It isn’t easy to get to know Daidō Moriyama. The Japanese photographer, 85, answers my questions from his home in Tokyo via an interpreter, and is quick to bat off personal questions. “Photographers can only take pictures,” he shrugs.

But Moriyama has done far more than take pictures. Although best known as a street photographer, he has pushed the form to its limits, interrogating what photographs are, how they are experienced, their ethics and effect. He is also behind some of the most iconic and influential pictures of the last 50 years – from closeups of fishnet stockings to portraits of stray dogs they are regarded as lyrical, symbolic expressions of the postwar era in Japan.

“He is shy, inconspicuous, and concentrated. He is a real brain – very articulated and well-read, who speaks in elegant, metaphoric ways,” says Thyago Nogueira, the curator of a rare retrospective exhibition at the Photographers’ Gallery that gives an unprecedented view of Moriyama’s dazzling work.

The show has been three years in the making – it is the first time the gallery has devoted its entire space to one artist, taking over four floors. Remarkably, it is also the first time a UK institution has devoted a solo exhibition to Moriyama. “Yes, it is a bit late,” he jokes.

The show is a riveting, rapturous exploration of the enigmatic and prolific photographer, spanning from his earliest works in the late 1960s to today – he continues to go out with his camera, and a cigarette. “Although I have some constraints, including my health, I want to take as many photos as possible each day.”

Photographs are presented in myriad ways: at times completely overwhelming the viewer. There are slideshows on projectors (some more than an hour long), installations of images covering entire walls, magazine and book spreads, and sequences of glorious prints, mostly in black and white, changing in scale. In their various incarnations, with repeated images amounting to a kind of neuroticism, the photographs have a relentless pace. “They are a punch in the stomach,” as Nogueira puts it.

Moving back and forth between decades, the black and white film imbuing the images with a kind of timelessness, Moriyama contests photography as a form rooted in a moment or place. His photographs articulate something else, they palpitate with mystery – the great inexplicable essence of life. Perhaps this is why he is reluctant to speak for the images.

Moriyama was born in Osaka (then Ikeda), Japan, in 1938. “I was raised in a very ordinary way. My father was an office worker, and my mother was a housewife,” he says. His childhood wasn’t easy. Against the backdrop of US occupation and the second world war, home life was punctuated by loss. A twin brother died when Moriyama was two. The family moved often for his father’s work, before his early death. “I did not fit in at school. I lost my father when I was young. But I have always loved to draw so I became a designer through an acquaintance.” He apprenticed at a graphic design studio. His first photographs, he recalls, were of the family dog. In a later series “Memories of a Dog”, Moriyama returned to places of his childhood, to photograph his memories.

In 1961 he moved to Tokyo to pursue a dream of becoming a photojournalist, like his sensei, Shōmei Tōmatsu – Japan’s pre-eminent postwar photographer. “I became a photographer because I found the photographers I worked with very sporty and cool – and I guess I was never cut out for desk work,” Moriyama says wryly.

From early staid, documentary, journalistic-style images, mostly shot at the American base at Yokosuka (some of which are presented at the Photographers’ Gallery’s show) Moriyama’s approach quickly evolved into an expressive, subjective style that evoked his own experience of the world. He was invited to join Provoke – a collective of young photographers determined to revolutionise photography – by Takuma Nakahira, a photographer and critic, who died in 2015. “Takuma Nakahira was then, and still is, my only friend and my only rival.”

Provoke published just three issues of a visual manifesto between 1968 and 1969, but they had a profound effect. Japanese critics ridiculed the group’s lack of technical skills as “are, bure, boke” (“grainy, blurry, out-of-focus”). These terms were later reclaimed to describe the style pioneered by Moriyama. But, he says, “I never consciously shot that way, nor did I care.”

Moriyama set about photographing the world not as it was but as he saw it – a confused, chaotic and fragmented reality. There is a furious urgency to the pictures he took between 1968 and 1972: black and white photographs of everything and nothing, of underground kabuki actors and other avant garde artists and performers, erotic scenes, portraits of animals and street life, photographs of photographs, and of TV screens and newspaper headlines – precursors to screenshots and reels. “I was strongly inspired by William Klein’s books of New York, Moscow, Rome, Tokyo, published when he was still young. It was something in particular that I saw in his photographs that seemed to connect me to my own photography.”

Moriyama’s photographs have become a testament of a tumultuous time in Japan, conveying a sense of the grim and gritty reality of the underbelly of the city in grainy images. “I understood the social atmosphere at that time, but personally I had no interest in politics,” Moriyama reflects. Many of these images were originally shot as photo essays for magazines – it was the golden age of the Tokyo publishing industry, and magazines were museums for photography as it became a new artistic form. The pictures were later printed again, sometimes at different scales, reshuffled and reordered, and compiled into the photobooks Moriyama is famous for – such as his acclaimed work, A Hunter, shot from the window of a car as Moriyama hitchhiked around Japan. “When I am going along the road, snapping the shutter as I read each moment, I become at times a poet, a scientist, a critic, a philosopher, a labourer, or a politician,” he said.

A less familiar, groundbreaking series of work on show at the Photographers’ Gallery is a monthly column Accidents produced throughout 1969 for a mass media publication. Each series took on a different aspect of photography and its exploitation by the mass media – a poster of a car crash designed to shock and scare; photographs of TV screens and newspapers in Japan in the week after JFK’s assassination. It shows Moriyama’s concern with the ethics of photography and its exploitative nature.

But questioning the purpose of photography so deeply led him down a dark road. In 1972 Moriyama published “Farewell Photography”, a swan song to his chosen medium, a mashup of old negatives, scraps and prints gathered from his archives and thrown together. Photography, Moriyama realised, wasn’t going to change the world as he had once believed.

He suffered depression and became addicted to sleeping pills. It was almost a decade before he picked up the camera again, when he was commissioned by two editor friends concerned for his well being. Just as the camera had plunged him into an existential void, it pulled him back from the brink of self-obliteration.

“Moriyama spent his life asking a basic, fundamental question: What is photography?” Nogueira says. “He never answered that question, but his life’s work is a constant and honest response to that.”

Today, Moriyama is humble about his achievements. “I am happy to know that many people around the world have been exposed to my photographs and photo books,” he says. Photographing daily for so many decades, “there is nothing that has not already been taken – each photograph becomes a great cycle. It is connected to the past and to the future – and that is why there is the most reality in the current photograph that captures it.

“Beyond the photographer, the work returns to society – and that is the most powerful force of photography.”

AI art has rapidly risen in popularity over the last few years as generative technology becomes more accessible to a wider audience. While artificially generated art is still a grey area within many artistic spaces, one Australian photography festival is keen to embrace this advancement, crowning the first-ever winner of its AI photography competition. 

The Ballarat International Foto Biennale (BIFB) is passionate about opening up conversations around AI-generated artwork, but the move has sparked debate among audiences, who fear that embracing AI art could lead to an extinction of traditional artistic forms. (Looking to get into photography? Check out our guide to the best camera for beginners). 

 The prize was awarded to Swedish artist Annika Nordenskiöld, for her piece titled ‘Twin Sisters in Love’, which depicts two women nestling up to a bundle of tentacles assumed to be an octopus. The piece was composed using the AI generator Midjourney and is the first prize-winning example of what the festival organisers are calling ‘promptography’.

According to The Sydney Morning Herald, when asked about her piece Nordenskiöld said: “None of these places, people or creatures exist in the physical realm. They were conjured from the sum of human experience in our deep collective well, as seen from my dreamboat with its flickering light,” – a cryptic, but oddly beautiful insight into her creative process. 

Believed to be one of the very first AI photography competitions, the Prompted Peculiar International AI Prize is a groundbreaking advancement in an artistic territory that has typically been excluded from AI art intrusion. However, audiences have been critical of the competition, with many sharing their belief that AI art doesn’t have a place in a traditional photography competition.

In response to the winner’s announcement post on the BIFB’s Instagram account, one user stated: “This isn’t photography. Associating AI with a “photography” festival is incredibly disrespectful to photography and photographers.” Another frustrated commenter felt that the AI art was uninspired, stating “All this AI stuff looks the same. Apart from anything else it’s just boring.”

However, I tend to disagree. While concerns about ethics and copyright are valid, whether or not you’re pro-AI art, the technology will continue to grow, and so will the AI art movement. Surely art can expand beyond the constraints of traditional mediums – and while currently, AI-generated art may feel like an unskilled medium requiring little practical skill, it still requires imagination and creativity. Technology will advance – and so perhaps should our mindset.

If you’re after more news from the AI art world, check out this controversial digital art prize winner, that sparked some heated debate, or take a look at the AI art detector that generated some surprising results. 

Pat York has been called “a major voice in the world of photography.”

The former Vogue photographer and Glamour photographer/travel editor became one of the—one of THE—portraitists for the stars in the 1960s and 70s.

She’s photographed Andy Warhol, the Kennedys, John Travolta. You’ve probably seen her portraits of Steve Martin.

She visited Russia and Iran in 1963 for her first two stories as a writer for Glamour. Captured the now-famous photo of Jane Fonda in her dressing room on the set of “Barbarella” in 1966 (Fonda is cooking over a stove in her chain bikini costume). Shot a series of get-togethers on the superyacht of Prince Aga Khan in Sardinia in the 1970s.

When she got tired of shooting celebrities—“I began to lose my passion for it,” she says—York focused on artistic photography.

Her work has been featured in major museums, from The Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington D.C to The Marble Palace of the Russian State Museum in St. Petersburg to The Hong Kong Film Archive in Hong Kong to The Wellcome Trust in London.

Her 2004 book, “Pat York: Covered-Uncovered” starts with her celebrity photos. Part two focuses on ordinary people—including their plumber—who agreed to be photographed in the nude, while working. Part three features Pat’s groundbreaking work photographing human cadavers. She also wrote “Going Strong,” about discovering the secret to a long and healthy life.

“Nature has always been one of the most important parts of my life,” she says. “Travel has given me the opportunity to experience Nature in all its diversity.”

Oh, and she happens to be married—since 1968—to Michael York, the “quintessential British actor” who has starred in everything from The Three Musketeers (1973) to Logan’s Run (1976) to the Austin Powers movies (1990s).

She was born Patricia Watson in Jamaica to an English diplomat father and an English mother, attended a French convent school in England and was tutored in Germany, eloped as a teenager (for a short-lived marriage) and gave birth to a son, Rick (a film producer).

Then, in 1967, she met Michael York.

“I lived in New York, and I worked for Vogue and Glamour,” says Pat, from her Charter House apartment. “I photographed Raquel Welch in Spain just before photographing a group of English writers, directors, and the new young actor Michael York who had just come out at the same time in New York in his two first movies, ‘Taming Of The Shrew’ and ‘Accident.’ Well, Michael and I just clicked. … He proposed on Juhu Beach in Mumbai on Valentine’s Day of 1967. We were married in 1968.”

As a couple, Michael and Pat have been described as “a binary star, each in orbit around the other.”

In 2022, with Michael facing medical issues (he was diagnosed with a rare condition called amyloidosis), the couple sold their home in Hollywood Hills and moved into downtown Rochester to be closer to Mayo Clinic.

Today, Pat and Michael still travel when they can and stay busy with work (he’s heading to a Rochester-area recording studio for some voiceover work this month; she takes a call from an art gallery looking to sell some of her photos during our interview).

Here are three stories from Pat’s photo career.

by Pat York

In 1966, I was invited to photograph the actors Marlon Brando and Robert Forster in the film version of Carson McCullers’ novel “Reflections in a Golden Eye.”

It was a night shoot starting at dusk and continuing until daybreak, with the location at Mitchel Field, a former Air Force base on Long Island. John Huston, the film’s director, was a friend of mine, and I had met the producer, Ray Stark, and his wife, Frances Brice, the daughter of the famous Fanny Brice, at various functions.

I was warned that Marlon Brando did not trust photographers; any film I shot of him had to be delivered to him personally, and he would have it processed.

The evening, though, was memorable for a surprising and life enhancing few hours spent with another man who was labeled a recluse.

As usual on a film set, there was time spent waiting for scenes to be set up. During one of those breaks a handsome mature man approached me and started a conversation. He kept telling me he loved my voice and he also asked many questions about my views on certain topics, my likes and dislikes. There was no opportunity to ask him about himself as he was questioning me without a break and kept telling me how much he liked my voice. I thanked him but could not understand his obsession with my vocal chords.

Finally, he mentioned that he could not believe I had no trace of an accent and inquired what part of Italy I was from. I told him I was an American who had been born in Jamaica and attended a French school in England and had also been tutored in Germany with the rest of my education in the States. He looked stunned. He told me that he had been asking various people who I was and had been told by at least three that I was Italian. We both laughed.

I introduced myself, and he told me his name: J.D. Salinger.

After I recovered from the surprise, I could not equate our easy and free ranging conversation with the knowledge that this was a man who was reported to be a recluse.

I told him how much I loved “The Catcher In The Rye,” and that my young son, Rick, had just read it, and could talk about nothing else. Its author said he would like to be in touch with Rick and asked for his name and address.

We talked for the rest of the evening between my photographing and the silences demanded by the filming. He introduced me to a writer I admired enormously, Lillian Ross, a great friend of John Huston’s, who had written the brilliant book “Picture” about the making of the film “The Red Badge of Courage,” which John had directed in the 1950s. She brought her baby son with her that evening.

My assignment on this film was to photograph some daytime scenes as well as the night shots. By this time, J.D. Salinger had returned home, but I remember having a picnic with John Huston, his long-time suffering assistant and co-writer of the screenplay, Gladys Hill, a few others including the brilliant artist Mark Rothko. I still have, and treasure, those images.

My first photographs of Brando were taken while he was walking in movie- induced rain. Then I was asked to photograph him in his trailer. At the end of the session I handed over some of the early rolls of films I had photographed and he said: “What is this for”? I responded that I had been told he did not trust or like photographers and I had been asked to give him any film taken during the evening shoot.

He smiled and said: “Ah, but I trust you completely.”

Shortly after this time on the Golden Eye set, I left for Europe, where various magazines and United Artists had arranged my assignments—Raquel Welch in Spain, Francoise Dorleac and Michael Caine in Finland, Albert Finney in London, the brilliant playwright, John Osborne, on location by the English sea and, for Glamour magazine, a young actor who had just triumphed in his first two films (Franco Zeffirelli’s Taming Of The Shrew and Joe Losey’s Accident) … Michael York. We met in 1967 and married in 1968—but that is another story!

On that European trip, I visited my son, who was in school in Switzerland. I learned that, true to his word, J.D. Salinger had written to Rick, and they had begun a correspondence. A few years later, I met Rick for dinner one evening while he was studying in Paris. He was desolate. His apartment had been completely ransacked, and the suitcase where he kept all Salinger’s letters had been taken. He didn’t care about losing most of his other possessions, but he couldn’t accept that his idol’s correspondence had been stolen.

I am always loath to take advantage of projecting work into a meeting that has not been set up professionally, but I shall always regret that, despite the darkness of the night shoot, I had not asked to take Salinger’s photograph. It would have remained a potent souvenir of a brief, but unforgettable, encounter.

by Pat York

In 2006, Gmurzynska Gallery, my representative at the time, had requested me to photograph the pop artist, Robert Indiana, for my book “Fame and Frame.” His rendering of the work LOVE had become one of the most iconic art works of the 20th century.

I enthusiastically agreed to fly to the East Coast, hire a car to Rockland where ferries transported passengers to Vinalhaven, the larger of the off-shore islands in Maine.

Michael was accompanying me, and little did either of us realize the next few days would be one of the most frustrating photographic shoots of my career. In the end it was worthwhile and enjoyable.

On arrival I contacted Robert and told him we were staying at the Tidewater Motel very close to his large historic Victorian home. My gallery had arranged for the shoot to take place and Robert’s assistant, Melissa, had been alerted of our visit.

When we met Robert he was insistent we leave the motel and move to the charming house owned by Scott, the boyfriend of Melissa. This was much further away and we preferred to be independent and told him we did not wish to move. He persisted and so did we.

That was one of our first disagreements.

Before accepting a dinner invitation to a lobster restaurant, I was eager to look around Robert’s house and adjoining studio to determine where and when I could photograph him the following day.

He did show us many rooms in the house but the light and backgrounds were not ideal and there was a musty atmosphere.

The studio, in contrast, was perfect. Some of his paintings were hanging or stacked against a wall. But he seemed to believe the house would be more appropriate for the shoot. Again I told him the studio would be my choice. He told me he would discuss this the following day.

Dinner was fun and I liked Robert. He told us about his life and he was happy we were with the same gallery. He was looking forward to the important exhibition they had arranged for him.

It took some persuasion to make an appropriate time to meet the next day. He then suggested breakfast and we could make a decision at that time. After another enjoyable meal together I decided to please him and discovered one area in the house where the natural light was perfect. He sat in a chair with a large stuffed giraffe behind him and that connection seemed to delight him.

He became voluble about the fact that he felt his work had been plagiarized more than any other artist. He believed his art was not understood. He had departed from New York and was not eager to return.

Michael had been invited to join us as Robert wanted to show us even more rooms. He took us to a place where he had kept many earlier years of editions of the New York Times. He explained that he had to keep up with the political scene and we both agreed that the present administration did not please us at all.

I listened patiently, hoping to coax him into his studio. That finally happened and I started to photograph him. Paintings were hung and pitched against the walls.

Here was the opposite of his house. Bright red and bright yellow and lighter shades were abundant. Stuffed animals were everywhere. I photographed him hugging a huge lion with the baby stuffed animals at his feet. His expression showed true love towards these creatures.

He stands in photographs, he sits in others. He moves when I ask him. He was relaxed and looked wistful but he was giving me the necessary time. Later he took me outside to another area and this is where I photographed him with one of his wooden sculptures. I was aware of this work but I was not as familiar with them as his paintings. I loved them.

At the end of the shoot I thanked him and told him I felt I had enough images for my book and for my gallery to have as portraits in one of my exhibitions of artists.

A look of dismay crossed his face. “You cannot leave without seeing the island. You must stay one more day,” he declared. “And then the next morning before you leave you can photograph me in another location.”

Michael and I were happy to spend an extra day and visit this enchanting island. And so we agreed. Melissa and Scott were kind enough to drive us around the island and to take us to lunch. Melissa had heard about my photographing nudes for my three part exhibition—Covered/Uncovered: Celebrities, Subjects at work in the nude and Cadavers.

She asked me if I would photograph her in the nude near the house where they lived. We both enjoyed working together. The setting was green and peaceful. She was natural and uninhibited and moved freely amongst the trees. And she was lovely. It was an unexpected gift to have another photograph for my nude series.

The next day we were driven to where Robert had promised to meet us for a final photographic session. We waited and waited and then were told he was not joining us. I was somewhat annoyed and decided to go to the ferry and not wait any longer to say goodbye.

As Michael and I were waiting in line to board the ferry Robert arrived with many gifts. He handed them to us and told us how much he had enjoyed meeting us. Again he suggested we stay a little longer. I could not be upset. I was grateful to him for his generosity and I had enjoyed the experience of photographing him enormously.

On a May morning in 2018, I read that Robert Indiana had died. I read about his death and his last years of being solitary and not seeing any of his friends.

I look back on my meeting and photographing him with sadness. The outcome of our working together pleased me and my Gallery and others who have bought some of the images shared that feeling. Then I think of the man and the few days that Michael and I spent with him. The time when I was photographing him was the most relaxed for me and I believe for him. He was gentle and seemed happy each time I suggested another area for the shoot.

And there was always his stuffed animals. His love for them was apparent and he held them as though they brought him safety and peace. … Pleasing him with the first shoot in his house was a good idea as I believe he felt he was in charge and was then happy to move on to his light filled studio.

At other times away from the shoot I sometimes felt it was a contest between us. When he decided he would agree to be photographed he gave me so much more than his other self.

I did not ask him why he had isolated himself on this distant island but he did mention to me that he did not want to return to New York. By wanting us to stay an extra day and drive around his island of Vinalhaven I think it was to show us that he had chosen a place to live of beauty and peace.

Looking back I believe he wanted us to know his decision of isolation had been the right one for him.

I kept thinking of his insistence for us to see every room in his house. Often he stopped to point out different items that he considered exceptional and beautiful and he did not want us to move on until we had commented that we liked them.

There was a frenzy in the air when I started my career at Conde Nast in 1962. Pop Art was flourishing. Robert’s iconic LOVE defined that era. The house in Vinalhaven was the opposite. Robert was a complicated man.

Robert had chosen this life of isolation living in a crumbling house surrounded by so much from the past. The depiction of love had been taken literally but there was so much more to his art. Death, forgiveness, sin and love were all involved.

I am hoping I am wrong and that he was content. But I still have my doubts.

by Pat York

The artist who was a true hero of mine is Jasper Johns.

He was in the forefront of so many artistic movements—pop, minimal, and conceptual.

In 2007, my gallery wanted to give me a photographic exhibition of artists that would travel globally. My publisher, teNeues, wanted to publish my book, “Fame and Frame,” in three different languages.

I wanted Jasper Johns to be in both my book and exhibition. I was told he was reclusive and a very private person and would never agree to be photographed. I contacted Jasper through his representative asking if I could photograph him. I received a very polite message thanking me and telling me that he was very busy that month.

I sent a return email telling him I would email him every month to see if he was not quite so busy. To my surprise and delight, I was told I could make a date to photograph him in his Connecticut studio in the next three days.

Jasper sent a driver to meet me at the train station. I was not quite sure where we were going. On the way to his home I saw a sign for Millbrook and then knew exactly where we were.

On my arrival, Jasper greeted me warmly. He was tall and handsome and was wearing a green and red plaid shirt and beige pants. We spent time talking while I looked around his studio before photographing him.

I told him about noticing he lived near Millbrook and I mentioned my LSD experience in the 1960s with Timothy Leary who lived at an Estate in Millbrook. This occasion was to be published in Glamour but was found to be too controversial. But for me it was a wonderful, life enhancing experience.

Jasper said: “I regret to this day that I did not take LSD. I was scared. I know so many of my artists’ friends who benefited from the experience in both their work and personal lives.”

I gave Jasper three of my books to make him more familiar with my work. He looked through them and spent more time looking at the images of the cadavers and the interior of the body.

I mentioned their beauty.

He replied: “I am riveted but am not sure I can see the beauty.”

I started to photograph Jasper with different works of his art. He was very generous with his time. His expressive reactions before the camera delighted me. Sometimes his expression was severe, other times pensive and in another part of his studio with all his paints and canvases he is laughing heartily.

After the session was over he invited me to tea and gave me the opportunity of viewing his personal spectacular art collection. I thought two of the drawings were by Albrecht Durer. I was mistaken.

We discussed Durer’s work and I discovered Jasper was as impressed as I was with this formidable artist. I felt we talked as though we had known each other longer than the few previous hours.

He invited me to stay and have a drink and cookies. I asked for green tea and it was the best I had ever tasted. Jasper was drinking Coca Cola and I pedantically told him how bad that was for his health. He said he knew and would continue anyway. I believe we mentioned we should keep in touch.

I left Jasper with regret, wanting to spend more time with him. I am delighted to say we have kept in touch.