I was born and raised in a farming village in Aomori, with rice paddies, fields, forests, and rivers all around me. In spring, the cool winter air becomes a breeze filled with the smell of soil, blowing through the fields. Melting snow becomes a fresh river that eventually mingles with the soil and becomes muddy, distributing water to the rice paddies. At the end of summer, golden ears of rice sway in the wind. They are whispering to each other. Is this chattering hope for the future? In winter, the air, having lost its moisture, ceases to carry smells. The falling white snow absorbs the vibrations with its structure, and the area becomes quiet and still. In the darkness, faintly audible is the sound of footsteps stamping on the snow. Suddenly there is a flash of light, and the snow scattered in the darkness is illuminated for a moment like a starry sky. For a brief moment, it was due to a photographic machine in his hand.
　The enormous amount of concrete and steel that makes up Tokyo no longer smells of earth. In fact, the smell of soil and water is difficult to detect in the dense jungle-like urban environment of the city. However, if a spring breeze blows on a picture hanging on the wall, it surely seems to smell like water.