Spotting an alleyway just ahead, Daido Moriyama breaks into a run as if already anticipating what lies in wait. Over and over, he halts abruptly, standing still as he presses the shutter. Always alert, his eyes scan the surroundings, his lens capturing anything that catches his attention. At times, he keeps the camera at chest level, pressing the shutter continuously and firing a rapid series of shots without even looking through the viewfinder. It's not uncommon for him to burn through an entire roll of film—36 frames—in less than a hundred metres, stopping multiple times to reload, swapping rolls in seconds.
At this moment, Journalist Takaeshi Nakamoto is at his wits' end, struggling to keep pace with Moriyama during a photo walk along the Sunamachi Ginza shopping arcade in Tokyo's Koto City. He's attempting to document the experience for a book on Moriyama's street photography methods.
I visited the Daido Moriyama retrospective at The Photographers' Gallery in Soho, London, earlier this year. The sheer volume of work on display highlighted the relentless nature of his practice. The exhibition's accompanying text positioned Moriyama in a familiar narrative, presenting him as the maverick who redefined street photography. After the show, I picked up Nakamoto's book, How I Take Photographs. It sheds light on the intense, frenetic style of image-making Moriyama has pursued continuously since the 1960s and includes a series of insightful remarks.
He dismisses traditional photographic techniques and ideals of beauty, offering advice such as this to aspiring photographers:
Forget everything you've learned on the subject of photography for the moment, and just shoot. Take photographs - of anything and everything, whatever catches your eye. Don't pause to think.
In keeping with this ethos, the camera that Takaeshi Nakamoto sees Moriyama constantly reloading along Sunamachi Ginza is a simple compact point-and-shoot. Japan's most celebrated street photographer does not rely on a professional-grade camera with interchangeable lenses. He explains to Nakamoto:
Think about it. If you've got an SLR or a large-format camera in your hand, you inevitably want to take considered shots. You think about the composition, and so on. With a compact camera, you just point and shoot … I've always said it doesn't matter what kind of camera you're using, a toy camera, a polaroid camera, or whatever – just as long as it does what a camera has to do.
Later in his career, Moriyama embraced digital photography despite criticism from longtime fans who believed film was fundamental to his style. But, of course, Moriyama didn't care. At that point, he opted for a low-cost digital compact camera. I remember feeling a constant frustration with this type of camera when they first became popular—not due to any resistance to digitalisation, but because the images they produced felt hard-edged, compressed, and devoid of any sense of romance.
Modern smartphone cameras are designed to produce increasingly smooth, pristine images, which has led to a resurgence in digital compact cameras. This resurgence seems fuelled by nostalgia and a desire to disconnect from smartphones, reviving the grunge of Y2K-era photography. As time has passed and technology has advanced, the once unforgiving, hard-edged compression of digital snapshots has acquired that missing sense of romance. Moriyama's practical approach to camera choice has rendered his work timeless, not that he would have planned it that way. Nevertheless, he remains an artist who continues to do things his way, unaffected by the cycles of technological innovation and the revival of past trends.
Since I began taking photographs, I've occasionally been asked about the camera and lenses I use. Since launching Tokyothèque—though I don't consider photography to be at its core—the camera question has become the most frequent query in my DMs. What struck me most about the Moriyama exhibition and reading the accompanying book is how his perspective on this aligns with my own. Not being particularly technical regarding cameras and processes, I had long thought of myself as not a photographer. Moriyama's views prompted a change of heart—perhaps a sense of vindication—and a feeling of sympathy, tinged with sadness, for my younger, less confident self.
In 2010, during the summer before moving to Japan, I worked through Yasujirō Ozu's back catalogue of films. I admired his storytelling, particularly his use of ellipses—leaving major events off-screen—to highlight emotional undercurrents over explicit action. But what resonated with me most was the cinematography. Ozu's compositions avoid dramatic angles or sweeping camera movements, opting instead for planimetric framing, where elements are flattened and aligned parallel to the picture plane. His mise-en-scène—the arrangement and design of the scene—is presented squarely, emphasising vertical and horizontal lines, creating a serene, almost static beauty in each frame. This style, rooted in Japanese art history, continues to influence contemporary filmmakers like Beat Takeshi and Naomi Kawase, whose work has made a strong impression on me.
Upon arriving in Tokyo, I felt inspired to experiment with this aesthetic on the city's streets. My camera, not a deliberate choice but simply what I had on hand, was an iPhone 4. With it, I framed planimetric shots of vending machines, walls covered in ventilation fans, deserted playgrounds with melancholy equipment, and konbini facades. Expanding my focus to the entrances of shopping arcades and the narrow confines of yokochō alleyways and residential lanes, I began spotting mini urban tableaux everywhere. Tokyo's buildings, spaces, and urban landscapes lend themselves well to this approach, shaped by the deliberate sensibility behind their arrangement. If you appreciate such details, getting anywhere in the city is almost impossible, endlessly distracted by the next contemplatively positioned post box.
I uploaded these images to Flickr for a while, where a few kind strangers left encouraging comments. Although I never stopped taking photos, I eventually stopped sharing them, driven by a slightly naive belief that, because of the poor quality of the camera, they didn't qualify as real photography. The iPhone 4 let in too much light during the day, produced grainy, muddied images at night, and lacked the software capabilities of today's smartphones to fix these flaws. It's a slightly painful memory—Instagram had launched that same year, and while I aim to live without regrets, I can't help but wonder how my work might have evolved had I consistently uploaded from the start. I didn't realise then that it was the start of a digital landrush for algorithmic attention.
If there's one takeaway from this, it's that if you're doing something—whether photography or anything else—that feels a bit strange, doesn't resemble what others are producing, doesn't gain much traction on social media, and isn't well understood by those around you; if it has an odd quality to it that you can't help, but you still enjoy creating it—don't stop and certainly don't try to make it more like what popular creators are doing. That's often a sign you've stumbled upon something unique. I humbly posit that instead, you focus on making it a little better each time in your way.
These days, I alternate somewhat sporadically between three cameras: a digital mirrorless camera, a manual single-lens reflex (SLR), and, as I did in 2010, my smartphone. The images that prompt people to ask about the camera I used are almost always the ones taken with my phone. I have a loose theory that, on some level, we can instinctively recognise the results of an interchangeable lens camera, having seen countless images on small screens, their output remaining consistently pristine since the Y2K era. However, the smartphone's fast-changing and unpredictable output is more complex to classify. We might quickly sense that it wasn't shot on a high-end camera, yet the aesthetic is baffling, making it hard to accept it was taken on just a phone.
I currently use a Pixel 8 Pro, which I've upgraded a few times since getting entrenched in the Google ecosystem after buying the first Pixel XL in 2016. That purchase came just before a trip to Japan—my first since moving back to England—with a renewed excitement for photography. Unlike the revivalists of Y2K compact digital cameras, I prefer pristine images. If I took gigabytes of photos, I wanted the camera to be as good as possible. At the time, the Pixel XL, as a new entrant to the market, offered a compelling and more affordable alternative to the iPhone.
Google's AI adjusts colours, sharpness, and exposure automatically after each shot, aiming for what it considers optimal results with minimal user input. I had yet to fully grasp that I was entering a form of image-making where the inbuilt software plays a significant role in shaping the final image as the camera itself. Still, I've become glad to have gained fluency with this process. Apart from minor cropping, tilting, and slight tweaks to lighting and colour using Lightroom CC, I rarely do much else with the photo, giving it a snapshot execution, though slightly more polished. The software exerts such a strong influence over the image that further editing has limited impact unless you seek a heavily modified look.
I like to keep my images vibrant but natural. My memory tends to recall scenes more vividly than a photo suggests, so I see these enhancements as a gentle push to match the image with how I remember it. If I spend too long editing a picture, it's usually a sign that something in the original image is off—an error in the moment of shooting that can't be fixed through post-processing. I typically abandon those photos unless I have no other option or the mistake has created an interesting effect. Every image in Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring was shot with a Google Pixel and, for instance, the photo of Musashi-Itsukaichi Station's facade was taken with the sun behind the building, obscuring the details in shadow. I had to perform significant adjustments to the lighting. It's not an image I'm particularly fond of, but it stayed in the book for illustrative purposes.
I'd offer two technical tips to anyone looking to experiment with their phone's camera, perhaps even on an upcoming trip to Japan. The first is to adjust the brightness manually. On a Pixel, this is done with a slider that appears on the camera interface and is likely similar on other phones. Left to its automatic settings, the Pixel tends to diminish shadows in a way that would make Junichirō Tanizaki irate. The second tip is to use a grid if you're unsure about composition. You can overlay a 3x3 or golden ratio grid in the viewfinder. I went through a period of always having the grid on, and now it's so ingrained in my mind that when I'm cropping images later, they often align with the golden ratio, whether I intended it or not.
All that being said, the main advantages of using a phone aren't tied to its cutting-edge features or image quality but rather its intrinsic qualities—small, portable, easy to use, and always within reach. It enables a focus on the essentials: noticing something you want to capture, being ready to do so instantly, and composing it swiftly in the viewfinder without overthinking. Some have suggested I'm being evasive about my process when I give that response to questions about equipment, but it's the truth—the device and its controls play only a minor role. What matters most is what the photographer notices, how they frame it, and with what emotion or intent they do so—those are the main factors shaping the final image.
I think about Nan Goldin, whose work contends with the emotions of individuals within intimate relationships, often in bohemian, gender-fluid, and hard-partying circles during the late twentieth century. Despite little emphasis on traditional composition or objective reportage, her photos, shot in a spontaneous, snapshot-like style, possess that ineffable fine art quality where a casual viewer might think they could have taken the same shot. But, of course, they didn't—Goldin did. Her strength as an image-maker lies in her profound understanding of her subjects, her ability to be a welcome presence with her camera in those moments, and her sharp instinct for when to capture them. The instant she decides to shoot, she sees the scene and frames it with an innate compassion.
The images I take of Tokyo turn out differently from those I might capture in London. London is a city I've known since childhood, and my family line is almost entirely rooted here, though I'm less encyclopaedic about it. Despite its power and the inspiration I often feel while walking its streets, I usually lose interest in the photos soon after and rarely go back to review them. Aesthetically, it's partly because even London's most opulent streets are cluttered with on-street parking, and it's hard to avoid a "city of grime" narrative, where leading the eye into the image often involves overflowing dustbins and pigeons on street corners. Emotionally, I feel a certain unease in London, influencing my photos as I view the city with mixed feelings.
Tokyo, by contrast, features off-street parking, which is beloved by photographers, and immaculate streets renowned worldwide for their cleanliness. This order is maintained not just by workers but by residents and business owners, constantly tending to the environment. There is no rubbish in Tokyo because there is always somebody picking up rubbish. My interest in the Japanese capital began in adolescence, and I've been pursuing a fuller understanding of the city ever since. Photographing it now feels familiar and comfortable after all these years. I look at Tokyo's urban landscapes with a distinct sense of affection, which brings a feeling of ease when I review my photos.
For a while, I steered clear of photographing Tokyo's iconic scenes—like the precincts of Sensō-ji in Asakusa. The expectation here is to capture the entire landmark like a postcard. Over time, however, my perspective shifted. I've visited these sights enough times to feel content with focusing on their finer details. Moriyama expresses a similar sentiment, noting that refusing to photograph Kaminari-mon simply because it's iconic would be self-defeating. He photographs it with an impartial mind, not forcing any commentary on its essence. On a recent visit to an overcrowded Kiyomizu-Dera Temple in Kyoto, I happily spent my time photographing the smaller sub-shrines, zooming in on the architecture to capture the wood's texture and the subtle shades of paint. Even the most heavily photographed attraction always has something new to reveal.
Still, I'm happiest photographing a quiet neighbourhood shōtengai shopping street, with yokochō alleyways branching off and leading to a hyper-urban trackside walk. Tokyo has countless places like this, but my first exposure to such a locale was along the Nakano–Kōenji–Asagaya stretch of the Chūō Line. I could write an extended newsletter or even a short book about this route, but I've delayed doing so because I have so many memories and feelings attached to them. For now, I'll leave those place names with you as a suggestion for a neighbourhood stroll if you haven't heard of them. It's become a reasonably popular photo walk, and you might meet a few like-minded people along the way, easy to spot as they stop and start, photographing vending machines and bicycle parking lots while the Chūō Line rumbles by overhead.
In a much earlier newsletter on walking through dense, low-rise neighbourhoods—specifically focusing on the Kiyosumi-Shirakawa area—I discussed some principles I've developed for photographing Tokyo's quieter enclaves. To recap:
Respect for Privacy: I refrain from photographing people's faces. Philosopher Susan Sontag likened photography to hunting, equating the act of taking a photograph to pointing a weapon at the subject. It's understandable that individuals walking in the comfort of their own neighbourhood might feel uncomfortable with a stranger aiming the lens at them, lest they get 'shot'. Street photographers may disagree, saying that their duty is to document humanity, but I believe there's a distinction between, say, candid shots through cafe windows in busy Manhattan and the secluded lanes of Tokyo, which often feel like private roads. I choose to respect people's privacy and avoid creating any discomfort among locals during neighbourhood walks. If someone inadvertently appears in my shot and their face is discernible, I'll anonymise their face during post-production before sharing it publicly.
Respect for Property: A similar approach applies to individual properties, especially when a nameplate is visible. There have been fortuitous instances when I've encountered a particularly captivating house, and the owner happened to be outside tending to their garden. In such cases, I've politely asked for permission to photograph their beautiful home. Jérémie Souteyrat, in Tokyo No Ie, his photography book on contemporary Tokyo homes, diligently sought permission and cooperation from every homeowner. In my view, residential complexes and mixed-use buildings are acceptable subjects, where the presence of multiple tenants provides anonymity, and businesses inherently place the building in the public sphere.
Cultivating Humility: I strive to minimise my presence in all respects. Many of us come from cultures that celebrate self-expression and being unapologetically yourself at all times. However, there's a beautiful Japanese phrase, 腰が低い (koshi ga hikui), which translates to 'low at the waist' but figuratively signifies acting with humility toward others. I don't suggest that every individual in Japan embodies this trait, nor do I suggest constant enactment by foreigners. However, adopting this mindset can be respectful and beneficial when exploring the intimate streets of local neighbourhoods, where rarely anyone besides residents ventures. Smile occasionally, offer a bow of the head, yield the right of way. Be a considerate traveller, and try keeping your koshi slightly hikui as you go.
These ideas have become even more important to me over time. As travel to Japan continues to rise in popularity, the foreign photographer in Tokyo is often indistinguishable to the average Tokyoite from a typical tourist or influencer—both of whom are steadily falling out of favour with the public.
When I travel to cities or countries outside Japan and the UK, where I'm unfamiliar with the environment, I inevitably revert to the mode of an outsider, looking in on the people and the place without fully grasping the meanings or mood of the city. That sense of detachment will naturally come through in my photos, but in such cases, it's all the more necessary to adopt a considerate approach. Influencers have gained infamy in Japan for disturbing the public, as people often feel that they're not there to engage with or document something they love, but to extract something for personal gain. Travel photography can also suffer from this, mainly when people are the subjects, with the camera casting a fascinated gaze that turns them into objects of curiosity, like wildlife.
There's a subtle tension in these interactions, often undetectable unless you're attuned to how Tokyo residents express their discomfort. Even when I follow the approach I've outlined, I've encountered microaggressions from people on the street during recent trips as the growing friction surrounding tourism, cameras, and social media in the city becomes more palpable. For example, if I'm kneeling at the curbside and inadvertently obstruct a passerby, I might hear a quiet tut or notice them make less effort to avoid me, brushing past. Some people will conspicuously cover their faces as they walk by, a clear sign they fear their privacy is being invaded. Most recently, a cyclist muttered under his breath at a junction, warning me not to capture him in my shot with sinister phrasing.
Things can indeed take a nasty turn. While talking with a friend over drinks in a Golden Gai bar, he told me a story about a photographer he knew who became obsessed with capturing the neon-lit maze of backstreets in Kabukichō, Shinjuku's infamous entertainment district, particularly its seedy-looking establishments. The yakuza soon took note of his frequent presence, his professional lens often aimed at scenes they didn't want documenting. Despite their warnings to stop, he persisted. Eventually, his pursuit led to him being pulled off the streets and physically reprimanded by the gang members.
Most Tokyoites, however, revere photography and understand your desire to capture the moment, often pausing in the street to avoid ruining your shot. Any negativity I've experienced has come when I've been using my mirrorless camera—a more conspicuous piece of equipment that naturally puts people on edge. Perhaps this is another argument in favour of the discreet smartphone. Even so, the larger camera attracts pleasant interactions, like the konbini worker who, an older photography enthusiast, struck up a conversation after noticing the logo on my camera.
I didn't own a high-end digital camera for a long time, but eventually, I bought a Fujifilm X-T3—not for city photography, but for its video capabilities. I had been drawn to trying cinematography, inspired by the pristine work of Mikiya Takimoto. However, that idea never developed much further. I quickly realised that, until you reach a director-level mastery like Takimoto’s, the work requires more equipment and technical precision than I’m comfortable with. I've accepted that cinematographers influence my photography more than photographers do, and that's a strength, not an indication that I should change direction.
That said, I was left with the X-T3, which accounts for about half of my photography in Tokyo now. It has its pros and cons—aside from occasionally provoking microaggressions from passersby, the overheads, as Moriyama mentioned, are higher in terms of file storage, battery life, luggage weight, and the post-processing effort required after taking a shot. Still, it's a pleasure to capture an image you're proud of and have it in the rich depth of RAW format. Unlike phone photos, where editing options are limited, RAW files demand a fair amount of post-production, which can easily lead to hours of editing and fine-tuning. The result isn't always a better image, but the sense of creative possibility is immense.
With prolonged use, I've become more fluent with the X-T3, and while I support Moriyama's philosophy that the best camera is the one you have with you, once you step into the world of high-end gear, it does matter that you're comfortable with the machine. For me, this has less to do with mastering the inner workings of the X-T3 and more with the fact that the controls for aperture and shutter speed are laid out just as they are on many 35mm film SLR cameras. This familiarity brings me comfort, especially since the first camera I learned to use was one of these devices.
This leads me to analogue film. As long as everything is in place at the moment of shooting, then by the time the film is developed and returned to you digitally, there's often nothing left to do with the image. Film's natural aesthetic handles it all—the work feels complete. The lens I use—and I have a similar length for my digital camera—is a 24mm, purchased from Katsumido Camera in Ginza. It strikes a balance between wide-angle and standard perspectives, which I was likely drawn to after years of smartphone photography, where the lenses allow you to capture a significant amount of detail, even from relatively close distances.
After shooting, at most, I might fix some overexposed streetlights or straighten the horizon, but any further edits tend to spoil the original feeling I had when first seeing the image on the screen. This ease is perhaps the trade-off for the inherent challenges of film photography. Working in analogue, the act of taking a photo is simply harder. Lighting is tricky to manage, especially in low-light conditions, without creating heavy grain. Focus is manual, meaning you're likely to miss perfect moments or capture them slightly out of focus. Old cameras are also prone to mechanical issues—my SLR, a Nikon FM2, is currently out of commission due to an internal jam I haven't had time to repair. Equipment problems can ruin entire shoots—in Japan last year, I shot several rolls of film with a fault that allowed a blurry light spot to seep into every frame.
Operator error can be costly too. I once wandered through Soho in London, feeling like Daido Moriyama, ducking into alleyways and capturing fleeting interactions from street corners—a liberty I'm more at ease taking in London—during what I thought was an excellent shoot. When I got home, I realised the film hadn't loaded properly, meaning I had taken zero photographs. I'm still deciding whether the absence of any tangible results devalued the enjoyment I felt that evening—a phantom photoshoot, experienced only once and never to be revisited.
Greg Girard captures the atmosphere of Japan on film marvellously. I wrote about him in a previous newsletter. Picking up from where I left off, seated in a second-floor street corner coffee shop:
I lingered for a while, observing the early evening street lights of Hatchōbori casting romantic reflections in the puddles while commuters brandishing clear umbrellas streamed past. Such scenes are a magnet for photography enthusiasts. In the 1970s, before the era of Instagram-famed photographers, Canadian photographer Greg Girard was skillfully capturing Tokyo's rain-slicked streets. However, his portfolio isn't confined to just rain-soaked neon scenes. As a consummate documentary photographer, Girard seizes the quintessential and authentic in his subjects, employing elements like rain, fog, and ambient light to enhance the atmosphere in otherwise understated moments.
I then went on to discuss the ultra-edited, highly saturated cyberpunk Tokyo photography of Liam Wong:
In the late 2010s, creatives such as Scottish photographer and game designer Liam Wong, along with Japanese street photographer Masashi Wakui, began to gain traction within the nascent algorithms of social media. Liam Wong carved out a career with his distinctive portrayals of Tokyo, bathed in purple hues and a cyberpunk, rain-drenched aesthetic. His surge in popularity marked a turning point, sparking a trend in this genre of photography. Wong crafted a unique style, evolving Blade Runner-inspired visuals into contemporary representations with modern fidelity, colour palettes, and saturation levels.
I remember walking past the most prominent entrance to Kabukichō around 2019 when the wave of Liam Wong-inspired Tokyo photography was at its crest. The entrance is marked by a bold, iconic red and white neon-lit gate, welcoming visitors into a labyrinth of narrow streets filled with bars, clubs, restaurants, and entertainment venues. This gate, emblazoned with the kanji for Kabukichō Ichibangai (歌舞伎町一番街), meaning "Kabukicho Number One Street," arches overhead, offering a glimpse of the nightlife and electric atmosphere within. A raised traffic island on Yasukuni-dōri, the main road in front of Kabukichō, was crowded with photographers, gear bags, tripods, and impressive lenses, all poised to capture the glowing red gate and the enthralling scene beyond. The authorities in Shinjuku City have since installed fences as a deterrent, but I doubt they would stop a determined city photographer on a mission.
I tend to take a critical stance toward nuisance behaviour from tourists, and I rarely pause to photograph postcard-like shots of landmarks. I try to proceed with care, avoiding the disturbance of local neighbourhoods or the exoticising of people. Yet, deep down, I feel the same intense urge as those traffic-island photographers. I know exactly how they feel. I can't recall seeing anything quite like that street photography frenzy in any other city I've visited—it speaks to just how photogenic Tokyo is and the sheer thrill and joy of capturing all those glowing lights.
Until we meet atop that traffic island,
AJ
Links
Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring
Daido Moriyama: How I Take Photographs