Small white rectangles fill the viewfinder. Faint vertical seams divide the surface into larger panels. A white pole stands against the grid, carrying a red no-entry sign that forms the scene’s only circular note of colour. A diagonal handrail cuts across the composition. Around it, a wall-mounted lamp, three deep rectangular openings and two folded recycling crates in blue and yellow guide the eye across the frame. I click the shutter and lower my camera.

Standing in the near silence of the afternoon, I consider whether to study the scene further through different framings, angles and focal lengths. But looking up at the apartment building these tiles belong to, I feel no urgency. I got the shot in one. A bicycle passes, its bell ringing, as a kei truck turns the corner. The neighbourhood seems to agree. It is time to keep walking.

Apartment buildings continue to appear, each clad in a variation of tile. Their surfaces share a general character, though colour, orientation, arrangement and proportion distinguish one from the next. The building I have just photographed uses 45-Nichō (45二丁), a compact rectangular tile measuring 95 × 45 mm, laid vertically. It became a familiar feature of Japanese neighbourhoods after its widespread adoption for mansion and apartment buildings from the late Shōwa period through the Heisei period. You might say that it now carries something of a Heisei-retro aesthetic.