The death of his sister Sophie inspired six versions of “The Sick Child,” in which Munch painted a redheaded invalid sitting upright on her deathbed, her pallid face seen in profile against the pillow. Two of them are here: a version from 1896, roughened with the same scraping technique used in that early self-portrait, and another, from 1915, whose vertical brush strokes are bolder and more discordant. (The same theme inspired one of Munch’s greatest paintings: “Death in the Sick Room,” from 1893, in which a half-dozen mourners in a room of nauseating green look everywhere but at one another, while the ailing child sits hidden in an armchair.)

“Ashes” and “The Dance of Life,” two major early allegories of lust and human remoteness, are repainted a quarter-century later with brasher color and bolder outlines. The Met Breuer wants to insist that these more freely painted works from the 1910s onward have been overlooked, though that is an overstatement. The High Museum in Atlanta offered a late Munch show in 2002. MoMA’s 2006 show trod this ground, too, with far more paintings, as did the widely praised retrospective earlier this decade at the Centre Pompidou in Paris and the Tate Modern in London.

The estrangement continues at Scandinavia House, where the exhibition “The Experimental Self” presents Munch’s lesser-known photography — although the 50-odd images here are, regrettably, facsimiles and not original prints. Munch used the camera with an intimate, even playful informality, and relied on blurring effects and ornery cropping to capture the same discord he brought to painting and printmaking.

Many of the photographs here rhyme with paintings at the Met Breuer show. “Self-Portrait in Hell,” for one, is complemented at Scandinavia House by a nude self-portrait shot that same summer in Asgardstrand, Munch’s left arm cocked above his hip. A close-up selfie made while recumbent at his doctor’s office is called “Self-Portrait à la Marat” — a reference to the French revolutionary hero murdered in the bathtub, painted by Jacques-Louis David and messily by Munch, too, in 1907.

As much as the painted portraits, these photographic images of the artist rise to the level of what Munch called “self-scrutinies”: emotional but hard-edged, and pierced with a dread of modern life that has outlived the Modernist era. In Munch’s day, the dread came from within. Now, our fears lie outside — in dysfunctional algorithms, in a climate out of joint, in bombs triggered by unstable fingers. Munch’s alienated gaze on aging, illness and lost love can feel a little soppy if you are waylaid by the Nordic atmospherics. But scrutinize them as carefully as Munch scrutinized himself, and they offer a more substantial confession: that the social moorings we cling to may not be as firm as we think.