In one of photography's most unusual tales, Ukai Gyokusen, Japan's first professional photographer, made the extraordinary decision in 1883 to bury several hundred of his glass plate negatives in a Tokyo cemetery. This act, which he believed would preserve his photographic legacy, instead nearly erased it from history. Four years later, Ukai was buried beside his photographs, with two tombstones marking both his life and career, leaving much of the tangible evidence of his pioneering work lost to time.
The BBC has recently brought attention to Ukai's fascinating story through a documentary featuring photo historians Naomi Izakura, curator at the JCII Camera Museum, and Torin Boyd, a filmmaker and photojournalist. Their research has uncovered new discoveries about Ukai's career and the significance of his buried negatives. As the BBC documentary explains, "Nearly 150 years ago, a man carefully digs a hole and places several hundred glass plate photographs inside. He buries them. And there they lie until some 70 years later. Some survive, most don't. They were a worm feast for all that time. It's kind of sad, but in a strange way, there's kind of a poetry to that."
Ukai's journey to becoming Japan's first professional photographer began far from the camera. Born the son of a samurai, he initially pursued multiple paths as an artist and antique collector. His life changed dramatically when he encountered American photographer Orin Freeman in Yokohama, who introduced him to the revolutionary art of photography. Ukai purchased both a camera and lessons from Freeman, then returned to Edo, now modern-day Tokyo, at the age of 54 to establish something unprecedented in Japanese history.
In 1861, Ukai opened Aishendo, meaning "Hall of True Images," which became Japan's first professional photography studio. Operating primarily for the samurai class and aristocracy, Ukai's work initially struggled to find a broad market. According to the inscription on his tombstone, photography was met with considerable skepticism by Japanese society at the time. However, by 1861, he was clearly active in his profession, officially making him the country's first professional photographer.
Ukai's photographic technique was as unique as his position in Japanese society. He exclusively employed the ambrotype technique, which produced one-of-a-kind images without the possibility of additional darkroom prints. This method created precious, irreplaceable treasures for his subjects, making each photograph a singular work of art. For eight years, Ukai captured portraits of samurai, dignitaries, and cultural elites, documenting a pivotal period in Japanese history through his lens.
In a twist that reveals much about his character, Ukai abruptly closed his studio in 1869, just as photography was gaining broader popularity throughout Japan. He abandoned the profession entirely and returned to his original passion for antiquities. As one historian notes, "He alone revered the ancient." This decision creates a certain irony in his story – the pioneer of Japanese photography, who revered antiques so deeply that he abandoned what was then considered a new fad, has now become the subject of a long quest to recover his buried images, which have themselves become valuable antiques.
The decision to bury his life's work stemmed from Ukai's growing frustration with the limitations of early photographic technology. As his images began to fade and deteriorate over time, and his inability to distribute them properly to their subjects became apparent, he became increasingly disillusioned with photography. Historians describe his decision to bury several hundred glass plates beside his own future grave at Yanaka Cemetery as baffling, especially given the extreme fragility of photographic glass. Yet this choice also reflects Ukai's deep devotion to older, traditional art forms over newer technological innovations.
The BBC documentary captures the bewilderment that modern photographers feel about this decision: "I just can't even fathom putting a negative into the ground, just how that would destroy the image. That's unbelievable." Ukai passed away approximately four years after burying his negatives, and his remarkable legacy remained largely forgotten for decades, buried both literally and figuratively.
The first attempt to recover Ukai's work came in 1956, when intrigued photography experts and Ukai's descendants organized an excavation of the grave plot. About 100 glass plates survived the decades underground, though most were severely damaged, deteriorated, or had been consumed by worms and other insects. The limited efforts to preserve or publicly display these recovered negatives meant that Ukai's work remained largely inaccessible to the public and photography historians.
A second excavation attempt in 2009 yielded disappointing results, producing little additional material. Prior excavations and soil compaction over the intervening decades had destroyed most of the remaining negatives. However, some surviving plates eventually found their way into private collections or were donated by photography enthusiasts, offering tantalizing glimpses into 19th-century Japan through Ukai's unique artistic perspective.
What makes Ukai's story even more compelling is what the surviving photographs reveal about his artistic vision. His compositions demonstrate a sophisticated, artistic eye that distinguished him from his contemporaries in early Japanese photography. Many of his subjects are depicted looking away from the camera or engaging with the photographic frame in unconventional ways, demonstrating a level of creativity and artistic innovation rarely seen in early Japanese photography. As historians note, "Suddenly, we can see a much deeper glimpse into 19th-century Japan through Ukai's eyes. Rather than a mere footnote in Japanese history, his compositions demonstrate a man ahead of his time rather than one chasing it."
Ukai Gyokusen's extraordinary story serves as a powerful reminder that innovation and artistic foresight do not always guarantee recognition or remembrance. His tale also illustrates how the preservation of cultural history can be as fragile and unpredictable as the glass plates that once captured these precious moments in time. Through the efforts of modern researchers and historians, this pioneer's contributions to Japanese photography and cultural documentation are finally receiving the recognition they deserve, even as much of his physical legacy remains buried beneath Tokyo soil.
