It was a disappointing start to that afternoon in Kyoto. The narrow streets were slick with silver reflections from the hours of weeping in the skies. It was the type of day that most people wanted to hide away from—a cozy café, a good book, or maybe the luxury of doing nothing. It was the point at which Kai Fusayoshi unexpectedly rekindled a career he had nearly given up, a crossroads of loss, memory, and rediscovery. He would discover a frame in the shimmering silence of Yasaka Pagoda in Kyoto that would reshape his future.
Kai’s path into photography wasn’t always easy. He was born in 1950 in a small farming community in rural Ōita Prefecture, surrounded by chickens and goats. He was always moving, restless, and rarely inclined toward textbooks. His sister gave him his first camera as a way to keep him out of trouble, but he used it more out of curiosity than self-control. Without much ambition, he took pictures of friends, chickens, and village life. Years would pass before the lens became his constant companion, along with the upheavals of student activism in Kyoto in the 1960s.
Photographer’s Profile
| Field | Details |
|---|---|
| Name | Kai Fusayoshi |
| Birth Year | 1950 |
| Birthplace | Ōita Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan |
| Profession | Photographer, Café Owner (Honyarado Café, Kyoto) |
| Years Active | 1974 – Present |
| Specialty | Street photography of Kyoto life, cultural documentation |
| Major Work | Photographs of Demachi district, portraits of artists and activists |
| Notable Connections | Allen Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, Maki Asakawa |
| Life-Changing Event | Rain-soaked afternoon in Kyoto capturing Yasaka Pagoda |
| Loss & Recovery | 2015 fire destroyed 90% of photographic archive |
| Exhibition Highlight | Kyotographie photo festival |
| Known For | Capturing daily life in Kyoto with intimacy and authenticity |
By 1971, Kai had contributed to the opening of Honyarado, a café that was much more than just a company. It served as a meeting place for musicians, poets, artists, and students, including well-known people like Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg. Honyarado was a place where activism found a stage and an audience, where poetry and jazz blended together, and where the air was heavy with the smell of political debates and strong coffee. Kai captured everything on camera, silently, intently, and almost instinctively, capturing the cultural undertones of Kyoto’s counterculture.
Decades later, he experienced the tragedy that almost put an end to his career. A fire tore through Honyarado in January 2015, destroying not only the café but also thousands of prints, over two million negatives, and a lifetime of memories. Ten percent of his archive was left intact. The idea of rebuilding felt hollow for a while, and the loss was overwhelming. Once his link to people and memories, photography now seemed like a pointless ritual.
The rain-soaked afternoon in Kyoto transpired against this tragic background. With little expectation, he had gone toward Yasaka Pagoda with his camera. The deserted street was transformed into a stage of shimmering light by the rain, which had polished the cobblestones into mirrors. There were already other photographers there, staking out the best spots with their tripods. The rain was sporadic and the air was cool; the locals in Kyoto refer to this type of weather as shigure, which is characterized by light, transient rain that has an oddly poetic temperament.
The clouds changed five minutes after he had set up his camera. Immediately above the temple’s tiered roofline, a pale, perfect, near-full moon appeared. At that moment, the luminous magic of the night sky matched the geometry of Kyoto’s historic skyline. Kai’s hands were practically shaking as he pressed the shutter repeatedly. It was more than just the scene’s beauty; it was the realization that the city still provided him with moments worth photographing despite the terrible loss.
That picture evolved into something more. It was evidence that he was still moved by the act of seeing, truly seeing. It brought back a very personal feeling, the same instinct that had inspired him to take pictures of jazz singers in the middle of a performance at Honyarado or children playing by the Kamo River in the 1970s. This image was a major feature of the Kyotographie exhibition later that year, and visitors stood in front of it for longer than usual. Some observed the elegance of Kyoto’s architecture. Others experienced the allure of a peaceful, soggy evening. It was survival condensed into one frame for Kai.
Such instances, in which a single photograph marks a career turning point, have long been admired by the larger industry. Kai’s story echoes Henri Cartier-Bresson’s “decisive moment” theory, which holds that the best photography captures a momentary convergence of elements that will never align again. In a time when subtlety is frequently overshadowed by digital saturation, Kai’s image stood out for its restraint, refusal to shout, and invitation to pause.
This moment is also contextualized by his relationships with other well-known photographers. Kai follows a tradition that emphasizes patience and closeness to location, much like Mizuno Katsuhiko, who spent decades capturing Kyoto’s seasonal elegance. His work, however, leans toward imperfection—the chance reflection, the off-center framing, the human element unexpectedly entering the shot—in contrast to the staged perfection of tourism photography. The humility with which he treats his subjects significantly enhances that approach, which is remarkably effective in storytelling.
Such artistry has a significant social impact. In a time when visual culture is dominated by speed and novelty, Kai’s rain-soaked Kyoto shot serves as a reminder to viewers of the importance of stillness. It invites reflection in place of the scroll reflex. Cultural historians frequently observe that photographs such as his aid in preserving not only a place but also the emotional landscape associated with it, such as the scent of rain on stone, the quiet of a street deserted by the elements, or the moonlight against a centuries-old pagoda.
Kai is still photographing Kyoto today with a newfound enthusiasm. He waits for light, rain, and life to align as he walks the same streets he has known for fifty years, frequently at strange hours. Because it restored his faith in the craft, rather than because it is technically perfect, the image of the Yasaka Pagoda has become part of his personal canon. According to him, a photographer’s career is evaluated by the few photos that have both universal and personal meaning rather than by the quantity of photos they take.
In retrospect, that soggy afternoon marked both a conclusion and a start. It created a space where joy and grief could coexist and closed the chapter of uncertainty that followed the fire. His story serves as a reminder to aspiring photographers that consistent output is not the only factor that defines a career. Sometimes the pictures that last are the ones that come from the quiet, unplanned days, the ones that seem to be nearly lost to the elements.
Kai continues to view Kyoto as a living, breathing subject rather than as a holdover from its past. For those who watch it closely, the city returns the favor by requesting patience, care, and the kind of focus that deters distraction. The city gave him all three on that soggy afternoon. The end effect is a picture that, like the man who took it, has stuck in people’s memories for a very long time.
