© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

Pengkuei Ben Huang’s account of a decade-long relationship with the city of Rikuzentakata and the Kikuchi family reminds us that we do not possess memory: we are memory. The experiences lived by the author, even when connected to the collective grief of others, such as the 2011 tsunami that struck Japan, settle within him and manifest in the images he creates. Each photograph thus becomes a new memory, potentially extended to new viewers or writers like myself, who participate in a process of recognition, of both remembrance and the suffering of others.

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

The strength of the project lies in its ability to re-signify grief through photography. The pain of the Kikuchi family and the survivors of the 2011 earthquake and tsunami becomes accessible, visible, and bearable—not only for those who experienced it, but also for those who engage with the images. As suggested by the long tradition of symbolically processing trauma, the photographs in Pengkuei Ben Huang perform a role similar to the myths of the past: they inscribe grief within the space of imagination, making it comprehensible and visually tangible, allowing viewers to confront what would otherwise remain elusive.

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

The project weaves together fragmentary memories—the letters of survivors, the traditional Ugoku-Tanabata festival, the Kikuchi family’s work—into a single narrative fabric of memory. Through the photographer’s lens, the reconstruction of the city and the daily lives of its inhabitants are not merely documented, but become silent witnesses to human resilience. The images allow us to feel the weight of loss while recognizing the enduring strength of life. 

Pengkuei Ben Huang is a work of emotional and cultural mediation: it transforms collective memory into an individual and artistic experience, prompting reflection on how every creative act—photographing, writing, observing—is ultimately a way of preserving and transmitting memory. It is a project that reminds us that even in the most devastating catastrophes, images become instruments of symbolic survival, allowing us to recognize, process, and share grief that might otherwise remain unspeakable.

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

The photographs in Pengkuei Ben Huang echo the earlier series "Coastal Mammoth", in which the author photographed and interrogated the dams and barriers along the Japanese coast built in response to the devastating 2011 tsunami, as a way of confronting the humiliation of being powerless before the forces of nature. The construction of dams, walls, and infrastructure thus becomes a symbolic gesture: a tangible response to fear, an attempt to restore order and protect oneself from the unpredictable, the unstoppable, and the excess that threatens to overwhelm daily life.

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

In the same way, the photographs of Pengkuei Ben Huang transform memory and grief into images we can make our own. They show us that the construction of defenses against nature and pain is not only a physical act, but also a psychological one: a way to give form to trauma, confront our helplessness, and find, however partial, a sense in what remains. Just as the dams mark the coast and the landscape, the images mark memory, allowing us to absorb the impact of the event without being overwhelmed, and to transmit this experience of resilience to those who observe.

© Pengkuei Ben Huang from "The Memory Shore"

I like to think that this patient, meticulous work is similar to the traditional weaving of tatami, a floor that in Japanese homes also carries symbolic meaning. It is a practice the author had the chance to learn from Junichi Kikuchi, the tatami shop owner who opened the doors to his family’s tragedy and with whom he would shape an profound dialogue. In the context of Pengkuei Ben Huang, this careful, deliberate act resonates with the way memory and grief are handled: just as each strand in a tatami mat contributes to the whole, each image, each letter, and each fragment of memory is woven into a larger narrative that supports both remembrance and resilience. The slow, attentive process mirrors how the past is carefully acknowledged, held, and transformed into something enduring and shared.