The kanji chosen to represent 2022 this year was “戦” (sen), meaning “battle” and “war.” While it’s true that battles filled the headlines — whether they were being waged in Ukraine, in front of the funeral for slain former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, or on the soccer fields of Qatar — our staff and freelance photographers also managed to capture some well-deserved moments of peace. Below are some of their favorite shots of the year.

First day of 2022 | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
First day of 2022 | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
On the first day of 2022, I visited a local shrine in Hanegi, Tokyo, for hatsumode, the first shrine visit of the new year. I stood masked in a socially distanced line to ring the bell and pray as the smell of burning incense and smoke from a pit mixed in the wind. It reminded me of camping. Every few moments, a strong gust of wind would force patrons to cover their faces and huddle together.

What was everyone praying for? The previous year hadn’t been as chaotic as 2020, when we were first introduced to COVID-19, but it hadn’t delivered on early optimism that things could return to a pre-pandemic normal. Borders were closed, and the omicron variant was spreading.

In a nearby pit, paper and porcelain dishes had been burned and mixed into the smoldering ash. The subject of the photograph was prodding the embers with a stick. I shot a few frames, but it was cloudy and dark at first, so I waited.

Finally, a strong wind parted the clouds, smokey pillars of light beamed through the trees and the white shide (zig-zag-shaped paper talismans) hanging around the pit danced wildly. I was able to shoot a few frames before it clouded over once again. It’s macabre, but looking at this scene, I find myself imagining the subject staring into their own grave or into the gates of the underworld left slightly ajar. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. LANCE HENDERSTEIN (@lancestein)


A 2022 view of Fuji | © LOUISE CLAIRE WAGNER
A 2022 view of Fuji | © LOUISE CLAIRE WAGNER
At 3,776 meters, Mount Fuji is Japan’s highest peak and its most recognizable landmark. Throughout history, it has been a revered symbol – poets have been inspired by it, painters have illustrated it and photographers have captured it. I took this shot on a particularly serene day in February.

Fuji isn’t just a mountain, however — it’s a volcano. While it last erupted in 1707, in recent years scientists have been trying to determine how an eruption would impact nearby Tokyo and the surrounding Kanto region. In June, the National Police Agency began making full-fledged preparations for such an event. Since hearing this news, I’ve been trying to comprehend what an eruption might entail, and, as a result, Mount Fuji now looks much more formidable to me.

On that day in February, though, it was just me, Fuji and a moment of peace. I was at Enoshima Island and most everyone else had started for home. With no one around, I shot this photograph, attempting to focus on the landscape’s gradation to emphasize the fine layers that compose a vision. It may be a catastrophe in waiting, but at that moment I wanted to illustrate the calm and pure atmosphere that Fuji transmitted; a way for me to forge an allegory of our fragility. LOUISE CLAIRE WAGNER (@louise.claire.wagner)


A show of support | © JOHAN BROOKS
A show of support | © JOHAN BROOKS
The now unmistakable blue and yellow of the Ukrainian flag wound its way through the streets of Tokyo’s Shibuya like a stream on a bright sunny day in early March. Carried by some 50 supporters, including children, gusts of wind would threaten to lift the flag from their hands — but their grips remained strong.

Others at the demonstration held handmade signs that read “Stop Putin” and “Save Ukraine.” Those who didn’t have signs held flags, flowers, flyers — anything to do something. Smiles were everywhere, even on the local Ukrainians who, at the end of the march, embraced each other with tears in their eyes.

Support for Ukraine has been loud and persistent in Japan with Ukrainian residents of Tokyo finding themselves torn between returning home to be with their families and remaining here — physically safe but at great emotional cost. JOHAN BROOKS (@johanbrooks)


Three boats by the sea | © OSCAR BOYD
Three boats by the sea | © OSCAR BOYD
Cape Soya is a harsh place in winter. At the northern tip of Japan, salt-laden winds howl along the exposed coastline, stripping the buildings of their paint. The sea is foreboding, and the water is viscous on the verge of freezing. Heavy clouds squat over the landscape in 50 shades of leaden gray. Unsurprisingly, the local fishermen pack down their boats for the season, pinning them to the ground by thick ropes that crust over with rime ice as the winter months drag on.

I was in northern Hokkaido to attempt to ski the island of Rishiri. We had arrived in Wakkanai — the northernmost city in Japan — to find the ferry timetable in ruins; all the ferries to Rishiri were canceled due to high winds and waves. My guide, Ayami Saga, looked on despondently and simply said, “Maybe tomorrow?” With a spare day on our hands we took a drive along the coast toward Cape Soya, our tiny kei (light) car buffeted by the wind.

We stopped in a natural harbor along the way, and I took this photo during one of the rare moments that day when the sun graced us with its presence, casting the boats in a warm, golden light. It turned out to be a good omen for the trip. We made it to Rishiri the next day and had five sunny days on the mountain with views all the way to Sakhalin, 100 kilometers away to the north. OSCAR BOYD (@oscar.boyd)


Mimizuq performance | © ELLE HARRIS
Mimizuq performance | © ELLE HARRIS
This was the year that I finally had the opportunity to once again take photos at one of Tokyo’s many small live houses, the backbone of the country’s music scene. I was anticipating the excitement of returning. I couldn’t wait to be back in the lights, the sounds and with the fans. Even better, I was invited to photograph the imaginary world of Mimizuq, a visual-kei rock band.

It wasn’t quite the same as it used to be, though. As venues and artists struggled during the pandemic, the energy shifted. Attendance numbers were lower and limited. Fans were encouraged not to cheer or sing along. Social distancing and masks rules were in place. Mimizuq gave an incredible performance with whimsical costumes and beautiful melodies, but the experience still made me feel more like an observer than a participant. And being a participant is what makes the live house experience so much fun.

That night, I came out with decent photos but a pattern of consistent energy rather than the highs and lows that I’d usually see in such a story-driven live performance. When talking with the lead vocalist, Tsubasa Mori, he mentioned that while the rules, the dynamics and the fans have changed, he hopes that a fresh start and new music will bring back the energy the audience once had. I hope so, too. ELLE HARRIS (@elle_note)


New Shimbashi in Mitoyo | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
New Shimbashi in Mitoyo | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
This photo is from a story about the efforts of the residents of Mitoyo, Kagawa Prefecture, to create their own sustainable economy based on tourism and the virality of the spectacular Chichibugahama Beach.

On this day, a group of university students had come with their professor to learn about the community building potential of Mitoyo. After a day of presentations by local entrepreneurs, everyone gathered at a local karaoke bar called New Shimbashi. The man singing in this photo, Yu Fujioka, is a local photographer and filmmaker. He opened the bar with his childhood friend and business partner, Soichiro Imagawa. They came up with New Shimbashi after deducing that the young people of Mitoyo needed a place to gather and socialize in the evening.

That night, Fujioka was tending bar, beaming at having so many people enjoying their visit to his hometown and his establishment in particular. In this photo, he had come out from behind the bar to sing in an impressively soulful voice as the students and others cheered him on. When I took this, he seemed briefly lost in the joy of the moment, laser lights painting him and everything in the room. It looked like a dream come true. LANCE HENDERSTEIN


“Time Falls,” by Kayako Nakashima, Takamijima (2016) | THU-HUONG HA
“Time Falls,” by Kayako Nakashima, Takamijima (2016) | THU-HUONG HA
The Setouchi Triennale returned this year on schedule, after three years that threw art institutions and events into turmoil and economic uncertainty.

I went to visit four of the islands a bit farther west from Naoshima, where art sites are only open during the autumn session. The weather was mercurial, rather dreary and cold the first day, which affects a lot of the art being that the pieces are site-specific and exposed to the air and natural light.

On Takamijima, which focused on hosting younger Japanese artists, I was incredibly moved by this 2016 installation by Kayako Nakashima from Kyoto. From the outside of an old Japanese-style house, there were what looked like glass shards sticking out of the facade, almost transparent because it was so gray out. We went in through the dark corridor and came to the main room, which was full of these sharp, angular panels positioned like they were falling inward. They seemed to glow; I thought they were powered by electricity but was told that the installation uses only natural light, which filters through the slits in the wall in this otherwise completely unlit room, moves through the acrylic material and comes out super bright to the eye. I would have loved to compare it with a sunny day. THU-HUONG HA (@whatthusee)


A cemetery in Setagaya | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
A cemetery in Setagaya | © LANCE HENDERSTEIN
I returned to Japan in 2022 hoping the new year would ease the troubles of the previous one. While COVID-19 continued to ravage the rest of the world, Japan seemed insulated from the worst of it. I was recovering from my own brushes with death caused by sudden health issues, and my personal life had become intertwined with the pandemic in a tangle of uncertainty.

The American tendency to avoid the topic of death now felt lacking compared to the rituals I witnessed in Italy and Japan. I felt a sort of envy of those who had been raised with more prescriptive ways of dealing with loss. Mortality was in my thoughts, and I found myself drawn to death and mourning as subjects. On a pedestrian overpass somewhere in Setagaya Ward, Tokyo, I saw light falling on the graves in the back of this cemetery and stopped to shoot a picture or two. I stood there watching light illuminate headstones before noticing there was a man tending to the graves. He loaded up his tools and trundled his cart along the cemetery path, and I took this photo. So many lives, I thought, people with families and forgotten stories, all resting quietly beneath his feet. LANCE HENDERSTEIN


Lines are drawn | © JOHAN BROOKS
Lines are drawn | © JOHAN BROOKS
The sun on concrete was unforgiving, even in autumn. It was Sept. 27, the day of former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s funeral, and despite being a day of mourning for many, the event still highlighted signs of division in the country. There were protesters — many of them university students — on the left and police officers on the right. For what felt like hours, they stood on two sides of what felt like an invisible wall — face-to-face but not touching ... and seemingly immovable. We were not far from the Nippon Budokan, the location of the state funeral, where world leaders are lining up to pay their respects to Abe and Japan.

I was able to position myself between the two sides, which were each linked arm-in-arm. Everyone was dripping with sweat. Bottles of water were passed around, and substitutes for both sides were made as tiredness sets in and heatstroke threatened. A student gave an impassioned speech on a megaphone, and the police attempted to drown it out with a speech of their own. Almost as if in gesture to the battle flags of old, protesters held signs reading “No State Funeral,” and jutting out from amid the police officers were several selfie-stick mounted video cameras that surveyed the field. It was a chaotic scene to behold, but there was restraint shown by both sides, and the day eventually ended with everyone going home. JOHAN BROOKS


Costa Rica beats Japan | © TAIDGH BARRON
Costa Rica beats Japan | © TAIDGH BARRON
After the Japanese national soccer team captivated the nation with a stunning 2-1 victory over heavily favored Germany in the group stage at the 2022 FIFA World Cup in Qatar, Tokyo was abuzz for the Samurai Blue’s next match against Costa Rica. Commuters watched the game live on the central Yamanote Line over the shoulders of whoever was streaming it on their smartphones, and downtown Shibuya was packed with football fans from all nations as Japan’s borders had recently reopened to international travelers.

While Japan comfortably controlled the game for long stretches, Costa Rica scored late in the game and went on to victory, presumably dashing the Asian representative’s hopes for an unexpected run to the round of 16.

As the sports bars and pubs emptied out in a deflated atmosphere, a group of gracious Costa Rican tourists in a celebratory mood were crossing the Shibuya Scramble, enthusiastically chanting Japanese soccer songs in an attempt to rally local fans’ spirits. Upon encountering one distraught fan while passing through Hachiko Square, they attempted to console him, cheering “Nippon!” — but Japan’s loss was simply too great for him.

However, Japan’s magic hadn’t quite run out yet. Needing a win to advance out of the group stage, the Samurai Blue shocked the world for a second time with a come-from-behind victory against Spain and finished in first place in what was considered to be the toughest group of the tournament. While Japan was later eliminated in the round of 16 by Croatia after a penalty shootout, head coach Hajime Moriyasu’s squad cemented the country’s standing as a formidable competitor on the world stage. TAIDGH BARRON (@taidgher)