I paint slowly because I am afraid of losing what is real.
In our busy lives, we rush from one commitment to the next, our eyes glued to screens. We have become experts at moving fast, but in doing so, we have stopped noticing the world right in front of us. My work begins when I choose to put my phone away, slow down, and truly look.
When you take the time to pay attention, the city reveals its quiet gifts. You begin to see the beauty in a neighborhood garden or the distinct character of a pigeon on the sidewalk. Yet, for me, the pigeon is more than just a small detail of urban life—it is a living emblem of forgotten craft. Once honored as essential, high-precision messengers, homing pigeons were steadily discarded as technology prioritized speed and convenience over living connection. In the same way, master artisans and centuries of traditional heritage are quietly disappearing under the pressure of mass production and hyper-efficiency. The pigeon resonates with everything humanity risks losing by choosing to be fast and cheap over thoughtful and real.
Having lived away from Japan since I was fifteen, my artistic journey has been a path toward reclaiming my cultural roots. While earning my BFA at Parsons Paris taught me a great deal about modern digital media, I found myself craving a deeper, tactile connection to the things I create. I turned to Nihonga—the traditional Japanese art of painting with natural mineral pigments on handcrafted washi paper—as an act of devotion and quiet resistance.
Nihonga is a slow, complex process that cannot be automated or rushed. From hand-grinding raw minerals to preparing the paper, it demands patience, care, and human presence. By choosing this path, I aim to preserve these endangered traditions and remind us that there is still profound magic in things made with time, heart, and human hands.
