There’s a particular kind of loneliness that only exists in a crowd. The morning commute in Tokyo is a masterclass in this paradox – hundreds of bodies compressed into a single train car, each one occupying a carefully maintained bubble of private space.
I stood near the doors with my M6 pressed against my chest, waiting. The light filtering through the scratched windows had that quality you can’t manufacture – a soft, diffused warmth that contradicted the clinical efficiency of the station.
The best photographs are the ones where the subject doesn’t know they’re being seen. Not in a predatory way, but in the way a city reveals itself when it’s not performing.
What struck me most was the hands. Everyone’s hands told a different story – clutching bags, scrolling phones, gripping overhead rails with a weariness that spoke of routine. The shutter clicked once at 1/250th and froze a moment that, for everyone else on that train, had already been forgotten.