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Join Street Photography Magazine publisher Ashley Riffo and me on the latest episode of the Street Photography Magazine Podcast for a lively and inspirational conversation with three photographers, Christer Björkman (Sweden), Jane Dee (Scotland), and Kitty de Jong (Netherlands) from different countries who originally met at a Peter Turnley workshop in Paris. Since then they have formed a casual collective to collaborate on books, zines, newspapers and countless photography discussions.Join Street Photography Magazine publisher Ashley Riffo and me on the latest episode of the Street Photography Magazine Podcast for a lively and inspirational conversation with three photographers, Christer Björkman (Sweden), Jane Dee (Scotland), and Kitty de Jong (Netherlands) from different countries who originally met at a Peter Turnley workshop in Paris. Since then they have formed a casual collective to collaborate on books, zines, newspapers and countless photography discussions.

I found myself staring at a Japanese woodblock, a print, created in the 1870s that hangs in my bedroom. The print of a street scene is like a cartoon of a man carrying two large baskets of round melons hanging from a bo staff slung over his shoulders. A man at the top of the hill looks on as one of the baskets falls from the bo releasing the melons. They roll down the hill towards the pedestrians below like bowling balls nearing the pins. Pedestrians on the side of the street look on in laughter.

I’ve been looking at this print and two others like it for most of my life. As I look I begin to realize that these street scenes from the other side of the world at another time have been a subliminal influence on my interest in capturing street life in my own era with a camera.

I had recently returned from my first trip to Japan, a few weeks earlier. Even after recovering from jet lag, I was unable to sleep deeply. Each night I had fragmented and restless dreams of snippets and disjointed images as if my mind was trying to make sense of my experience in Japan. Then one morning as I lay half-awake, I felt compelled to spend time with my Japanese prints, three woodblocks that have hung in my bedroom since the loss of my mother in 2000.

Lost in Tokyo

To understand why those dreams were so restless, let me go back to the first days in Japan. Since our arrival we were on the go constantly. A day and a half into the trip I still didn’t grok the fact that I was in a totally foreign place. Then after a hectic bus tour and getting hopelessly lost in the busiest subway station in the world at rush hour I was forced to just sit and do nothing in a packed subway car. Nobody spoke. Except for the sounds of the train on the tracks, it was silent. Everyone, except us, were totally absorbed in their mobile phones wearing earbuds and headphones.

I was suddenly rapt in the most crowded space I had ever been. Maybe I had a rare Zen moment or maybe my adrenalin rush had finally subsided because I chose to do nothing else but sit quietly and absorb the moment. I refused the urge to open my own phone and even more important I ignored the impulse to pick up my camera to make a few photographs of the experience. I wanted to join in that everyday experience of tired commuters from the other side of the world. To feel it from their perspective. Making photographs like the gaijin tourist I am would have upset the equilibrium.

Hiroshima

Upon arrival at Hiroshima, we met our guide, Masa, short for Masayo, a second generation A-bomb survivor. She advised us that due to our time limitations we would spend the entire day on Miyajima a sacred island of forests and temples. The island was peaceful despite the crowds. Masa shared stories about Japanese culture, Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples. She didn’t once mention the atomic bomb explosion. I was curious about her family’s experience after the event but kept it to myself.

Nearing the end of our visit someone asked Masa how her family was affected by the bombing. She said that her father was nine years old on the day that Little Boy, the first bomb’s nickname, was dropped on Hiroshima. Masa’s father and his family were sitting at the table eating when they saw a very bright flash, then remembered nothing until they woke up in the rubble of their home. As they crawled out they saw the surrounding buildings in flames and immediately escaped to the countryside where they found temporary shelter. Soon after, rumors began to spread that the radiation sickness survivors began to experience was contagious. Local residents chased them away in fear. Her family returned to the city with nothing, no home, food or means of support.

Then Masa’s father remembered that his father, a baker, had buried a large container of sugar before he was sent away to fight. Her father found the sugar and began to sell it on the street to support the family throughout the aftermath.

After a long silence we approached a short tunnel. I spotted a Japanese family in silhouette holding hands as they exited the other end. I shot a few frames without thinking. It made me think of Masa’s family’s survival thanks to her grandfather’s foresight to hide a cache of sugar. Masa’s father is still alive today.

The ferry ride back to the mainland was crowded so we had to stand in a small room with a few other travelers seated on benches. Next to me was an older man with a cane easily in his 80s. He would have been a baby or young child on the day the bomb dropped. Looking at the older gentleman I wondered about his family and the struggles they must have endured to keep him safe to live a full life.

Nagasaki

On a rainy day several days later we arrived at Nagasaki. Fat Man, the atom bomb that destroyed the city, exploded on August 9, 1945 at 11:02 AM. I was born seven years later on the same date at about the same time. A coincidence. But it was not lost on my mother, a perpetually nervous woman, who lived in fear of that happening to us. She instilled that fear in me by reminding me of the significance of my birthdate, turning our basement into a bomb shelter, pointing out the locations of our local Civil Defense shelters and reminding us to “duck and cover” in the event of an attack. And it was reinforced by our own government propaganda and political ads like the famous “Daisy” commercial of 1964.

I would lie in bed listening to the airliners on final approach to the Pittsburgh airport afraid they were enemy bombers preparing to drop “the bomb” on us.

It’s been over two months since my return from Japan and I’m just now beginning to realize that a routine tourist visit to the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum reawakened silent fears that have lain dormant for most of my life. The same fears that kept me awake as a child.

I stood for several minutes to study a clock that survived the blast stuck at 11:02. Then I spotted film footage of the Nagasaki mushroom cloud recorded by the Bockscar crew as they flew away to escape the blast. It sent a chill through my upper back that I can’t forget. Later, as I wandered through ground zero in a daze I spotted a statue with the date and time of the explosion 1945 8.9 11:02’. I knew the date and time and I knew the explosion happened just 500 meters above my head. It was no longer a history lesson. It became real. Visceral.

Lake Tazawa

By the time we arrived at Akita in the North of Japan we had been circumnavigating the country for almost 2-weeks. I had seen mountains in the distance throughout the trip but until then had only explored its cities. This day was different.

Our travel partner, Steve, has a gift for organizing excursions in unfamiliar countries by researching guides, arranging transportation and finding places most travelers never see. On this day he had arranged a drive into the Ou Mountains. I didn’t know much about where we were going. I trusted him.

We drove from the port for over an hour and a half into the mountains. The snow was deep and the dense forest looked no different than the Blue Ridge near our home. From time to time I spotted distant mountain tops through the trees. I was anxious for a closer look.

I was beginning to drift off in the warm van when we slowed to round a sharp bend. Then I saw it. A crystal clear lake with a surface like glass surrounded by mountains reflected in the lake which took my breath away. It was Lake Tazawa.

We parked at a shop across the road, grabbed our cameras and phones, and walked to the bank for a closer look. It was irresistible.

Our guide told us the legend of Tatsuko, a beautiful young girl, who wanted to preserve her beauty forever. After praying to the god of mercy she drank from a hidden stream until it ran dry. For her greed she was transformed into a dragon. In her shame she dove into the lake to become its guardian forever. That’s the short version.

Nearby is a 12 foot tall golden statue erected to immortalize Tatsuko. Like good tourists we visited the scene. Lingering by the water taking in the view and making photos, small groups of Japanese tourists would stop, approach the lake with a quiet reverence, sit on the rocks then move on. They were peaceful and appreciative of the natural beauty. Not a speck of litter.

I made several photos of their visits later selecting one for the cover of my book about our experience. It was an easy choice.

I didn’t realize it at the time but that short stop by the lake jolted me from near slumber to being alert, engaged and observing people interacting with each other and their environment. I was no longer “looking”— I was “seeing” images at every turn.

Our trip to Japan was to check off one item from a bucket list. But my visit to Nagasaki and the coincidence of my birthdate were a tipping point and the source of my fitful sleep after returning home. The act of writing this essay revealed that some of my deep seated fears were learned from my mother’s behavior. She didn’t do it on purpose. She was just a nervous young mother who lived through the depression, then a world war that ended with the introduction of a dangerous new technology which left her deeply fearful for herself and family. I was just there taking it all in, assimilating her behavior in my developing brain.

Her fears have been living inside me for over 70 years. This awareness will help me call them out and put them to rest when they arise.

I am typically uncomfortable sharing personal observations like this. Maybe it’s another one of those fears my mother gave me.

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I should tell you upfront that I enjoy getting lost.

Not the panicked, wrong-turn-down-dark-street kind of lost. The puzzle kind, where navigating an unfamiliar city is a problem to be solved and you get to be the one who solves it. I’ve navigated subways in every major city I’ve visited and I’ve come to find a certain pleasure in figuring out how they work and experiencing them like a local. My wife, who spent too long commuting on public transportation, does not share my enthusiasm. She finds it considerably less enjoyable.

So when we decided to take a trip to Japan, I did my homework seriously. Not the usual travel influencer material. You know, the breathless recommendations and affiliate links — but practical, methodical research. I found a YouTube channel called Kensho Quest that covered exactly what I needed: how to navigate the Tokyo subway system, the Shinkansen, the IC card payment system, the things that can upend a vacation for foreign visitors. The Tokyo subway, like most others, uses a color-coded system. Follow the signs for your line color, note the terminal station, don’t get on the train going the wrong direction. Simple enough. I watched the videos carefully and reviewed the photos to set the visuals in my brain. I felt prepared.

Tokyo had other ideas.

What follows is the story of two evenings in Shinjuku — one accidental, one deliberate — and everything that went wrong in the best possible way.

The Accidental Visit

Our first full day in Tokyo was a ten-hour bus tour — a city overview we’d booked in advance, designed to give us a sense of where we wanted to spend more time in this gigantic city. It ended with a boat ride on one of the six rivers that run through the city, which I hadn’t been looking forward to and turned out to be rather enjoyable. I was tired, the boat was moving which required nothing from me.

Then the tour guide made an announcement. We would not be returning to the original pickup point. We’d be dropped at Shinjuku Station.

I wasn’t too concerned. I was well prepared thanks to Kensho Quest. But when we stepped off the bus, I realized we weren’t near the station entrance we’d driven past earlier that day. I asked the guide where the subway was. She pointed down the street and said, down there. We walked that direction, saw nothing but office buildings, and were about to pull out Google Maps when we noticed a pedestrian walkway below street level as we crossed a small bridge, packed with commuters moving at full speed.

It was five o’clock. Rush hour. Tokyo rush hour, which is exactly as advertised.

We joined the crowd down the stairs and walked into what appeared to be the basement of an office building. It was, in fact, part of Shinjuku Station — the largest subway station in the world, as I would later learn, which serves over 3.5 million people daily through more than 200 exits. At that moment I knew none of this. I just knew it was very large and very crowded and we needed to find the red line.

We spotted signs for it and started walking. And walking. Commuters streamed past us in both directions. After what felt like an eternity we began to realize that we were heading in the wrong direction.

A young man appeared beside us. Do you need help? he asked.

We did. We were trying to reach Ginza station and weren’t sure which direction to the red line. He said, I’ll show you — and then turned around and walked in the opposite direction from where he’d been heading. Ten or twelve minutes later he delivered us to the correct line and the escalator that would take us to the platform and left. No fanfare. Just a stranger who saw two confused tourists and gave up part of his evening to help them.

It was very nice and would not be the last time something like that happened during our stay in Japan.

The Exit Gate

We’d made it. Eight stops, a packed train, and we were finally at Ginza station. I scanned my IC card, the little exit doors swung open, and I stepped through — just as my wife said something from the gate to my left.

I turned my head for half a second.

The doors closed. Between my legs. Mid-stride. Barely avoiding castration.

I stood there, one foot on each side of the gate, trying to process what had just happened. Six feet away, a police officer sat in his booth, completely unbothered, apparently the only person in the station unaware that a large American was now straddling the exit doors like he was trying to mount a very small horse.

I could have simply stepped over. But I’d seen enough travel warnings to know that turnstile jumping — even involuntary, even after scanning my IC card as required — seemed like exactly the kind of thing that ends with you in a small room explaining yourself through a translator app. So I stayed put. Frozen. A gaijin monument.

My wife, having made it through her gate cleanly, turned to find me in this condition. First came the mortified look. Then she moved closer and began offering suggestions which I was too overwhelmed to process.

When the other passengers figured out I wasn’t going to move, the queue behind me quietly dissolved and redirected to other exits. Sensible people who probably see this regularly.

After what felt like an hour a group of young locals walked past, took one look, and absolutely lost it. Not cruelly. The way you laugh at something that’s just purely ridiculous. They asked if I needed help, which made me laugh with them, and somewhere in the chaos the doors finally opened and I was free.

I didn’t see anyone take a photo. But I’m a photographer. I know they did.

We found the nearest exit and walked out onto the street, looked around, and had no idea where we were. Ginza station, I would come to understand, has only twenty exits — modest by Tokyo standards, though this did not make choosing the correct one any simpler. We tried Apple Maps. Not helpful. We switched to Google Maps. Somewhat better, but still seemed to be sending us in the wrong direction.

Eventually we came upon a small police substation — two officers inside, one of whom gave us a map, circled our hotel, and pointed us in the right direction. Fifteen minutes later we were back.

What had been booked as a ten-hour tour had become a twelve-hour day. We went to bed.

Act Two: The Deliberate Return

The following evening we had a food tour booked in Shinjuku at six o’clock. Having already been there once we decided to treat this as an advantage. That morning, after breakfast, we walked to Ginza station, located the entrance, went inside, and found the red line back to Shinjuku. We noted the route and felt prepared.

We arrived at Shinjuku two hours early to explore the neighborhood before the tour began. Our guide, Junji, had texted us earlier in the day to meet him at the police box outside the east exit of Shinjuku Station. Simple enough.

Upon arrival we found the east exit, walked outside expecting to see a police box — whatever that is.

Neither of us had any idea what a police box was.

The Police Box

I had a picture in my head — a small freestanding room, maybe big enough for one or two officers. Like a security kiosk. When I didn’t spot anything like that I entered the address Junji had given us into Google Maps, and it sent us confidently in the wrong direction, down a path that led into a construction zone and dead-ended at a fence. That seemed unlikely to be it.

So we reversed course and searched on foot, turning down the other side of the station, checking the shopping mall inside the station, coming back to the east exit, going out again. All the while, across the street from the east exit, the Shinjuku Higashi-guchi no Neko — the Cat of Shinjuku East Exit — cycled through its performance on the massive screen on top of the building every few minutes, a giant 3D cat draped over the edge of the building, peering down at the street. Tourists stopped and raised their phones each time as they waited for the light to change. We ignored it for the first few cycles, too focused on our search, but eventually stopped to watch it and make a few photographs. At that point we needed the distraction.

After thirty minutes of searching, I Googled “police box east exit Shinjuku Station.” Up came a photo of a ten-foot pole that supported a series of rectangular boxes covered in Japanese writing. I spotted it immediately next to the street. I walked over and studied it. I stood there considering whether it might contain some kind of police telephone. But it looked like a bus stop. Then again, Google said this is it, so we hung around waiting for the others to arrive.

I turned around and looked back toward the station exit. There, built right into the top of the subway stairs on the right side — exactly where we had walked past it twice, once leaving the station and once during our search — was a small room staffed by two or three officers. Large enough to hold five people. In plain sight.

With the wrong picture in my head, I had looked right through it both times.

Standing just outside it, relaxed and smiling, surrounded by our fellow food tour attendees, was Junji. About forty, professional, completely unruffled — the look of a man who had watched this exact scene play out many times before.

Now I know what a police box is, I told him.

He laughed. He’d heard it many times.

The Table

Junji led our group through the early evening streets of Shinjuku to our first stop on the third floor of an old office building. After climbing to the landing Junji briefed us on what to expect inside. He then directed us to a small room where we had to remove our shoes to enter. We ducked through a low doorway into a small traditional room. Low table in the center, bench seating around the perimeter, maybe a foot of clearance between the bench and the wall behind it.

My wife and I got separated in the shuffle going in. She ended up at the far end of my side of the table. In a room that size, we might as well have been in different restaurants.

We wedged ourselves into our seats — a process that required more planning than it should have — and cold Sapporos arrived along with dumplings and a scattering of appetizers. My first beer in Japan tasted just right.

Already at the table was Pat, an Australian from Perth, who had come with his brother and his two twenty-something sons. Pat was immediately comfortable with everyone, the kind of man who calls you mate within thirty seconds and means it warmly. His sons were quieter — one of them was wearing a Green Bay Packers shirt, which caught my eye. I asked him about it. Was he a fan? He just liked the shirt.

Introductions went around the table. Across from me, close enough to hear over the noise, was John and his wife Arlene from South Africa who farmed abalone. He said it straightforwardly, the way you’d say you were an accountant, and then asked if I knew what abalone was.

I did, I told him. I’d eaten it. Very good.

He seemed pleased. We were already friends.

The room was loud and the background noise was relentless — with my hearing aids I can follow a conversation in most situations, but in a packed room with hard walls and a dozen people talking at once, I’m mostly limited to whoever is within arm’s reach. So that first stop was Pat’s world and the abalone farmer’s world. Three women at the other end of the table traveling solo connected immediately — one from Germany, one from London and another from Italy. I could see them but couldn’t hear them. We’d get there later, out on the street where the noise was at least honest about what it was.

For now there were dumplings, cold beer, and an abalone farmer from South Africa explaining his trade in a tiny room in Shinjuku. Japan was already exceeding expectations.

Kabukicho

After stopping at our second restaurant Junji led us into Kabukicho, Asia’s largest red-light district and the “Sleepless Town”. It is famous for its dense, neon-lit nightlife, featuring thousands of host/hostess clubs, love hotels, restaurants, and karaoke bars.

The streets here range from standard two-lane city streets tapering down to single-file passageways through a network of alleys that connect to each other like a maze. Every surface above eye level was neon, electronic billboards, bar signs stacked four and five stories high, the whole district lit up against the night sky with the particular energy of a place that doesn’t begin until dark.

We turned onto one of the wider streets and I noticed the girls first.

They were young — teenagers, some of them, or close to it — standing along the street in small groups, holding signs printed with amounts: 2,000 yen, 5,000 yen. Many wore costumes: anime characters, French maids, schoolgirls, whatever the theme of their bar happened to be. Against the chill of the evening, a lot of them had pulled on long, heavy white down coats over their costumes, which created a strange visual — elaborate fantasy outfits topped with the kind of practical coat your mother might wear to a football game.

My wife and I exchanged a look. We were thinking the same thing, and I suspect most of the group was too.

Junji read the room immediately.

These were not prostitutes, he explained. They are promoting hostess bars — a tradition with roots in geisha culture, though a modern and more commercial version. Inside the bars, the hostesses entertain male customers one on one: conversation, flattery, singing, making each man feel, for the duration of his visit, genuinely special. The men respond by buying drinks, running up large tabs, coming back again and again to see the same girl. It could get very expensive.

He said all of this without judgment, the way a good teacher explains something complicated — here is how this works, here is why it exists, here is what it costs. But when he talked about the girls themselves, something shifted in his voice. Many of them had no family, he said. Some were essentially homeless, the bar providing structure and income that they had nowhere else to find.

The group went quiet. Then a few questions. A little uncomfortable laughter that nobody quite committed to.

I was listening carefully, but I was also scanning the street with my camera. This was my only chance to photograph Shinjuku at night, and Junji’s narrative was giving me a frame for everything I was seeing. I made candid frames of the girls on the street, the neon alleys, members of our group, the signs. And then Junji pointed out a large billboard mounted on one of the buildings — photographs of the bar’s top earners displayed publicly like a sales leaderboard.

Further down the street were young men doing the same work in reverse — some in the same long white coats as the girls, others dressed like members of a boy band — working for host bars catering to women. Same economy, same billboard logic, same loneliness underneath. The debt some women clients accumulated could spiral badly. It was entertaining and it was lonely and sometimes it was something worse.

Junji had lived in Chicago for ten years. That bicultural fluency showed in how he held all of this — not defensive about Japan, not performing exoticism for Western tourists, just honest about a culture that contains, like every culture, beautiful things and sad ones, often on the same street, sometimes in the same person.

He was one of the best tour guides I’ve encountered anywhere. If you’re planning a trip to Tokyo, look him up: https://japanguidestar.com.

Golden Gai

From Kabukicho, Junji led us into Golden Gai — a cluster of narrow alleys connected by passageways barely wide enough for one person, tucked just off the main street like a secret the neighborhood had been keeping since the years after World War II. That’s when these bars first took hold, tiny establishments filling the spaces that remained in a city rebuilding itself, each one seating maybe ten people at most, stacked across several floors, themed around sports or music or whatever the owner happened to love.

It was a Thursday night and chilly, so the alleys were quiet. With only a handful of us we moved through easily, peering into doorways as we passed — a warm glow, a bartender, a few patrons hunched over drinks in a space the size of a large closet. We didn’t stop or sit down. There wasn’t time, and in that short walk they all blurred together into a single impression: intimate, worn in, entirely themselves. The kind of bars that exist because someone needed a place exactly that size for exactly that kind of evening.

Hanazono Shrine

A few blocks away, Junji brought us to Hanazono Shrine.

It sat in a small park, quiet and lamp-lit, just minutes from the neon of Kabukicho. By our second full day in Tokyo we had already visited several shrines, but something about finding one here — near the red light district, ancient and unhurried while the city ran at full speed around it — made it feel different.

Junji walked us through the ritual. You approach the offering box and toss in a coin. Bow twice. Clap twice — some people sharp and loud, others barely a sound. Then press your hands together, bow once more, and hold the moment for as long as you need.

Several of us prayed. I did.

I’m not a religious person in any conventional sense, but I’ve come to understand the difference between religious and spiritual, and standing at Hanazono Shrine at night, tired from jet lag and sensory overload, I felt the latter clearly. The ritual gave the moment a shape. It asked me to stop, which I needed. To think about who matters most to me and what I want for them. I found myself thinking of my wife, my family, the people I love. Simple things, held quietly.

Out of respect I didn’t photograph anyone as they prayed. But I watched several locals follow the same ritual during our short time there, unhurried, absorbed, completely indifferent to the tourists around them. That, too, felt like something worth paying attention to.

By now the jet lag was catching up with me. Thirteen hours is a brutal time difference and at my age it takes several days to adjust. But adrenaline is a reliable substitute for sleep, and there were interesting photographs everywhere I looked. I stayed close to the group rather than wandering — this was a family trip, and I chose to focus on what was right in front of me: our fellow travelers moving through this strange, endlessly surprising neighborhood, reacting to it in real time. That turned out to be more than enough.

The Photographer on the Sidewalk

We were nearly done. Junji was leading us back through the city streets toward our final stop — a small pastry shop that sold taiyaki, a warm and slightly crispy fish-shaped cake typically filled with sweet red bean paste, custard, or chocolate. Yum. I was in the mood for custard.

As we neared the shop, a young man stepped toward me and asked what our group was about.

I told him we were just finishing a food tour.

He was holding a taiyaki in his hand, having just come from the very shop we were heading to. Thirty-ish, round glasses, a heavyweight jacket with a scarf looped around his neck, a black knit Lacoste beanie. Friendly and unhurried. And hanging from his shoulder, a Fuji X-Pro3 with a 23mm lens.

I noticed the camera immediately. He noticed mine — a Fuji X100VI, my travel camera of choice.

You too, he said.

We were street photographers. No further introduction required.

His name was Gustavo — or at least I’m fairly certain it was Gustavo; it was loud and the evening was hectic and I should have written it down — and he was in Tokyo for an exhibition of his street work. We talked the way photographers talk when they find each other unexpectedly in a foreign city — quickly, because there’s a lot to cover and never enough time. I gave him the name of the magazine and told him to look me up.

In the background, my wife was making her views known. She knows how easily I can be pulled off course by anything involving a camera, and she was not prepared to lose me to a sidewalk conversation at the end of a long night.

Before I turned to go, I asked Gustavo if I could make his portrait. He agreed without hesitation — a photographer’s answer. I opened up the aperture for some background separation, composed carefully with the Shinjuku streetscape behind him, and made two frames of him standing there holding his half-eaten taiyaki. I didn’t stop to check them. I knew at least one was a keeper.

I turned back to collect my own taiyaki.

Someone had taken my custard order. I had to settle for a different flavor.

It was worth it.

I haven’t heard from Gustavo since. But I have his portrait, and I’m putting it in this story. If you know him — if you recognize that face, that jacket, that X-Pro3 — tell him to get in touch. I’d like to see his work. I just want to say hello to a fellow photographer I met for five minutes on a sidewalk in Shinjuku, which is sometimes all it takes.

Getting Lost One More Time

We made it back to the subway without incident, which felt like growth. The ride home was uneventful — eight stops, packed train, exactly as advertised. It was only when we exited at Ginza station that I realized I had forgotten, again, to write down our exit number.

We got lost. Again.

But we found our way faster this time, which I’m choosing to count as progress. Shinjuku had been a patient teacher.

Back at the hotel we stopped at the bar for a nightcap. I don’t remember what we ordered or exactly what we talked about. We were tired in the good way that comes from a long day that gave you more than you expected. We’d navigated the subway system easily, eaten well, walked miles through one of the most surprising neighborhoods I’ve ever photographed. We’d met an abalone farmer from South Africa, a family of Australians who called everyone mate, and a street photographer standing on a sidewalk munching on a taiyaki.

We’d gotten lost twice and found our way both times.

My wife looked at me at some point and said it had been one of her favorite nights of travel. Ever.

I didn’t argue.

I grew up in East Liverpool, Ohio, a small Appalachian town on the Ohio River. Though only two hours from Cleveland, I rarely returned. Then, in the fall of 2006, I had to visit my hometown on business. I used that trip as an opportunity to do some street photography in a place that has a strong emotional connection for me.

Like many small cities in the Ohio Valley, my hometown lost factory jobs and became a victim of the opioid epidemic. It was sad to see the place transform from a once vibrant community to one I hardly recognized. But it was also a good opportunity to use my camera to document the changes in the community.

Armed with my camera on a chilly November afternoon I walked the streets. But photo opportunities were scarce on the quiet streets with closed stores and businesses. The few locals that were out eyed the camera carrying stranger with suspicion.

I grew sad about the decay in this once proud hard-working town, but I pressed on. I soon found myself on a quiet section of the once busy Market Street in front of Jack’s Barber Shop. I love small barber shops with their interesting collections of tchotchkes and unusual characters. It even had a moose head mounted on the wall.

The shop was open, but there were no customers. But the owner spotted me and waved for me and to come inside. It was the luck that comes when you keep going even when you’re ready to stop and go home.

I entered the inviting shop and met Jack himself. He was friendly, warm, an excellent listener (what barber or bartender isn’t?). Little did I know at the time that I met the man who would reveal more about the best photographic approach for me than anyone before or since.

I told Jack what I was doing and he told me to feel free to photograph whatever I liked. While shooting we chatted about local people we knew in common and how things have changed. Had I needed a haircut I would have done it right then.

As we talked I made photographs of the eclectic mixture of personal mementos in the shop plus several portraits of Jack deep in conversation. One of those shots included his barber’s license unnoticed in the background.

We spent about a half hour together until it was time for him to close for the day. So we said our goodbyes promising each other that we would do it again. As I stepped onto the sidewalk I was happy that a depressing photowalk ended with some lively conversation with a new friend. As I returned to the damp chill I wasn’t ready to leave. Something drew me to stop and have one last look back inside the shop window.

There I saw Jack standing behind his chair, hands in pockets no longer animated and jolly. He was staring into the distance having a personal, melancholy moment.

I raised my camera, took two shots and moved on unseen.

The photograph I made at that parting moment is one of my favorites, not for its technical qualities but for the moment itself.

I always regretted not asking for Jack’s contact information at the time. I didn’t even ask for his last name. Not long ago I searched for Jack to send him a copy of the photo. But his shop had long closed and Google searches were unsuccessful.

Then while having a close look at the photos I made inside the shop I noticed his barber’s license in the background of an almost discarded portrait. I zoomed in to see his full name on the license which enabled me to find him in another online search. Sadly it was Jack’s obituary. I felt as if I had lost something by not keeping in touch.

My time with Jack left me with a gift I can never repay. It took me many years to understand that my experience with Jack illuminates my best approach to photography, that my best work happens in situations where I’m able to build enough comfort and trust to be ignored by others in the scene. That gives me the space and comfort to work unseen (at least in my mind). Jack’s photo hangs in my office as a reminder to put myself into positions where I can play to my strengths.

During the early Covid years I became a fan of the Leica Conversation videos on YouTube so I decided to put our own spin on that format for our our monthly featured photographer interviews. We eventually moved away from the practice but I thought I’d pull a few of these conversations from our archives to share with you guys on Substack. This one with NYC street photographer Robert Virga is one of my very favorites.

By the way, thank you for following us on here as we experiment to find the best way to use this very cool platform.

After publishing hundreds of articles with tens of thousands of photographs in our nearly 13 years publishing Street Photography Magazine, the video below is one of the most instructive pieces of content that we’ve shared with our subscribers

Robert is not famous nor is he a social media influencer. He’s simply a master of his craft and his tools who studies the work of others, puts in the hard work and is very intentional about every subject he choses to shoot.

If you don’t know the work of Robert Virga it’s time to check him out. He creates the type of photos that come to mind when someone mentions “street photography.” His work is reminiscent of the black and white photos seen in Life magazine from the 1940s and 50s His work is refreshing and honest, in many ways it’s pure street.

His photos are simple with no extraneous elements. Everything Robert shoots is up close, honest, real and deep. Everything is un-cropped. What you see is what he shot. And he shoots only film.

Robert joined me on a video call back in 2022 to walk us through a selection of his work. In the process shows us how he thinks, what he sees, explains the decisions he makes and demonstrates his thoughtful compassion for his subjects.

For me it’s more instructive to understand how a photographer thinks, sees and works than it is to know which camera and exposure settings they use. This conversation with Robert is a perfect example. Check it out.

Robert’s Links

• Robert’s Website

Cheers,

Bob