LOOKING over his collection of photos and prints that were exhibited at the “Tokyo” photography exhibition at the Shanghai Art Museum, most of Suzuki’s work focuses on large-scale ongoing construction projects in big cities. The lighting gives his subjects an imposing, dignified presence and a somewhat solemn appearance. These images convey a rich sense of structure and a gloomy, downcast mood, using an overwhelmingly black-andwhite palette. Amid this jumble infrastructure, however, Suzuki presents us with a simple vision. His critical, philosophizing eye exudes a certain aura that stares down the urban clamor of the city and lurches across the frame at the viewer – something that prompted me quite naturally to think of the gaze that often crops up in our conversations. Suzuki is an artist who has an excellent eye. This facility almost certainly owes itself to his long-standing collaborations with Junko Koshino, as well as his keen interest in the humanities, the great issues that confront society today, and the teachings of Eastern philosophy.

I believe I have some understanding of Suzuki’s artistic values and experiences. After looking closely at his work, I feel an even greater respect for the way in which he immerses himself in the world of fashion, donning its gay apparel without being contaminated by it, freely pulling back to keep a measured distance from the riotous color of the fashion runway. Heading towards the seething commotion of the construction sites in the metropolis, he looks up at these giant megastructures suspended in the sky, the thundering roar of massive machinery, crane rails buffeted by the wind and rain, a multitude of hanging chains that seem to pour down in torrents, phalanxes of workers silently building the foundations, and freshly sawn steel beams and girders. With his inimitable gaze, Suzuki trains his lens on those things that most of us turn a blind eye to – neglected scenes, objects, even vestigial marks and traces. These monochromatic scenes have filtered out the pomp and vanity of the world, leaving behind a landscape of vestigial narratives and stories.

Perhaps the reason why I find myself so moved by Suzuki’s work is because we both come from cultures that are based on Chinese ideograms and characters, which allow us to identify with a detached, Zen-like view of the world. Suzuki’s essentially Buddhist approach to making images, charged with the burden of depicting the true nature of this transient world, stir my heartstrings and elicit my sympathy. In a sense, his vision and ambition coincide with a certain state of mind advocated by traditional Chinese aesthetics: “strive to attain an ultimate, dazzling beauty – and then revert to dullness.” tj

The complete article can be found in Issue #275 of the Tokyo Journal. Click here to order from Amazon.