ART LIVES TORIDE Where Art Is Born

I’ve been told that my journey with a pen started in a hospital bed as a child. With nothing to do, I was given paper and ink, and I just kept going. I remember being obsessed with sketching a duck figurine we had at home, and for some reason, there was a phase where all I drew were tornadoes. I think I was fascinated by how simple circles from a pencil could suddenly take on dimension and start looking like the real world.

By early elementary school, I was already making my own little zines—though back then they were more like “picture books.” One was titled The Suspicious Woman. It followed a woman in sunglasses who just kept walking forward while her family wondered, “How did she end up like this?” Looking back, I don’t quite get it myself. By my later school years, I fell into the world of manga and spent my time trying to mimic the styles I saw.

I didn’t have a grand vision for my future, but when my parents suggested art college, it clicked. I ended up enrolling in a design school at the last minute. After graduating, I spent five and a half years at a design firm, creating web banners and directing projects. I also spent six months in Minamisoma, Fukushima, teaching and mentoring local designers. I simply loved the act of making things—whatever they were.

Having lived in Hokkaido my whole life, I eventually felt the urge for a change of scenery. I loved design, but I wanted more space for my own drawings, so I decided to take the leap into freelancing. Now, I balance design work with the pure joy of drawing exactly what I want.

I’ve always had a thing for the ladders on the sides of buildings. In Hokkaido, they’re installed high up for snow removal—starting at a height no adult could ever reach from the ground. Their purpose felt a bit mysterious to me. Even if there were a path up there, I’d probably never take it. Finding one gives me that same quiet thrill as discovering a hidden passage in Dragon Quest.

Since I draw whatever moves me in the moment, my style is always evolving. For a while, I was fixated on rooms—not the polished, “magazine-ready” kind, but real spaces with exposed outlets and tangled cords. Even when I draw a “dream” room, I can’t help but add messy floors or traces of everyday laziness. That human touch is what excites me. Maybe I’m just drawing the things I want to remember.

My process has settled into a mix of old and new: I draw analog lines with a brush pen, scan them, and color them on my iPad. My favorite part is the very end—adding the shadows. When shadows are introduced to a flat drawing, the objects suddenly gain a “presence.” They become tangible. That’s the moment that really gets me fired up.

Recently, I made a zine. It wasn’t a high-pressure project; I just took some quick, diary-like sketches and decided to see how they looked in print. I wanted to experiment with Risograph printing for an event, so it was a “two birds, one stone” situation. It wasn’t about “conveying a message” as much as it was an experiment. It’s more of an invitation: “If you like it, feel free to take a look.” I feel like I’ve always been that way—just constantly experimenting.

I chose Toride as my new home after leaving Hokkaido because the city markets itself as a hub for art. Seeing the VIVA shop right in front of the station was the clincher—it felt close to the “act of creation.” Since moving here, I’ve been struck by how gentle everyone is. I went to help out in a field once, and an old man started telling me stories about how he “went to England to buy an airship.” You hear things here that you’d never encounter in your own bubble. Having neighbors like that makes Toride a fascinating place to live.

There’s a musician I deeply respect. Their lyrics are heavy with emotion and message, but in interviews, they’ll often just say, “I make music because it’s fun.” I think that’s so cool. I have my share of sadness and anger too, but I want to keep “joy” as my primary engine. I want to keep drawing with that same sense of simplicity and purity.