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 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—from the beauty of a small street garden to the unique character of a pigeon on the sidewalk. To me, the urban pigeon is more than a simple detail of city life; it is a symbol of forgotten craft. Once honored as vital, high-precision messengers, homing pigeons were discarded as technology chose speed over real connection. In the same way, master artisans and centuries of traditional heritage are quietly disappearing under the pressure of mass production. The pigeon represents everything we risk losing when we choose speed and convenience over care and authenticity.
Having lived outside Japan since I was fifteen, my art is also a way to reconnect with my roots. Studying modern media at Parsons Paris taught me a lot, but I craved a deeper, physical connection to my work. I turned to Nihonga—the traditional Japanese practice of painting with natural mineral pigments on handmade washi paper—as an act of quiet resistance.
Nihonga cannot be automated or rushed. From grinding pigments by hand to preparing the paper or silk, it requires patience, care, and human presence. By choosing this slow path, I hope to protect these endangered traditions and remind us of the magic in things made with time, heart, and human hands.
