I’ve always been drawn to lights in the darkness. Not famous views or wide landscapes — just the quiet glow of house lights at night. When I look at them, I imagine ordinary moments happening inside. Someone awake. Someone resting. In a warm, quiet house. Nothing remarkable, just life continuing.

I grew up surrounded by cherry blossoms, without thinking much about them. Every spring, they arrived as expected — pale petals filling the air, parks crowded with people celebrating beneath the trees. It felt ordinary, almost unavoidable. It wasn’t until I lived far from Japan that they stayed with me.

There were long stretches when the way forward wasn’t clear. I was continuing work, family, and responsibilities, even as the path ahead felt crowded and tangled — full of resistance, overlapping demands, no clear direction. Still, I moved forward. One mark at a time, carrying my own color through the

For many years, I stayed on a path that felt safe. Art had once been close to me, then slowly moved out of reach. I didn’t leave it suddenly — it faded as other responsibilities took its place. When I began creating again, it felt like air after rain. Something