Moriyama got his start as a photographer in the late 1950s and early 1960s, first with Takeji Iwamiya, who is well-known for his images of architecture and Japanese gardens, and then with famed photographer and filmmaker Eikoh Hosoe. During this time, Moriyama’s work was highly influenced by his peers, including Shōmei Tōmatsu and Seiryū Inoue, both of whom captured images of Japanese society as it wrestled with rapid modernization following the crippling economic depression that was a consequence of the Second World War. Moriyama also looked to Western artists, including Andy Warhol and William Klein. In particular, Warhol’s impact on Moriyama was profound, not only in how it shaped his views of the materiality of modern manufacturing, but also in terms of the compositions of his images—their narratives would never dominate; instead, their contents wander aimlessly. Moriyama’s remarkable gaze is central to the images in “Tokyo Color,” treating shop window mannequins, an empty street, a face of a woman and a slab of Cryovaced meat with introspection and voyeurism.

Some of Moriyama’s images from 2011 to ’17 were set in large grids of four or nine or 24 photographs that lined three walls within Luhring Augustine Bushwick. Brought together by the nature of their content alone, the concepts behind some arrangements were tenuous. While one can make sense of how a collection of photos showing people with their backs turned to the viewer or a series of heads, both real and fake, come together on a superficial level, one wonders how flowers, a kimono and a plastic airbrushed unicorn piece are linked. Viewers are left asking whether we should take in these images as a unit, or as singular, separate entries. However, by applying that line of query to Tokyo—or any metropolis—we explore another question: Is the city a collection of random, distinct singularities, or do we share a unified experience?