Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa. Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring. Picasso's Guernica.

To me, those were the works that truly embodied "Art."

At that time, I could not understand why a simple photograph of a tricycle was displayed in a museum. But that encounter would become the pivotal moment that changed my life forever.

It was the spring of 2018.

I spent three months in New York on a personal trip. Walking the city streets with the pleasant spring breeze, feeling like a "New Yorker," coffee cup in hand, I was captivated by the energy of the city.

I was not yet a photographer at that time, I didn't even know the term "Street Photography." I was just a tourist, capturing the New York streets so different from Tokyo, collecting memories as a traveler would.

And on May 18th, I walked into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Surrounded by famous artworks, I felt satisfied thinking I finally understood "Art."

As I continued through the galleries, I encountered a photography exhibition. There it was: a photograph of a tricycle.

I stopped.

Why is this photograph displayed at the Met? Isn't this just a snapshot of everyday life?

The artist's name was printed beside it: William Eggleston.

Naturally, I knew nothing of him at that time. But this encounter with his work would fundamentally reshape my understanding of Art and completely transform my perspective on photography.

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I'll be honest: when I first saw Eggleston's photograph of that tricycle, I thought, "I could take a photo like this."

It was arrogant, yes. But that arrogance is precisely what made me curious. Why was his photograph valued so highly? Why displayed at the Met?

(Of course, I now understand the significance of his work within the history of photography. And I know that even if I were in the same situation today, I could never produce the same work. Who, in that moment, would think to shoot from ground level like that?)

As I continued through his exhibition, I found myself gradually pulled into his world. At the time, I couldn't articulate what I was experiencing, but his ability to capture mundane everyday scenes with such color intensity and compositional rigor was genuinely beautiful.

That beauty obliterated the arrogance I'd felt moments before.

I want to know more of his work.

I want to look at his photographs every day.

Right there in the museum, I bought his photobook—The Democratic Forest: Selected Works. And in that moment, a thought crystallized:

I want to become a photographer like him.
I want my work to be displayed in the Metropolitan Museum.

I didn't understand then how difficult that path would be. But it became the fuel that would propel my life forward in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

On the subway back to the Airbnb in Brooklyn, clutching his photobook, I was filled with a deep sense of anticipation. As the train crossed the East River, the sunset light hit Manhattan's skyline, and it felt like the city itself was blessing the beginning of my new adventure.

I don't think Street Photography was as prevalent on social media back then as it is now. In recent years, I'd wager most people who've taken up street photography did so after seeing similar work on Instagram, inspired to try it as a hobby.

In fact, people sometimes approach me at exhibitions and say, "I started doing street photography after seeing your work."

But for me, it was different. When I saw Eggleston's photographs, my first impulse wasn't "this looks fun to try"—it was "I want to become an artist through photography." From the beginning, photography wasn't a hobby for me. It was my life itself.

During my three months in New York, I taught myself everything I could about photography. I visited various photography exhibitions, including the International Center of Photography Museum. One day, I spotted Andre D. Wagner on a street corner, and he was shooting with a Leica M6. The next day, on impulse, I bought one myself.

I also participated in a workshop run by the NYC Street Photography Collective, and meeting Jorge, its founder, became a major turning point. He suggested, "Why don't you start a Street Photography Collective in Tokyo?" It was brilliant advice.

When I returned to Tokyo after three months, I immediately reached out to photographer friends. We started TOKYO SPC with just four members.

I threw myself into photography completely. 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, photography consumed my thoughts.

Through TOKYO SPC exhibitions, I connected with people like Tatsuo Suzuki at Void Tokyo. We organized joint exhibitions with Void Tokyo and FRAME TOKYO, positioning ourselves at the center of Tokyo's street photography scene.

As an artist committed to this path, I submitted work to art fairs and promoted myself to gallery curators. Several gallery exhibitions followed.

At the time, I was freelancing as a copywriter. But even when we held exhibitions, prints didn't sell consistently. My income from photography was essentially zero.

I could have pursued commercial photography work as a client. But from my experience as a copywriter, I knew something crucial: once you start taking on client work, you can't fully commit to your own artistic vision.

The mind doesn't switch on and off like an electrical switch. Once you're doing client work, you start thinking in terms of client needs. But for me, Art isn't about answering existing needs—it's about creating new needs, offering new perspectives.

So I made a decision: I would not take on commercial photography assignments that contradicted my artistic style. I would focus exclusively on shooting what I wanted to shoot and exhibiting it as finished work.

But when I introduced myself to people for the first time as "a photographer," most assumed I was a commercial photographer. Just as I once couldn't fathom why a tricycle photograph belonged in a museum, most people in Japan didn't recognize street photography as Art. The dominant perception was that professional photographers were commercial photographers.

When I explained that I did street photography, people would invariably say, "That's a nice hobby." That word—hobby—began to frustrate me deeply.

Outside of New York, commercial opportunities for street photographers are rare. In Japan specifically, privacy concerns mean most companies and institutions don't want to feature street photography.

I began to see a parallel to the early Hip Hop scene. Just as N.W.A was treated as gangsters rather than artists by police, and just as rappers became hustlers building their own culture, I realized: Street photographers must create their own culture, own their own media, and nurture it themselves.

That's when FAR EAST DARKROOM was born.

I wanted to prove wrong everyone who dismissed street photography as a "hobby." More importantly, I wanted to build a platform where serious street photographers, those genuinely committed to their craft, could thrive without abandoning their vision.

I dreamed of an era where street photographers became hustlers. Where serious photographers could afford nice cars. Where the work of artists dedicated to darkroom printing and uncompromising artistic vision would finally be celebrated.

In an age when Instagram-friendly photographers are glorified, or rather, content creators who photograph for feeds, I wanted to build something different. A movement of young photographers who approach their work as Art, not content. Photographers serious enough to spend nights in the darkroom. A new era of photography.

FED has begun this journey. And slowly, the zines we represent are starting to sell out.

But most of the photographers we represent are based in Japan. The next frontier is Asia. I want to feature underground photographers from China, Korea, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam, across the region.

My vision: FAR EAST DARKROOM becomes the place everyone checks when they want to encounter underground Asian photography. A space that shapes a new photographic culture across Asia.

FED's adventure has only just begun. As architects of this new Asian photography culture, we will keep pushing forward.

I've long been a fan of Woody Allen's films. His work captures something essential about human nature in rationalized modern society, the foolishness and beauty of our irrational choices. There's a thread connecting his themes to the work I'm creating in Tokyo.

New York, the city that inspired me to become a photographer, is where I discovered that Woody Allen plays clarinet at Café Carlyle on weekends. I visited. And I took this photograph.

To commemorate sharing this New York chapter with you, I'm releasing a limited edition print of this image. Available in A4 and A3 sizes, both Edition of 10. Proceeds support FED and new projects I'm pursuing.

Thank you, always, for supporting this journey.

View print details →

🦖 Come hang out with me on Instagram → @_nuts.tokyo_

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🧃 Curious about Japanese and Asian zines? Visit FAR EAST DARKROOM.