Hanezawa garden' is an illicit trail through a walled garden in Tokyo, between thick foliage, slender bamboo and semi-inhabited outhouses, their plastic roofs heavy with leaves, as if reclaimed by the jealous trees. The protagonist, like a detective, catalogues the garden obsessively, registering strange and peripheral details: a sealed cardboard box, lingering on a sill, or the receding body of a workman.0Time is loose, and the seasons slip by. The sightlines through Hanezawa are multiple and mutable, and the assembled images grow in weight through repetition and proximity. The minor characters of this elusive narrative are ordinary objects: a shell, half buried in the soil, whose brief significance is acute and unreadable, before it slips back into entropy. The surfaces, too, are iridescent, ungovernable – garden huts with smeared panes that reflect sky or reveal the bulge of something, vegetating, behind. The windows, like the images themselves, always promise something – a revelation – just out of reach.0'Hanezawa garden' was demolished by the real estate developer Mitsubishi Estate in 2012, despite countless attempts by local residence to preserve the house and gardens.

Tiré du site Internet de Nieves: "For most people, looking simply happens. There is a view of downtown Los Angeles from my patio, which I daily admire in a disinterested way. I like how my neighbor's terracotta roof foregrounds the silhouettes of skyscrapers miles off and how the dark middle distance slopes towards a façade of pinpoint lights at night. But I have never felt compelled to do anything about it. I sometimes wonder whether if I were a photographer my view would look different, whether my looking would be different. Photography is so various today - especially in art, where internal considerations put a stress on questions of concept and technique - that one may be forgiven the more basic acknowledgment that looking, different kinds of looking, remains its central gist. Some photographers look quickly, letting the world come to them in "decisive moments". Others set the world up, methodically, as if the world's images were already present in their eyes. At least these are the clichés. In reality letting and setting are rarely so opposed. In Anders Edstrom's Safari photographs, for instance, a slow, deliberate looking, a looking focused on a singular subject, a looking that by all appearances holds the outside world at bay, nonetheless reveals an image of openness one might better expect from street or landscape photography, genres bent by time, context, event, and change. But what changes in these Safari pictures ? Do they have time or context ? What is their world ? On the simple level of subject matter, this is not the world Edstrom typically represents, which despite a signature gauziness - as if the air and light he seeks were particulate, thick, or tactile - is one of people and environments interacting. Even more than his tender domestic tableaux or pedestrian portraits, the Safari images, made over a two-year period in 2002-2004, are inside: the scene, apparently, a studio or a worktable, the range close. So close, in fact, that before one understands that they depict drips or pools of paint on paper, there is an initial sense of abstraction. The soft, existing light pervading the enameled pigments, themselves vibrations of earthy ochres, burnt greens, grays and rusts, suggests a serial display of substance becoming surface-a movement between polish, glaze, and liquid on the one hand and roughness, texture, and mineral on the other. The pleasure, for me, comes in realizing that Edstrom's formal and material reduction is here no different than elsewhere in his work. Subject matter, whatever it is, only serves sensibility. Describing the latter takes us far from the intimacy of Safari, and I will only say that Edstrom is a photographer greatly influenced by his mobility, as the title of this work may suggest. Shaped by his residence in Tokyo no less than his upbringing in Sweden, his work reflects the contingencies of contemporary life (fashion work has been a staple of his photography) as much as a fascination with slow nature. One could write elsewhere about the parallels these photographs may have with the traditional arts of bonsai or ike-bana, their seeming cultivation of chance-time, or alternately with the European romanticism of their sideways light and setting. But cultural reads should come after the fact rather than justifying it. Is paint is a wild animal to a photographer ? Maybe. More likely it is a figure of mental or symbolic space encountered through looking. Safari interieur. Bennett Simpson."

This short and sweet--and astonishingly beautiful--book of photographs by the Tokyo-born and based Takashi Homma features 32 color images, primarily of the artist's daughter, although there are also some cityscapes and interiors that round out the story with perfect pitch. Homma offers an extremely well calibrated selection of images of his daughter from her first months to about age six: we see her sitting in her high chair; at a picnic; peeking through the car window; and taking some pictures of her own. Luminous, loving and relaxed, these portraits welcome the reader into the artist's inner world without giving anything away. "Tokyo and My Daughter," featuring one of the best family dog pictures ever, is published in the same series as Nieves' "Kim Gordon: Chronicles Vol.1, Mike Mills: Humans," and "Yukari Miyagi: Rabbit & Turtle." Homma has published his work in many international magazines and exhibited worldwide.

An unique occasion for William Klein's collectors.