In 11:02 Nagasaki, Shomei Tomatsu presents an exploration of trauma, history, and memory as embodied in the aftermath of the atomic bomb that devastated Nagasaki at precisely 11:02 a.m. on August 9, 1945. Produced in 1966, this series of stark, almost surreal black-and-white images renders mundane objects—wristwatches frozen at the moment of impact, bottles warped by extreme heat, and everyday possessions rendered unusable—as silent witnesses to the horror of nuclear devastation. As one of post-war Japan’s most pioneering photographers, Tomatsu captures not only the visceral damage inflicted on materials but also the intangible wounds left on the Japanese psyche, resonating with collective suffering and resilience. Having grown up in wartime Japan and witnessed the deep cultural scars left by Western occupation, Tomatsu’s work in 11:02 Nagasaki is imbued with his personal confrontation of national trauma and transformation.
The series operates as both a documentary and an emotional elegy, embodying a duality that extends beyond mere reportage. Each image is a fragment of memory preserved in meticulous detail, creating a form of visual archaeology that allows Tomatsu to frame history’s tangible remains within a broader, haunting narrative. The personal artifacts in his images—shoes, fragments of children’s toys, remnants of household items—become symbols of lives forever changed. Tomatsu’s approach moves beyond documentation; it is rooted in the Japanese aesthetic principle of wabi-sabi, which embraces impermanence and loss. By isolating these objects within the frame, Tomatsu elevates them from relics to emotional conduits, inviting viewers to reflect on the intimate effects of history through these objects.
Aesthetically, 11:02 Nagasaki is characterized by Tomatsu’s masterful use of high-contrast monochrome, which lends an austere clarity to each detail, illuminating the twisted, unnatural forms of objects distorted by atomic heat. His selective focus and careful composition invite close inspection, leading the eye to the fractured textures and minute scars etched into each item, evoking both awe and sorrow. Tomatsu’s choice of black and white reflects not only the solemnity of the subject but also emphasizes the series’ timeless quality, aligning it with traditional forms of Japanese mourning and historical reflection. This stark tonal approach removes any distraction of color, centering the viewer’s attention on the objects themselves encouraging reflection on grief and remembrance.
Technically, Tomatsu’s dedication to capturing these relics in gelatin silver prints results in images with a clarity and depth that enhances the materiality of the objects. This method allowed him to accentuate the textures of charred, misshapen materials, making each photograph both intensely tactile and deeply symbolic. His detailed approach exemplifies a philosophy that sees photography not simply as documentation but as a process of “seeing through” history, layering personal and cultural memory into a visual language that speaks universally. Each artifact carries the weight of Tomatsu’s belief that the act of seeing—of looking deeply—can be an act of remembrance and resistance against erasure, a means of preserving experiences otherwise lost to time.
Reception coalesced around the series’ capacity to translate material remnants into a language of memory and loss. Institutional presentations helped shape that understanding: MoMA’s New Japanese Photography (1974) introduced the work to international audiences, while Shomei Tomatsu: Skin of the Nation (SFMOMA, 2004–2007) articulated its historical and formal stakes. Subsequent contexts—including Nagasaki Mandala (Nagasaki Prefectural Art Museum, 2000) and Conflict, Time, Photography (Tate Modern, 2014–2015)—reframed the images within broader debates on aftermath and remembrance.
