Taniguchi passed away, the photographer visited her husband Masaharu's home in Kyoto. Despite the challenges of Kimiko’s dementia, Masaharu and her caregivers found moments of joy among the times of grief, loss, exhaustion and isolation. Together, Masaharu, Kimiko’s family, and her caregivers documented their journey across 75 notebooks, each filled with memories and caregiving insights. Kyoto, Japan

Masaharu Taniguchi peacefully passed away at midnight on 24 October 2023, at the home where he and Kimiko, his wife who died in 2013, lived for many years. He was 99 years old. Caregivers who once tended to Kimiko also looked after Masaharu. As he received care himself, he continued to think about the relationship between the elderly and those who support them. How can we uplift the spirits and improve the lives of this vulnerable and growing population? Today, photos of Masaharu and Kimiko sit side by side in their living room. Kyoto, Japan

Asia,Honorable Mention

The Edge