Artist Self Interview Vol.1 – Formless Root, Rootless Forms

Fragments – Not Yet a Statement

There have always been fragments—feelings not yet fully formed, thoughts not yet ready to be called a “statement.”

These self-interviews are an attempt to gradually give those fragments a voice.By revisiting the past, perhaps the outline of my current work will begin to come into view.But this is not about arriving at clear answers.Rather, I hope to leave the unnamed sensations just as they are—intact, unfinished.

I was born in Fukuoka and grew up in the Kyushu region of southern Japan. I don’t remember much about moving during early childhood, but my family did relocate within Kyushu several times because of my father’s work. When I was in elementary school, we moved to Tokyo. At that age, it didn’t really feel like “coming to a new city” so much as simply being brought along. Even so, the change from Kyushu to Tokyo left a vivid impression on me. I can still clearly remember the shock of seeing so many shops, the crowds of people, and the complex subway maps for the first time. The scenery and atmosphere were completely different, and that contrast remains sharp in my memory.

But that experience didn’t directly feed into my creative work later on. During my student years, I wouldn’t say I was particularly interested in art or photography—but there were moments when something I saw left an oddly strong impression on me.

I remember being inexplicably drawn to a Keith Haring badge I spotted at a local convenience store, or an Andy Warhol work on a magazine cover. I didn’t understand them at the time, but they captivated me for some reason. I even spent my pocket money to buy that badge. Before I even knew what “art” was, those visuals simply left a strong mark on me. Looking back, that might have been the first moment I was truly drawn to something visual.

Those moves may have been a big influence on me. I think I always had this feeling of not really knowing if any place was truly “mine.” There was always the possibility of moving again, a sense that I couldn’t fully put down roots anywhere. I don’t explicitly make that a theme in my work, but I’ve wondered if that feeling might have shaped my tendency to avoid drawing hard boundaries, and to be drawn instead to ambiguity and in-between spaces. I think those experiences may have had at least some influence on the way I see things.

My early years in university were a period of searching. I didn’t have a clear sense that I wanted to pursue art or photography, but I think I was always interested in making things—in how things appear. Still, I had no concrete direction. It wasn’t yet an era where you could look everything up on the internet. Information wasn’t so easily accessible, so I spent my time reading books, talking with people, watching films—navigating by trial and error. I think I was quietly anxious, trying to figure out who I was and what I was really seeing.

I graduated during what was known as the “employment ice age,” a time of economic stagnation in Japan. I hadn’t yet found a clear path for myself, so I chose not to enter the workforce and instead enrolled in a film school. Or rather than “chose,” it might be more accurate to say I was still looking—still searching. Even then, I had no solid answers, but I moved forward by trying things, checking in with myself, and adjusting as I went.

The school lent out high-end digital cameras, and I began making independent projects with a group of classmates. Through this process, the camera gradually became a familiar part of my life. Video editing wasn’t part of the curriculum, but I bought a computer and taught myself how to use Photoshop and Illustrator to create titles and credits. I remember how exciting it felt to see something take form on the screen. That was probably the first time I truly experienced the joy of creating something on my own.

While working on moving images, I gradually became interested in still images as well. After graduating, I bought a DSLR and started shooting. Everything was new to me, and I simply enjoyed taking photographs—capturing the world around me.

I’d go shooting with friends in Tokyo’s older neighborhoods, or take trips to the coast in Kamakura. Photography was purely a pleasure. It was still the film era, and carrying a heavy camera on trips wasn’t easy, but I loved the process of looking for striking light, shadows, and subjects.

At some point, I started to feel that I could take better photos the farther I was from home. It wasn’t just about beautiful light or scenery—traveling itself seemed important. Maybe it’s because being in unfamiliar places forces your eyes to reset—to observe more carefully.

As smartphones and social media spread, photography became omnipresent. I began to question what it meant to take “just a beautiful photo.” I started to wonder about the meaning and value of photography itself.

At the same time, I began to feel confined by the belief that I had to travel to take good pictures. The idea that I needed to go somewhere unfamiliar in order to create felt limiting. That was when my relationship with photography began to shift.

What started as a pure joy—taking photos—gradually began to change. As the rhythm of shooting and observing became more integrated into my daily life, my attention turned from documentation to image—its essence, and the sensations behind it.

Eventually, I found that taking pictures no longer brought joy. No matter how well the images turned out, something felt off. Even technically sound photos felt unsatisfying.

I thought more practice would make it more enjoyable, but the opposite happened. It felt as though the photos lacked presence—lacked a sense of personal expression. I kept shooting out of habit, but deep down, I wasn’t fulfilled. Around 2016, I lost the desire to photograph entirely and stepped away from the act of shooting.

That period was filled with frustration. I still felt the urge to create, but I couldn’t pick up the camera. I didn’t know what “seeing” truly meant to me anymore.

Still, something hadn’t fully broken. Somewhere deep down, I think a quiet desire remained—to try looking again.

I began visiting museums, reading about Western art, and slowly reconnecting with historical perspectives. Through these past works, my own sense of vision began to shift and expand.

Around the same time, I also began attending a painting class that focused on academic realism. There, I practiced drawing plaster casts and still-life objects with precision and care over extended periods of time. The training, rooted in Western classical art education, emphasized accurate observation, use of one-point perspective to capture structure and depth, and faithful rendering of shadows and textures. In Japan, this kind of systematic instruction is often emphasized in preparation for university entrance exams in the arts, and there are established environments where such techniques are taught thoroughly.

When taking photographs, I would look through the camera’s viewfinder, compose the frame, and believe I was seeing the subject clearly. But drawing was different. The moment I tried to transfer each detail onto paper, I realized how little I had actually seen. It wasn’t just about “drawing” — it became a process of asking myself how I was seeing and why I was seeing that way. It felt like a kind of retraining, a continuous effort to face the precision and tension required in truly observing something.

Looking back now, I think that period wasn’t simply a time of standstill — it was a necessary detour, one that allowed me to confront the depth and fragility of vision itself.

After 2016, I was consumed by work, with little energy left for personal projects. But when the COVID-19 emergency declaration was issued in Tokyo on April 7, 2020, the world seemed to pause.

With that stillness, I suddenly had time—and in that silence, I could finally listen to the quiet stirrings inside me again. I began to feel ready to reengage with seeing, with expressing.

2023 became a turning point—a year when the inner murmurs began to translate into action. The seven years away from photography had passed slowly, yet somehow in a flash.

I often thought about photography during that time—sometimes even considered returning to it. But it wasn’t so easy.

Gradually, a strange dissonance arose. The act of “capturing reality” no longer felt natural. The clarity and precision of traditional photography began to lose their appeal. I became more interested in something else—something uncertain.

My gaze began to shift—not toward the object itself, but toward its flickering image, its unstable border. Reflections in water or mirrors appear to faithfully reproduce reality—but they’re always slightly off, elusive.

What captivated me were these intangible events—fleeting apparitions that arise without solidity. They seem to exist, and yet can’t be touched.

Photographic images sometimes allow unspoken sensations to slip through. That ambiguity, that sense of anticipation or residue, has continued to hold my attention.

At first, I was drawn to water—especially reflections far across a wide river. Even when I desperately wanted to “touch” those images, they remained out of reach.

But mirrors were different. You couldn’t touch the image, but you could touch the surface. That subtle contradiction—a surface that could be felt, an image that couldn’t—was part of what pulled me in.

That long pause in photography forced me to reexamine the act of seeing. I shifted from “capturing” to questioning how images arise, how visibility itself works.

What we see isn’t always what is. That realization—of a gap between image and reality—created a new space for inquiry.

Even if I move away from mirrors or water, there are still traces—blurry memories, pre-verbal sensations—that continue to guide my gaze. I think I’ve always been reaching toward those intangible presences. Even if I can’t fully explain them yet, touching them has slowly given shape to the work.

Still carrying a quiet sense of incompletion — that fragile space where hesitation and hope gently overlap — I feel I may be ready to begin again.

To softly reach toward what seems visible, yet remains just out of reach.To stay with that ambiguity, and to continue working — slowly, quietly, but with intent.