1. Losing and Finding Myself

I was born and raised in Japan, and once worked as a professional illustrator in the advertising industry.

Before that, I was an artist—creating my own world, hoping to bring even a small measure of joy,
and quietly stay beside someone’s heart through my work.

From childhood, I was drawn to posters and printed works that seemed to carry the original worlds of their illustrators.
I believed that becoming an illustrator would allow me to share my work with people I could never reach on my own.
I entered the world of illustration believing I could carry my artistic voice with me.

But in the field I had entered, that way of working was rare—
and in Japan at the time, the roles of illustrator and artist were often treated as entirely separate.

While working as an illustrator, those who saw my early work or the personal pieces I drew between jobs often said:
“You should become an artist.”
“I hope to see more of the work that feels truly yours.”

Among them was a close friend—
an artist who feared I might lose myself by trying too hard to fit into the world of commercial illustration.
With earnest concern, this friend reminded me more than once:
“I want you to draw in your own voice.”
“I loved your work for what it truly was.”

Those words stayed deep within me.

Even so, as I continued to fulfill my responsibilities as an illustrator,
I focused more and more on meeting others’ expectations—gradually placing limits on my own skills and ideas.
Little by little, my own voice grew faint—until I could no longer hear it.

I came to lose sight of what I wanted to paint, of what I loved, and even of why I was here at all.

I discovered there was a deeper divide than I had imagined between what was expected of me as a commercial illustrator
and what was sought from me as an artist.

I found myself caught between the two—unable to find a balance, and simply struggling with the conflict.

For years, I searched—while lost—for a way to paint in my own voice,
and to be accepted both as an illustrator and as an artist.

Within the industry, there were those who encouraged my artistic voice, but the structure itself left little room for it.

In the end, I realized that genuine transformation would not be possible without stepping outside the system I was in.

So I made a difficult decision.
Even if it meant letting go of everything I had built,
I would return to my starting point—trusting, with all my heart, that it will lead me back to a life that is true to who I am.

2. The Turning Point

The turning point came when I encountered vintage American matchbooks from around the 1950s.

While continuing my work as an illustrator, I came across one by chance and felt drawn to it.
The printed artwork, the colors, the texture of the paper, and even the faint variations and subtle wavering in the ink gradually captivated me.

Looking closely, I realized they were advertisements—bearing the marks of daily life and culture, as if the energy of that era still lingered within them.
From my experience working in the advertising industry, my interest deepened, and I began collecting vintage American matchbooks from the 1930s to the 1990s.

One day, I discovered a vintage American advertisement from the 1950s, and I was struck with overwhelming force.
It felt as though I had been confronted with a truth so powerful I couldn’t explain what was happening to me.

At that moment, I remembered—This was the art and the world I had always longed to paint.
Scenes that quietly rise to the surface of someone’s memory, small fragments of life—I had always longed to capture them.

At the same time, childhood memories began to return—memories of those who once loved me, and of the landscapes I saw as a child.
Though those people are no longer here, the memories warmed my heart.

Later, a friend who was an antiques dealer gave me a variety of LIFE magazine pages.
Within them, I discovered aspects of America I had never known before—photographs and articles that portrayed the lives of many kinds of people.
Through these, I began to see that beyond time and culture, there is something essential that connects us as human beings.
It was not a theoretical understanding, but an undeniable truth.

In touching America’s past, I began to see the shared universality of humanity.

In advertisements, photographs, everyday objects—even in torn scraps of paper—I found proof that someone had truly lived.
Through these traces of real life, I wished to paint the lives, emotions, and stories of those who had once been there.

3. Beyond Time, Beyond Place

My work is not intended to make political or social statements.
I hope to gently follow the lives, emotions, and memories of those who came before us, honoring the humanity we all share.

Just as vintage American advertisements once quietly awakened cherished memories, dreams, or love within me,
I would be deeply grateful if my work could help someone recall what is precious to them.

The reason I chose to share my work in America comes from something I realized through my own experiences.
Though I initially stepped away from the system I had worked within in Japan, it wasn’t that I was seeking to leave my country behind—
rather, as I continued on my path, I came to feel that this place might offer a more natural home for what I wanted to express.

By setting my work in America, I came to realize that cultural backgrounds and the stories behind them may be understood differently from country to country—
and that here, they might be received more naturally.

Believing in that possibility, I chose this place.

because I was born and raised in Japan, I carry a sensitivity shaped by where and how I grew up.
And perhaps that’s why, when I paint America, I have something unique to offer.

I hope my work gently stays with those who see it—quietly becoming a small source of joy in their hearts.