Okamura, who moved to Ireland to explore JFK’s ancestry and stayed for 16 years to document political upheaval, is celebrated in a new exhibition and book
In 2016, the British photographer Martin Parr curated Strange and Familiar, a group show at the Barbican art gallery in London. Subtitled Britain as Revealed by International Photographers, it included work by Henri Cartier-Bresson and Robert Frank as well as lesser known figures such as Edith Tudor-Hart. For me, though, by far the most strange and familiar images I encountered there were made by a Japanese photographer I had never heard of, and whose handful of small, colour prints from the early Troubles stopped me in my tracks.
His name was Akihiko Okamura and I later learned that he had travelled to Ireland in 1968, having already established a reputation as a war photographer in Vietnam. The first thing that took me by surprise was his rich colour palette: the deep reds, faded blues and ochre browns that reanimated a turbulent time for so long portrayed solely in stark monochrome. The second was his style, which tended towards quiet observation rather than frantic reportage. His photographs ranged from telling still lifes of ordinary and not-so-ordinary objects (a police riot shield and helmet resting against a wall) to portraits that resembled film stills (a lone British soldier, tense and primed as if for heroic combat, on a street corner). Okamura photographed newly delivered milk bottles arranged neatly on a sun-dappled doorstep as well as empty milk bottles resting on the window ledge of a Derry tower block, ready to be repurposed as petrol bombs and hurled at the police. His eye was caught by Loyalist youths hanging bunting for the marching season on a dusky sunlit street and young Belfast women picking their way through makeshift barricades, alert for images that undercut the obvious and the cliched.
