1st Year, Tokyo Private University of Arts – Film Department
Keisuke Ashiya narrates:
Keisuke Ashiya
The reason I enrolled in an art university was because of Eiharu Hayama.
Originally, I had no interest in either art or photography.
As a kid, all the way through middle school, I was completely immersed in kendo, leaving no time for anything else. My plan was to keep practicing into high school, spending my days swinging a shinai.
But right before the entrance ceremony, I got hit by a car.
I survived, but my legs were severely injured. Running or enduring extended physical activity became impossible.
The doctor assured me that with rehabilitation, I’d eventually be able to walk normally. I mustered all the grit I had to get myself into school. Even so, I didn’t manage to start attending until May, hobbling along with crutches.
By then, the cliques in my class had already formed. I couldn’t fit in.
To make matters worse, I had been admitted under a sports scholarship. With my injury barring me from joining any athletic clubs, the scholarship was revoked. My parents had to cover the full tuition we had initially been relieved from.
It was hell.
Going to school was a misery. Coming home was suffocating. I spent my days lingering in empty classrooms until I was kicked out, doing nothing but staring blankly or napping. My body felt like it was rotting, yet I lacked the will to change.
It was in one of those deserted classrooms that I first met Hayama. I still remember it vividly.
The sound of a shutter woke me.
Through my groggy vision, I spotted someone leaning halfway out of the window, snapping photos. He looked oddly mismatched—his slender frame contrasted sharply with the professional-looking DSLR camera hanging from his neck.
Even now, I think Hayama has a face that suits being photographed more than taking photographs. His dyed, light-colored hair glowed fiery red in the sunset.
When he noticed me staring, he laughed lightly and said,
“Good morning, Ashiya-kun. Did I wake you?”
I was startled that he knew my name.
“You remembered my name?”
“Of course. We’re in the same class, and you kind of stand out.”
Glancing at the crutches propped against my desk, he turned back to his photography, peering through the viewfinder and clicking away. Occasionally, he’d check the monitor on his camera, his expression shifting dramatically as he reviewed the shots. He seemed to genuinely enjoy himself.
“It’s fun,” he said, not looking away from the camera.
“Wanna see?”
When I nodded, he showed me his photos.
There were shots of our school’s soccer field, where the players looked like miniature toys. Pictures of Tokyo Tower and the city skyline, reminiscent of scenes from old monster movies. Shibuya crossing, teeming with what appeared to be tiny figures bustling about. The Yamanote Line’s trains looked like models on a diorama. Each photo transformed reality into something surreal, like a meticulously crafted miniature world.
“This kind of stuff… I’ve seen apps create similar effects. But cameras can do this too?”
“With special lenses, yeah. You shoot from high up, looking down. Pros sometimes use helicopters, flying with the doors open to capture shots like this. Wouldn’t work for someone with a fear of heights, though.”
“You’ve been on a helicopter before, Hayama?”
For a moment, I thought this guy might be some sort of daredevil. But Hayama gave me a puzzled look.
“No way. For a high schooler, that’s too much. I stick to observation decks for now. Maybe someday.”
Then, out of the blue, he suggested, “Why don’t you try taking pictures, Ashiya?”
I was taken aback. I’d never even held a decent camera before.
“I don’t own a good camera. What would I even take pictures of?”
“You’ve got a smartphone, right?”
When I showed him my phone model, he nodded approvingly.
“That’s enough to get started. As for what to shoot… well, anything you find ‘good,’ I guess.”
He went on to list different kinds of “good”—cool, cute, beautiful, impressive, refreshing. He urged me to capture anything that resonated with me, no matter how small or fleeting.
“Why?”
“Looking back on those photos later gives you this weird boost of confidence. It feels like you’re uncovering treasure, seeing the world in higher resolution than before.”
He smiled, exuding both confidence and a hint of bashfulness—pride as a creator.
For the first time, I realized that someone my age, living the same reality, could find such joy in something I didn’t understand. Almost unconsciously, I raised my phone and took a picture.
The classroom echoed with the simulated shutter sound.
“Why’d you take a picture of me just now?” Hayama asked, surprised.
Honestly, I couldn’t explain it myself. I’d done it purely on reflex.
“…Because I thought you were ‘good’?”
Hearing my hesitant answer, Hayama’s eyes widened before he burst into laughter.
“What the heck?”
His laughter was infectious. After composing himself, he reminded me,
“If you’re going to take pictures of people, make sure you ask for permission—even if it’s afterward.”
That was the first lesson I learned from Hayama.
From that day on, Hayama taught me everything he could. He’d answer my questions, and if he didn’t know, we’d figure it out together. His passion for film and photography was unmatched. Whenever he had free time, he’d drag me to movie screenings or photo exhibitions.
Before I knew it, I’d fallen in love with photography.
I found it fascinating how the right angles and techniques could make reality seem more beautiful—or more mysterious—than it was.
Through photography, I began to notice the seasons, the changing light, and the smells of each moment, things I might have ignored if I’d remained in my gloomy rut.
Because of Hayama, the world started to expand. That’s why I chose to attend an art university—to study this feeling more deeply.
Luckily, we both got accepted into our dream school, into the department we wanted.
But… Hayama changed.
(To be continued.)
