Etching in mind the A-bomb experiences, Part 6
Jul. 2, 2010
by Tomomitsu Miyazaki, Kunihiko Sakurai, Masaki Kadowaki, and Aya Kano, Staff Writers
Sixty years have passed since the atomic bombing [this series was originally published in July and August 2005] and the average age of the A-bomb survivors has risen to over 73. Opportunities to hear their stories in person are now diminishing. The survivors feel pressed for time in their quest to convey the experiences of the bombing to younger people, who themselves are overwhelmed by the challenge of grasping these experiences and handing down the memories of the A-bombed cities. In this series, the Chugoku Shimbun explores efforts to pass on the A-bomb experience to future generations as the difficulty increases in step with the age of the survivors.
The sunlight falling through the window causes subtle changes in the hue of the furniture. Gazing at the meticulous image drawn on the computer screen, Akio Nakazawa, 78, a resident of Fuchu-cho, Hiroshima Prefecture, wracks his memory to recall the appearance of the living room in pre-war days. "It's difficult to describe in words, but maybe it's a little bit different."
In a studio at Hiroshima City University, a graduate student named Miwa, 22, tilts his head to one side and taps the keys on his computer. "I can't see the scene in his head," he says. "That makes it difficult to reproduce the atmosphere of the time." He tried a slightly lighter tone on the screen.
The neighborhood called Saiku-machi lay directly under the bomb's hypocenter. This area is now part of Otemachi in Naka Ward. In one corner of Saiku-machi was Mr. Nakazawa's childhood home which included a family cosmetics shop.
"People got along and it was a peaceful place," said Mr. Nakazawa. "I played outside a lot, collecting clams and catching shrimp in the Motoyasu River." He played tag in alleyways and the quiet main street was lined with a hospital, a post office, and other buildings. Looking up, he could always see the dome of the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall.
The atomic bomb annihilated the area, leaving only the skeletal roof of the Industrial Promotion Hall, which became the A-bomb Dome. At the time, Mr. Nakazawa was away from Hiroshima, serving as a kamikaze pilot. When he arrived home on August 19, after the war had ended, he faced the news of the death of his old playmates.
The townscape of Saiku-machi before the atomic bombing is being recreated in three-dimensional computer animation for a project called "Hiroshima Ground Zero," a collaboration involving industry, government, and academia. Hiroshima City University, other universities, and a video production company have join forces to produce a high-definition film to be completed by this fall. Based on the accounts provided by former residents, such as Mr. Nakazawa, the project of giving form to memory seeks to convey the inhumanity of nuclear weapons.
At Hiroshima City University, Mr. Nakazawa bowed to Mr. Miwa in apology, saying, "I'm sorry to ask you to adjust it so many times. You're doing a fine job. The image on the screen is coming close to resembling my memory."
Mr. Miwa took over part of the graphics work this past April from a graduating student. He is from Kobe, and had no background in the atomic bombings prior to joining the project. He had never heard survivors' testimonies before. To bring to life the world of 60 years ago in a computer-generated image, the best he can do, he feels, is to meticulously hone the details, like balancing the size relationship between a room and the furniture inside, or adjusting the tones of the furniture. After creating an image, he modifies it again and again with great care.
Chiharu Yoneda, 25, an employee of the video production company, has assumed the role of gathering the memories of the former residents. She has spoken with 20 people so far, who share with her the state of the area before and after the blast.
Ms. Yoneda made many efforts to locate a particular resident, but the person declined to take part in the project, saying, "That, too, will fade away." Some lose more of their memories each time she listens to them speak about the past. "People who are crucial in the effort to pass on the memories of the bombing are getting older," she said. "It's a big worry. We should waste no time in making this film."
Through listening to the survivors' stories, Ms. Yoneda has noticed that the common thread across generations is "the pain of losing loved ones." If this is true, she wonders if she may be able to recount the pain in her own words on their behalf. She has begun considering this possibility.
(Originally published on July 30, 2005)
Computer animation reproduces pre-bombing townscape
Sixty years have passed since the atomic bombing [this series was originally published in July and August 2005] and the average age of the A-bomb survivors has risen to over 73. Opportunities to hear their stories in person are now diminishing. The survivors feel pressed for time in their quest to convey the experiences of the bombing to younger people, who themselves are overwhelmed by the challenge of grasping these experiences and handing down the memories of the A-bombed cities. In this series, the Chugoku Shimbun explores efforts to pass on the A-bomb experience to future generations as the difficulty increases in step with the age of the survivors.
The sunlight falling through the window causes subtle changes in the hue of the furniture. Gazing at the meticulous image drawn on the computer screen, Akio Nakazawa, 78, a resident of Fuchu-cho, Hiroshima Prefecture, wracks his memory to recall the appearance of the living room in pre-war days. "It's difficult to describe in words, but maybe it's a little bit different."
In a studio at Hiroshima City University, a graduate student named Miwa, 22, tilts his head to one side and taps the keys on his computer. "I can't see the scene in his head," he says. "That makes it difficult to reproduce the atmosphere of the time." He tried a slightly lighter tone on the screen.
The neighborhood called Saiku-machi lay directly under the bomb's hypocenter. This area is now part of Otemachi in Naka Ward. In one corner of Saiku-machi was Mr. Nakazawa's childhood home which included a family cosmetics shop.
"People got along and it was a peaceful place," said Mr. Nakazawa. "I played outside a lot, collecting clams and catching shrimp in the Motoyasu River." He played tag in alleyways and the quiet main street was lined with a hospital, a post office, and other buildings. Looking up, he could always see the dome of the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall.
The atomic bomb annihilated the area, leaving only the skeletal roof of the Industrial Promotion Hall, which became the A-bomb Dome. At the time, Mr. Nakazawa was away from Hiroshima, serving as a kamikaze pilot. When he arrived home on August 19, after the war had ended, he faced the news of the death of his old playmates.
The townscape of Saiku-machi before the atomic bombing is being recreated in three-dimensional computer animation for a project called "Hiroshima Ground Zero," a collaboration involving industry, government, and academia. Hiroshima City University, other universities, and a video production company have join forces to produce a high-definition film to be completed by this fall. Based on the accounts provided by former residents, such as Mr. Nakazawa, the project of giving form to memory seeks to convey the inhumanity of nuclear weapons.
At Hiroshima City University, Mr. Nakazawa bowed to Mr. Miwa in apology, saying, "I'm sorry to ask you to adjust it so many times. You're doing a fine job. The image on the screen is coming close to resembling my memory."
Mr. Miwa took over part of the graphics work this past April from a graduating student. He is from Kobe, and had no background in the atomic bombings prior to joining the project. He had never heard survivors' testimonies before. To bring to life the world of 60 years ago in a computer-generated image, the best he can do, he feels, is to meticulously hone the details, like balancing the size relationship between a room and the furniture inside, or adjusting the tones of the furniture. After creating an image, he modifies it again and again with great care.
Chiharu Yoneda, 25, an employee of the video production company, has assumed the role of gathering the memories of the former residents. She has spoken with 20 people so far, who share with her the state of the area before and after the blast.
Ms. Yoneda made many efforts to locate a particular resident, but the person declined to take part in the project, saying, "That, too, will fade away." Some lose more of their memories each time she listens to them speak about the past. "People who are crucial in the effort to pass on the memories of the bombing are getting older," she said. "It's a big worry. We should waste no time in making this film."
Through listening to the survivors' stories, Ms. Yoneda has noticed that the common thread across generations is "the pain of losing loved ones." If this is true, she wonders if she may be able to recount the pain in her own words on their behalf. She has begun considering this possibility.
(Originally published on July 30, 2005)
