Iwa-enogu, mineral pigments, are born from stones that have slumbered deep beneath the earth. They are the memory of nature itself, shaped over hundreds of millions of years—a source of color. One by one, I place these fragments of memory onto the canvas. Every material in Nihonga, traditional Japanese painting, originates from nature. Mineral pigments, washi paper, animal glue, brushes— Though they serve as tools, they are far more than that. They are living evidence of a “collaboration between nature and humanity,” now resting in my hands.

To paint a landscape is, in essence, to quietly question the relationship between humans and nature. The texture of the pigment, its weight, the shifts in light, the subtle tremors— these elements, often beyond control, inscribe “nature’s time” into the work. The more I paint, the more the boundary between myself and nature begins to blur. Color seeps, the brush trembles, particles catch the light. Each of these is a form—an embodiment—of relationship. Through countless silent dialogues between nature and myself, a painting comes into being.

In this exhibition, I seek to make visible the process by which minerals born of the earth are transformed—through time, technique, and sensitivity—into light. Ultramarine, once valued as highly as gold, was painted on temples and folding screens. Malachite, unearthed from the deepest geological layers of Africa and Asia, reaches me only after passing through many human hands. These are not merely colors. Each grain, placed within the landscape, stirs in the viewer a dormant memory— a memory of nature itself.

From soil, to light.

I do not aim to reproduce nature.
Rather, I seek ways to coexist with it.
To breathe together, to listen closely, to imagine future landscapes
shaped by invisible dialogue and mutual presence.
This is not a nostalgia for the past,
but a question posed to the future.
Even in these uncertain times,
I continue searching for forms of connection that can still be
preserved within a painting.