In the Viewfinder

You show up in Tokyo with a camera and immediately you’re seeing the city through a viewfinder. Shibuya, Harajuku, Yoyogi—they’re all exactly what you expected. The neon signs, the costume shops, the weird little storefronts (a sex shop here, a bookstore there) tucked between larger buildings. You photograph it because that’s what you came for. The proof that you were here, that you saw the thing everyone else sees.

The days blur between ramen counters where the owner doesn’t acknowledge you and karaoke bars where you’re pressed against salarymen singing off-key. You drink something strong and cheap, eat something you can’t quite identify, and it all feels important in the moment and unremarkable when you look at the photos later.

There’s a point where you stop trying to get the shot and just exist. Maybe it’s the third bar, maybe it’s watching a group of kids in costume move through the street like they’ve choreographed it. You realize the photographs aren’t capturing anything—they’re just proof that you were tired and hungry and standing in a place that felt exotic until you actually got there. Tokyo isn’t a dream. It’s just a city where the ordinary looks strange to outsiders.