Artist’s Note

In 2023, upon graduating from Sokei Academy of Fine Art & Design, I received the Takazawa Award 2022, an award granted by the school. The prize included the opportunity to hold a solo exhibition at the school gallery, Gallery Punto. This became my first solo exhibition. At the time, however, I had little sense of what a “solo exhibition” truly meant. I only knew that I should not disappoint the expectations placed upon me. Six months after leaving the school, I returned “fully loaded.” One could say that I crammed every work I had produced during that period into this small space, leaving not a single corner of the gallery unused. Needless to say, I did this with a certain sense of self-display. My desire was laid bare at that moment.

In this exhibition, I presented five new works from the Living Composition series, one hundred preparatory drawings, and an oil painting in F100 size. The drawings and the oil painting had no direct relationship to the theme of the exhibition; they were shown simply to fill the space. The Living Composition series, on the other hand, was the result of my work in two regions in China: Kaili in Guizhou Province and Huizhou in Guangdong Province. I transported the completed canvases to Japan. Aside from Ansichsein I, which I exhibited at the hop exhibition at Kyoto University of the Arts, all the other works were brought to this solo show.

In my conceptual explanation, I emphasized nature. I claimed that nature had accomplished everything, and that I had merely created the initial conditions. I told people, “These are the roots of plants; their flowers have bloomed on the canvas, and what you see here is their flowering.” This way of speaking was well received. Some viewers even told me that they felt a powerful vitality in the works. If anyone wished to probe further, I would present another set of explanations, invoking concepts from physics such as entropy increase and heat death. I said that I had conceptually reversed the state of these chaotic scrap metals, transforming them from entropy increase into creation—into life. Even though, in truth, I did not really know what I was talking about.

During that period, I became obsessed with the “originality” I believed I had created. Especially after receiving an overwhelming response at the hop exhibition, I became convinced that I had stepped onto the so-called “right path” that so many people long for. I craved praise from my teachers and former classmates, and even went to Tokyo with questions such as “How does one become a true artist?” Yet I was also clearly aware that this so-called originality had been exchanged for lies. This truth was like an inverted spike lodged within me, waiting to pierce and destroy me once my self-inflation reached its peak. Two years have passed, and I wish to confess this here with a sense of repentance. I have always believed that honesty is the first essential element of artistic creation, and this has consistently been the standard by which I judge the works of others.

After arriving at Sokei, I gathered all the scrap metal on campus that was prone to rusting and brought it to the rooftop on the eighth floor, where I reconstructed the composition. However, I knew very well that time was insufficient—there were only two days left before the exhibition. So before coming to Sokei, I had brought etching solution, the liquid used to corrode copper plates. I poured it into a spray bottle and sprayed it onto the surfaces of all the scrap metal, hoping to accelerate the rusting process. Due to the strong wind on the rooftop, the etching solution scattered across the canvas, forming rusted circular spots all over the surface. This had nothing to do with natural rust. Still dissatisfied, I anticipated that the result would only be a flat yellow surface. Therefore, I also brought cyanotype solution, hoping it might reveal more traces of composition and enrich the image. Unexpectedly, the cyanotype solution reacted chemically with the etching agent, rapidly forming stable blue precipitates, which ultimately became the impermeable blue areas seen in the work.

I left it like this for two days. A few hours before the exhibition, I removed the scrap metal, only to find that the image was still disastrous. In truth, had I abandoned the idea of filling the entire exhibition space, I would not have needed to fabricate such lies, and the exhibition might even have turned out better. But at that time, my mind was entirely focused on “salvaging” the situation. I picked up a saw and cut away all the parts of the image that I considered imperfect, eventually producing the animal-hide-like forms shown in the exhibition. One could say that this work had completely lost any relationship with the previous composition, and it was also unrelated to the exhibition’s theme. Yet I concealed this fact; almost no one knew what I had done.

The most ironic moment came during the artist talk, when I asked the audience whether they had felt the vitality expressed through movement. The students in the audience unanimously responded that Ansichsein V was the most powerful piece because it looked like a suspended animal hide. Their answer struck me painfully, because I had never intended to express anything related to animals. I could never have imagined that this would become the most memorable work for the audience. And yet, at that time, I still felt a trace of secret satisfaction—it seemed to prove that my “salvage operation” had been successful.

As for the other works, I had interfered with them to varying degrees as well. For example, in Ansichsein I / II / III, which initially showed better results, I placed iron powder purchased from hardware stores onto the blank areas of the canvases. While scrap metal reacts relatively quickly, it is far less convenient than iron powder, which can produce a wide range of complex effects. I would also secretly lift the scrap metal every day to see how the image was changing, and at times I even altered the positions of the components to achieve results that satisfied me. I believe I have made this clear enough: in reality, I treated the so-called “living composition” as paint, using it to paint. This had nothing to do with nature. If there was any connection at all, it existed only in the instant of chemical reaction; everything else was human intervention. I never spoke of this publicly. Instead, I continued to perform my damned “natural process.” I feel ashamed and deeply guilty about this.

However, the praise from the outside world did not come to an abrupt end with the closing of the exhibition. On the contrary, the compliments around me only continued to increase. The more this happened, the more uneasy I became, the more insecure I felt. Eventually, my self—swollen to its limit—was instantly pierced by the inverted barb within me, and I found myself unable to continue creating.

I did not know how to explain this to others, especially to my professor. Every day, I ran to the hills behind the school to avoid him. I later heard that he was asking around among the students about my situation. I began to read—truly read. I no longer focused on art-related books; I read everything, anything that caught my interest. Shame made it impossible for me to ignore my own inner ignorance any longer, and I longed for change.

In this way, I came to a complete halt for half a year. Then one day, I opened the archive of the Living Composition series and renamed the original works Ansichsein (being in itself)—a term taken from Hegel’s concept of “being-in-itself and being-for-itself,” referring here only to “being-in-itself.” The reason “being-for-itself” was absent was simple: at that time, I had not yet truly become capable of being for myself.

2026.01.15

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