Filmmaker Beth Harrington’s discovery of photographer Frank Matsura’s work in 2002 at the Washington State History Museum ignited a passion that would span over two decades, culminating in her feature-length documentary, Our Mr. Matsura. Harrington was struck by the distinct character of Matsura’s black-and-white images, which stood apart from those of his contemporaries, including the renowned Edward S. Curtis. Matsura, a Japanese immigrant, possessed a unique ability to capture the essence of his subjects, a diverse community in Okanogan, Washington, comprising both white settlers and Indigenous people of the Colville Indian Reservation. His photographs are imbued with a palpable charisma and a deep, almost playful connection with those he photographed, often including himself in the frame, a testament to his integrated presence in the community.

Matsura lived and worked in Okanogan County from 1903 until his death at the young age of 39 in 1913, succumbing to tuberculosis. Despite the significant volume of work he left behind – thousands of images – detailed biographical information about his life remains scarce. Yet, more than a century after his passing, the communities he documented continue to hold his memory in high regard. Harrington, who moved to the Pacific Northwest from Boston in the early 2000s, found herself drawn to Matsura’s enigmatic legacy. Her documentary, released in 2025, explores this enduring connection, with the title Our Mr. Matsura reflecting the collective sense of ownership and affection felt by those who engage with his work. Harrington explains that the title signifies how each person finds their own point of entry into understanding Matsura, piecing together a collective portrait through these individual impressions.

The profound impact of Matsura’s work on the local community was evident at a screening of Our Mr. Matsura last September at the restored Omak Theater, which drew an audience of approximately 300 people. Douglas Woodrow, an Okanogan native, shared how Matsura’s photographs were a recurring feature in the local newspaper during his childhood in the late 1950s, often accompanying historical pieces. As a boy, Woodrow would bike to the locations depicted in these old photographs, marveling at the changes over time and imagining the grandeur of structures like the Bureau Hotel, a majestic three-story building that burned down in 1924, which he recalled as having lent an air of elegance to the otherwise unassuming town.

Returning to Okanogan decades later, Woodrow rekindled his connection with Matsura, whom locals affectionately refer to by his first name. While volunteering with the Okanogan County Historical Society, Woodrow stumbled upon a “literal shoebox” filled with unprocessed photographs by Matsura. When sequenced, these images chronicled the 1910 construction of the Conconully Dam, an early project undertaken by the Bureau of Reclamation on Salmon Creek. This discovery deeply resonated with Woodrow, prompting him to present these historical photographs to community groups, marking his initial project dedicated to preserving Matsura’s legacy.

Woodrow’s commitment extended beyond local initiatives; his fascination with Matsura led him to Tokyo, where he visited the photographer’s birthplace alongside his friend and fellow enthusiast, Tetsuo Kurihara, a Japanese photographer who had initially met Woodrow in Okanogan during a research trip. Back in Washington, Woodrow tirelessly worked to safeguard Matsura’s heritage, spearheading the creation of an interpretive site near Matsura’s former studio and organizing a walking tour featuring mural-sized reproductions of 21 of his photographs. Woodrow emphasized Matsura’s remarkable social mobility, noting that he photographed everyone in town, transcending social strata and becoming an integral part of nearly every significant event.

Randy Lewis, a Wenatchi (P’Squosa) elder and member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, is one of many descendants of Matsura’s subjects featured in Our Mr. Matsura. Lewis has been actively involved in community screenings of the film, including a unique “barn screening” in Winthrop, Washington, followed by a traditional salmon bake. His family’s story exemplifies the enduring presence of the world Matsura captured. The documentary includes a photograph of Lewis’s great-uncle, Sam George, and his family in a buckboard wagon—described by Lewis as the “F-250 of the time.” Lewis recounted that this photograph hung in his family home during his tenure as caretaker for George in his final years. George would often gaze at the photograph, telling Lewis it helped him recall the names and birthdays of everyone in the wagon, a testament to the photograph’s power as a mnemonic device.

Sam George, who passed away at the age of 108, was born in 1860, predating the establishment of the Colville Indian Reservation in 1872. His exceptionally long life spanned significant historical shifts, including the reservation’s reduction, the allotment era, and the influx of gold-seekers and homesteaders. He and his family, including Lewis, continued to practice traditional seasonal fishing, maintaining a fishing platform at Celilo Falls until its inundation in 1957 by the construction of The Dalles Dam, which submerged one of the continent’s most bountiful fishing grounds. Lewis noted that Matsura arrived on the reservation during a period of profound cultural transformation, a time when both Native and settler cultures were evolving. He observed that Matsura was not documenting the decline of Indigenous populations but rather the vibrant continuation of life in a new century.

Our Mr. Matsura serves as a compelling exploration of Okanogan County itself, mirroring the isolated and rugged beauty of the landscape that has remained largely unchanged since Matsura’s arrival. Jean Berney, a seasoned rancher and farmer residing near Conconully, a community she describes as “off the beaten track,” shared her appreciation for the region’s allure. Berney, an enrolled member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, married into a non-Native cattle-ranching family and subsequently built her own successful herd, earning national recognition as a conservation-minded rancher deeply committed to the 4-H program. Her ranch land once hosted The Conconully Naturpathy Institute, commonly known as Casselmann’s Sanitarium, where Dr. Casselmann, a German immigrant, treated tuberculosis patients beginning in 1906. It is widely believed that Matsura may have been a patient, drawn to the region by its dry climate, which was often prescribed for respiratory ailments.

Berney often contemplates Matsura’s journeys across this challenging terrain, musing, “Did he ever talk to Dr. Casselmann about his condition? How long was he sick? We wonder about Frank and everything that happened a long time ago, and we can’t ask.” Her questions highlight the poignant silences in Matsura’s documented life, underscoring the value of the visual record he created.

Harrington’s documentary adds to a growing body of work dedicated to Matsura. Volunteers at the Okanogan County Historical Society have diligently preserved his legacy, and Michael Holloman, a tenured art professor at Washington State University and an enrolled member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, has also made significant contributions. Holloman co-curated an exhibition of Matsura’s work for Spokane’s Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture in 2023 and, in 2025, published the book Frank S. Matsura: Iconoclast Photographer of the American West. Holloman eloquently stated, “We need people to be like Frank right now, to engage multiple communities and be able to find life, vibrancy, in a world that is in transformation and change.”

The wide release of Our Mr. Matsura was initially planned for The American Experience series, but federal funding cuts led to the discontinuation of the long-running PBS program last summer. Despite this setback, Harrington remains optimistic that the film will find its audience through film festivals, streaming platforms, and special screenings, echoing the success of the Omak event. However, she acknowledges the increased challenge of navigating the distribution landscape without major network support. Harrington emphasized the immeasurable value of such stories, stating, “There’s a lot of worthy things that we can’t put a dollar value to. These stories… we’re poorer for them when we don’t have them.”

During the Omak screening, Harrington was praised for mirroring the trust Matsura had cultivated with his subjects over a century prior. She, in turn, humbly deflected the compliment, remarking, “The story is not just about Frank and his charisma and his incredible body of work. It’s about the way people uphold his memory and still talk about him 112 years after his death.” This enduring connection, nurtured by both the photographer’s empathetic gaze and the community’s steadfast remembrance, ensures that Frank Matsura’s photographic legacy continues to illuminate the history and spirit of the American West.