The Mushroom as a Witness:
Takashi Homma and the invisible memory of forest
from the series the “Mushrooms from the forest”
The Mushrooms series emerges from an investigation that Takashi Homma began in the forests marked by the nuclear disasters of Fukushima and Chernobyl. After the earthquake and tsunami of 2011, the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant suffered a reactor meltdown, releasing a vast amount of radioactive material into the surrounding environment. It was within those contaminated woods that the Japanese photographer began observing mushrooms: organisms deeply sensitive to the presence of radioactive substances.
The mushroom thus becomes a kind of living archive: it preserves, within its own body, the traces of what has happened, giving form to a contamination that remains invisible to the human eye.
Yet Homma’s photography does not seek to dramatize catastrophe. The mushrooms are portrayed with an almost scientific simplicity: placed on a white sheet of paper, removed from their natural surroundings, they acquire the quiet dignity of a portrait. But what appears as a single natural form carries within itself a much larger story. The mushroom we see is only the visible fragment of a hidden and intricate network: the true organism lives through the mycelium, a web of filaments spreading beneath the earth, creating silent connections between different species.
This invisible dimension brings the fungal world close to our own understanding of communication. Mycelial networks are often described as a kind of natural internet: a system through which living beings exchange information, energy, and resources. The mushroom suggests another model of existence, one built not upon the isolation of the individual, but upon connection, dependence, and mutual exchange.
The dialogue between Fukushima, Chernobyl, and the forests of Scandinavia expands this reflection even further. Even after the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, mushrooms and other organisms living in the forest floor continued to absorb radioactive elements, becoming witnesses to the persistence of environmental memory. Nature does not immediately erase the marks left by humanity: it absorbs them, transforms them, and carries them forward.
The mushroom thus becomes a kind of living archive: it preserves, within its own body, the traces of what has happened, giving form to a contamination that remains invisible to the human eye.
Yet Homma’s photography does not seek to dramatize catastrophe. The mushrooms are portrayed with an almost scientific simplicity: placed on a white sheet of paper, removed from their natural surroundings, they acquire the quiet dignity of a portrait. But what appears as a single natural form carries within itself a much larger story. The mushroom we see is only the visible fragment of a hidden and intricate network: the true organism lives through the mycelium, a web of filaments spreading beneath the earth, creating silent connections between different species.
This invisible dimension brings the fungal world close to our own understanding of communication. Mycelial networks are often described as a kind of natural internet: a system through which living beings exchange information, energy, and resources. The mushroom suggests another model of existence, one built not upon the isolation of the individual, but upon connection, dependence, and mutual exchange.
The dialogue between Fukushima, Chernobyl, and the forests of Scandinavia expands this reflection even further. Even after the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, mushrooms and other organisms living in the forest floor continued to absorb radioactive elements, becoming witnesses to the persistence of environmental memory. Nature does not immediately erase the marks left by humanity: it absorbs them, transforms them, and carries them forward.
At the same time, the mushroom is not only a symbol of contamination and decay. Contemporary scientific research increasingly sees fungi as agents of regeneration: some species are being studied for their ability to break down pollutants, restore damaged ecosystems, and support new biological processes. What for centuries has been associated with decomposition and death reveals itself instead as an organism capable of turning an ending into the beginning of something new.
Within this perspective, the photographs of mushrooms taken at Stony Point become particularly meaningful. It was in this forest that John Cage, the experimental composer, chose to dedicate part of his life to the study of mycology. For Cage, mushrooms represented a way of approaching the world through listening and attention. The forest became a place where one could discover a different idea of music: not a composition imposed by humans, but a constellation of sounds, presences, and relationships that already exist.
Homma seems to return to this same intuition. To photograph a mushroom means to listen to a presence that does not speak through human language, but through its own existence and its own experience. The camera becomes an instrument of attention: it does not simply capture an image, but creates a relationship between the observer and the organism.
The mushroom therefore becomes a mediator between two worlds. On one side, it reveals the fragility of nature when confronted with human-made catastrophe; on the other, it reveals the ability of ecosystems to adapt, transform, and give rise to new forms of life. It is a witness of ecological crisis, but also a silent interlocutor that, through the hidden vibrations and sounds within itself, invites us to reconsider our place within nature, not as its owners, but as listeneners.
From Takashi Homma’s publication, “Simphony: Mushrooms from the Forest”.
Within this perspective, the photographs of mushrooms taken at Stony Point become particularly meaningful. It was in this forest that John Cage, the experimental composer, chose to dedicate part of his life to the study of mycology. For Cage, mushrooms represented a way of approaching the world through listening and attention. The forest became a place where one could discover a different idea of music: not a composition imposed by humans, but a constellation of sounds, presences, and relationships that already exist.
Homma seems to return to this same intuition. To photograph a mushroom means to listen to a presence that does not speak through human language, but through its own existence and its own experience. The camera becomes an instrument of attention: it does not simply capture an image, but creates a relationship between the observer and the organism.
The mushroom therefore becomes a mediator between two worlds. On one side, it reveals the fragility of nature when confronted with human-made catastrophe; on the other, it reveals the ability of ecosystems to adapt, transform, and give rise to new forms of life. It is a witness of ecological crisis, but also a silent interlocutor that, through the hidden vibrations and sounds within itself, invites us to reconsider our place within nature, not as its owners, but as listeneners.
From Takashi Homma’s publication, “Simphony: Mushrooms from the Forest”.
Leo Montanari