Can you tell us about your trajectory as an artist and how it all started?

I was born in Japan, but because of my father’s job, we moved to the United States when I was 3. I lived there until I was 6, then returned to Japan, where I started elementary school. At 13, I moved back to the US again, and completed both high school and college there.

During those early years, I struggled with English, and in school, fitting in meant relying on whatever skills I could develop to navigate the social hierarchy. I needed to find a way to stand out. I wasn’t particularly skilled at drawing or painting, but since I couldn’t communicate effectively through words, I decided to focus on a visual language.

That’s how I first got into creating art, which eventually led me to study sculpture in university. While I didn’t formally study video at the time, I was eager to explore the medium, so I taught myself and started experimenting.

After earning my BFA in the U.S., I returned to Japan, wanting to deepen my knowledge. The more I worked with moving images, the more I you want to learn.

I got accepted to a graduate program in Japan in the film and new media department. The program taught me media literacy but didn’t really teach me proper filmmaking so, I ended up teaching myself most of what I know through experimentation.

Along the way, I was fortunate to have the opportunities to showcase my work in galleries, museums and film festivals. Interestingly, I feel like I discovered my artistic voice because of my initial shortcomings — my inability to master verbal communication.

I didn’t set out with a clear vision of becoming an artist, but this is the path I’ve found myself on, and it’s what I do now.

In the introductory text for this film programme, (the curator) Julian Ross writes that “artists and filmmakers in Japan are beginning to develop a shared cinematic language that proves they don’t exist in separate worlds.” As someone working across different contexts of production and exhibition, do you feel this confluence?

Oh, absolutely. I first met Julian in 2018 at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, which was my first real experience at a film festival. It was there that I was introduced to a world of artists working in cinema—a realm I wasn’t very familiar with at the time.

Even now, I think there’s still a noticeable separation between visual arts and cinema, though there’s been a lot of crossover. Many of the artists featured in this program embody that intersection, and I’m really happy to be a part of it.

Although I don’t have formal filmmaking training, I aspire to make feature-length narrative films one day. I’m trying to become a film director, though I’m still figuring out how to get there. My approach is a kind of bricolage, piecing together the various skill sets I’ve developed over the years.

Sometimes it’s a sculptural way of thinking that comes into play, or the experience of being a bad language interpreter kind of sparks some ideas around differences and similarities between languages. Other times, inspiration comes from experiences I’ve had working in friends’ performing arts.

I blend all these influences to create what I think of as an “incomplete film.” It’s not cinema in the traditional sense, but it becomes my own kind of cinema, often finding a home in galleries or museums.

What’s nice about the visual arts world is its openness — it embraces a wide range of ideas and practices. Cinema, on the other hand, tends to be more traditional. I often feel like I’m working on the margins.

That said, I’ve learned so much from cinema, and I hope that filmmakers can also take inspiration from visual arts. I love this intersection between fields. I think it’s where real richness and innovation come from, and I hope more people will explore this cross-disciplinary space in the future.

In both of your films in this programme, it’s apparent the use of documentary techniques mixed with videoart language. What do you think documentary brings to your work?

As a kid, I wanted to become a manga artist or cartoonist, but I gave up on that dream after being told I was terrible at storytelling. So, I shifted to painting and drawing, where I didn’t have to worry about creating narratives.

However, even with my lack of confidence in storytelling, I still had a deep desire to make films, which led me to adopt a more observational approach.

While I was still in school, I created a film where I swallowed a gastric camera attached to an endoscope. The footage revealed a small plastic figurine sitting inside my stomach — a tiny figure within my body. At the time, I was doing a lot of self-reflection, thinking that to be an artist, I needed to cultivate a strong persona or identity.

During the procedure, I was partially under anesthesia but could see a live feed of the camera. It was a revelation when I realized, “Oh, I’m empty! I don’t have anything to offer.” That moment shifted my perspective—I turned the lens outward instead of inward. This marked the point where I became fascinated by documentary filmmaking.

I found the world outside of myself far more compelling than anything I could create purely from my imagination. That’s why I enjoy exploring different places and meeting people; the richness of what’s happening out in the world captivates me in a way my inner world never could.

You grew up in the US and your work is very influenced by your travels. How did that impact your perception of Japan and Japanese culture?

I don’t consider myself fully Japanese because of my upbringing, although I’ve lived there for a significant part of my life. On the other hand, when I’m in the US, I’m not “American enough.” There’s always this sense of being in-between, but I see that as a strength — it’s the foundation of all my work.

Has this given me a different perspective on Japan? Absolutely. I can sense the contrasts, and those differences often spark new ideas.

It’s a benefit to have at least two platforms to draw from —Japan and elsewhere. The friction and dialogue between these two cultures create what I like to call a “reanimation.” Much like animation, where movement arises from two frames, my practice thrives on the interaction of two distinct elements. I only need that duality for the creative chemistry to begin. 

I suppose I hadn’t fully realized it before, but traveling is essential to my process. At the same time, this in-between identity can feel strange, though I’ve learned to embrace it as a strength. For example, as a Japanese person with a camera, I’m often perceived as just a tourist. That assumption allows me to capture certain images that might otherwise be difficult to obtain. In a way, stereotypes can work to my advantage.

The Engawa Season has been a showcase for the plurality of voices that make up today’s Japan as opposed to an idea of homogeneity of the Japanese culture. Underpinning this multiplicity, are also questions of historical memory and identity, which are core themes in this programme. How does your work relate to these themes?

It’s wonderful that a programme like this exists because challenges the misconception of Japan as a homogeneous society — a belief that many Japanese people themselves mistakenly hold.

In reality, Japan is far more diverse. We have indigenous communities, and as an island nation it’s presumably fair to think that much of our population descends from immigrants who arrived many centuries ago from places like Mongolia, China, the Korean Peninsula, and elsewhere. This historical movement of people shared what we now call Japanese culture.

There has always been a rich history of travel and transnational exchange, so it’s important to dismantle the narrative of homogeneity that Japan often projects. That narrative doesn’t accurately represent the country.

Programmes like this offer an opportunity to highlight these nuances, and artists are uniquely positioned to give voice to these subtle complexities.

When it comes to historical memory, things can get tricky. One of the works I’m showing here, ‘Wrong Revision’, incorporates elements of historical anecdotes. It’s fiction, but it’s presented in the style of a historical documentary, more or less. The title itself signals a falsity, but to my surprise many Japanese viewers believed it when it was first shown.

This highlights the inherent danger of the moving image: it’s so easily consumed that people can accept it as fact without question. With this work, I aimed to make it clear that it’s a “revised” version — a counterfactual take on history, offering alternative perspective rather than claiming historical truth.

When the film premiered in 2016, it felt particularly relevant. That was the year of the US presidential election that brought Trump to power, and discussions about fake news were dominating global conversations.

Of course, the concept of fake news isn’t new — it’s been around since at least the 1890s according to my research— but in 2016, it resurfaced in a contemporary context.

This work in particular plays within this space, questioning how we construct and consume narratives of history.

Your video work often has multiple lives – either as pieces of a larger installation, screened in film festivals or as part of collective exhibitions. In your creative process, what are the differences in approaching these various supports and contexts?

The two films that I’m presenting here at CAM were both conceived in similar circumstances, with the museum or exhibition providing funding for me to create new works.

‘Wrong Revision’ was commissioned for an art exhibition, and ‘Mountain Plain Mountain’ was also funded as a commission piece. However, the challenge with video installations is how often they can’t be reshown in a different context. When a work is site-specific, it often doesn’t get a second life and can end up in storage for years.

With ‘Mountain Plain Mountain,’ my collaborator Daniel Jacoby and I thought “Okay, well, we worked so hard on this film, and it was well-received in Barcelona — why not share it more widely?” That’s when we decided to adapt the piece into a theatrical version, making it so it would reach a broader audience, and this decision launched an amazing journey.

I had no knowledge about the film festival circuit when I started, but I’ve been fortunate to experience so many different festivals along the way. The work has won several awards, and I’ve come to realize there’s an entirely different path where a single-channel video can reach a much wider audience.

I’m still experimenting and observing how people respond to the same work in different contexts, and it’s been an invaluable learning experience for me. I’m figuring things out as I go.

Initially, I didn’t even consider film festivals, but now I feel like I have two creative approaches constantly in dialogue. I can craft a version tailored for festivals, while also presenting it as part of a multi-screen installation for a more immersive experience in an art setting.

Having these dual outputs feels like a real privilege, and this interplay shapes how I approach new pieces.

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Can you tell us about the genesis of ‘Wrong Revision’?

In 2016, there was an exhibition called the Okayama Art Summit, the first major international contemporary art exhibition held in Okayama, a city in western Japan by the Seto Inland Sea.

I knew a gallerist who was involved in the project, and one day he asked to see my portfolio. He was originally from Okayama, and when he learned that part of my family was also from there, he invited me to participate.

At the time, I was in my early 30s, and this felt like such a major opportunity. I remember thinking that to make something truly impactful for this exhibition, I’d have to “sell my soul to the devil.” That feeling led me to start researching devils, which eventually brought me to the “Devil Fish”—an old English term for the octopus.

The year before, I had visited Greece and learned about the tradition of tenderizing octopus by beating it against rocks. That imagery stayed with me, it felt as if the octopus was being treated like a devil.

Meanwhile, Okayama has its own tradition of drying octopus, where they’re hung in a way that reminded me of a crucifixion. These threads started to weave together.

Around that time, I came across a short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, a famous writer in Japan, called ‘The Devil and Tobacco’. I loved the story and since the work was in public domain, I decided to replace tobacco with tako— the Japanese word for octopus.

Wordplay, quirky connections, and visual symbolism began to shape the piece. I even collaborated with local fishermen, whose involvement was both essential to the production and a deeply meaningful experience. Everything seemed to align in surprising and unexpected ways, and that’s how the project came to life.

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You co-directed ‘Mountain Plain Mountain’ with Daniel Jacoby. How did that project star and how was the experience of co-creating?

Daniel and I first met during a residency in Tokyo in 2010. We became close friends and stayed in touch, though we hadn’t seen each other for years.

Then, he was invited to participate in a group show called ‘The Way Things Do’ by Fundació Joan Miró in Barcelona, marking the 30th anniversary of Peter Fischli & David Weiss’ iconic film ‘The Way Things Go’.  

Initially, Daniel invited me to co-produce a piece for the show. Since we both deeply admired Fischli and Weiss’ work, it felt natural to collaborate as a duo. At that time, Daniel had an idea to shoot a film in Obihiro, Hokkaido, because he was conducting a separate research in the vicinity. While there, he stumbled upon a unique and largely unknown horse race that caught his attention.

We pitched the concept to the Fundació, but they had strict guidelines due to their sensitivity to animal rights. They approved filming the races but prohibited showing any whipping. Initially, we thought this wouldn’t be an issue since traditional horse racing involves minimal whipping. However, this specific race relied heavily on it, which presented a challenge.

We began exploring alternative ways to depict the horses and the race, using this limitation as an opportunity to be more experimental and creative.

One unusual element we incorporated was filming inside the betting booth during the race, which is typically off-limits. Being outsiders in Japan sometimes makes people more open to you, and this worked in Daniel’s favor. While we co-directed, I pretended to be his interpreter, which gave us access to spaces and opportunities that might not have been possible otherwise.

In the process, we developed a great relationship with the PR team behind the race. They were thrilled with the film’s reception, especially as it brought attention to a tradition that was on the decline and in danger of disappearing altogether.

As video artists, one of our roles is to document moments of transformation or vanishing cultural phenomena, and this project became part of that mission.

The resulting film is enigmatic, with a rhythm and energy that people seem to enjoy. Its emotional buildup mirrors the topography of the racecourse itself: a small mountain, a flat plain, and a steep mountain.

Collaborating with Daniel was an incredibly positive experience. It’s rare to find someone you can work with so closely and harmoniously, without any conflict. This project not only deepened our friendship but also allowed us to create something meaningful and enduring.

What are you working on now?

I’ve been in Lisbon for a little over two months now, drawn by an interest in exploring the historical connection between Japan and Portugal. I was fascinated by the Gulbenkian collection of Japanese artifacts and visited the Museu de Arte Antiga to see their stunning Namban biombos.

While here, I’ve also become increasingly aware of the rapid gentrification happening in Lisbon. As a pseudo-tourist myself, I’ve been observing the dramatic transformation of the urban landscape.

This has sparked the idea for my next project — exploring tourism and documenting the changes taking place in the city’s downtown. Coming from Kyoto, another heavily touristed city, I have mixed feelings about the role of tourism, especially as I navigate my own position as both an observer and a tourist here.

Another layer I’d like to incorporate is Lisbon’s fascinating role as a hub for espionage during World War II. As a supposedly neutral country, Portugal became a crossroads for spies and double agents working for both Britain and Germany. I discovered that Ian Fleming spent time here, and the city was brimming with clandestine activity.

Portugal also played a crucial role in the war’s industrial network, being one of the main suppliers of tungsten—a mineral critical for ammunition production and also used in everyday items like light bulbs, including studio lights.

These threads—the intersection of tourism, urban transformation, and espionage—have captured my imagination. I hope to develop a cultural espionage film set in Lisbon, weaving together these themes, hopefully by next year.