I spent last month (November 2025) in Studio Kura for an artist residency, living in a small countryside village in Itoshima, where the road curved between rice fields and the sea was only a short walk away. Everything moved a little slower there—sunny mornings, wide skies, and the soft smell of farmland drifting through the air. I remember arriving with my usual pace, and then slowly adjusting to a different rhythm.

Most days began quietly. A bit of yoga, a simple breakfast, and then the familiar decision of which material to touch first. I cycled for groceries, passing through rice fields and local shrines, and sometimes finished the day with a slow walk by the beach during the golden hour. Time was marked not by the clock, but by the melody that played through the town at seven, noon, and five in the evening. At first it felt unfamiliar, then strangely comforting—it became the rhythm my body trusted.

Here and there, I found myself entering small pockets of community. The Karatsu Kunchi Festival filled the streets with energy I couldn’t fully describe—children and elders carrying the same rhythm. Another afternoon, we joined an elementary school music workshop and drew for the kids. It was simple, but something in me softened watching how naturally everyone participated, as if creativity wasn’t a separate activity but just part of daily life.

*Hikiyama (曳山) at the Karatsu Kunchi Festival*

Meeting Suematsu-san in the second week opened a new direction. He makes bamboo baskets and vases, and he kindly offered me some bamboo offcuts to work with. I didn’t know how bamboo should behave, but approaching it from a weaver’s perspective felt natural—treating each piece like a line that might join the cloth. His generosity stayed with me, not only through the material, but through the simple gesture of sharing what he works with every day.

In the studio I spent long hours with unfamiliar materials—paper, hemp, grass, bamboo. I learned through trial and small adjustments, figuring out how to weave each one in a way that felt right. I picked up fallen branches and bamboo sticks as hanging supports, simply because they were there—something I would never have imagined doing back home. The place made those decisions feel natural, even obvious.

*Weaving work-in-progress in the studio*

By halfway of the month, my feelings had shifted from observing to belonging a little. I could cycle twenty minutes just for bread, and by the time I returned, I had already accepted the slowness. I knew the sea was always close if I needed a pause. The days felt grounded in a way I hadn’t expected. I carry a gentle memory of sunlight, the sound of bicycles on narrow roads, and small rhythms that shaped the work more quietly than any plan I had.

Leaving came sooner than I expected, and more abruptly than I wanted. I had settled into a rhythm that felt honest and grounding, a way of living I had been missing. As I packed my materials and stepped out of the studio for the last time, I felt both grateful and reluctant, carrying the sense that something meaningful had just begun.

*The rice fields of the Nijokatayama area*

This month hasn’t finished for me yet—I think I’ll keep discovering what changed only after returning home. The work I made holds traces of this place, but so do the days themselves. I’m curious to see how Itoshima will continue to travel with me, slowly, in ways I probably won’t notice until much later.

A reflection on listening back to the landscape – Naoshima, Teshima, Inujima & Ogijima.

There’s something quietly radical about leaving the rush behind—about stepping into a space where art, nature, and architecture don’t compete, but lean gently into each other like long-time friends in a familiar silence.

There are places where art doesn’t simply occupy space—it listens to it. Where architecture steps aside, and the landscape speaks. In Setouchi, art is not imposed upon the land, but shaped with it. It emerges from the slope of a hill, rests lightly within a forest, drifts through the light that shifts hour by hour. It invites us to slow down, to pay attention with the whole body.

The museums here are not declarations, but meditations. In places like the Chichu Art Museum on Naoshima—built mostly underground to preserve the landscape—light filters in carefully, not to illuminate, but to invite. Despite its subterranean design, the sun moves through its spaces in quiet rhythms, transforming both the artworks and the air around them. Time moves differently in these rooms. Shadows lengthen, colors change, silence holds weight. Art lives not as display, but as condition. As weather. Standing before a single piece, one becomes aware of breath, of posture, of the shifting softness of the light. Art lives not as display, but as condition. As weather.

Some works record time directly—the slow passage of light across a concrete wall, the accumulation of water in a quiet dome like at the Teshima Art Museum, the lingering sound of a human heartbeat preserved in Les Archives du Cœur. Others are simply porous: to air, to wind, to temperature. They let the outside in. They remind the viewer that to witness is also to change what is witnessed. I found myself slowing down without realizing it, becoming more attuned to subtle changes—the faint shift in air pressure before a breeze, the muffled echo of a footstep on stone.

Architecture, too, follows this rhythm. Forms echo the local topography. Surfaces are left raw, open to rain and salt. In the Art House Project in Inujima, empty houses are quietly transformed into artworks that remember their former lives. In these buildings, one often finds thresholds rather than walls—spaces that are neither fully interior nor fully exposed. The boundary between natural and constructed dissolves. One senses not an interruption of the environment, but an invitation to dwell within it.

There is something deeply human in these gestures. The spaces are small, tactile, scaled to the body. They do not shout. They ask for closeness, for listening. The Ogijima Library, lovingly renovated by islanders themselves, felt like a distillation of this spirit. A place where books seemed to arrive still in motion, where silence and life coexisted. Looking through the wooden shelves toward the sea, I felt as though time itself had taken a breath.

Throughout the islands, artworks are not housed—they are embedded. Some are held within old homes, like those in Naoshima’s and Inujima’s Art House Projects, transformed without being erased. Others sit among stones, trees, waves. They do not attempt permanence. Instead, they shift gently within the living environment, tuned to the sound of rustling leaves or a hawk circling overhead.

Or like another story, the Inujima Seirensho Art Museum quietly transforms a former industrial site into a space where nature leads. Its architecture grows out of the land itself, shaped by the island’s geology and past, and powered in part by natural energy—a reminder that even in built environments, nature can remain central. Here, art, architecture, and ecology converge, offering a vision of creation that listens rather than imposes.

*Partial view of the Inujima Seirensho Art Museum*

Even beyond the art, life on these islands carries a different tempo. People move with intention, without rush. Gardens are tended. Meals are prepared quietly. The rhythm of the day seems to follow not the clock, but the light. It reminded me of something I had forgotten: that time doesn’t need to be managed—it can be lived.

This is perhaps what resonated most. Not just the beauty of the artworks or the elegance of their setting, but the underlying belief that art and life are not separate. That attention is a form of care. That to live slowly is not to retreat, but to return. To inhabit the present more fully, more tenderly.

*Artwork Ogijima Pavilion in an old house*

As an artist, this landscape gently questions the impulse to create as assertion. It asks instead: how to respond? How to observe deeply enough that the work emerges not in contrast to the world, but in harmony with it? These questions are not theoretical here. They are embodied, enacted, daily. And they will travel home with me.

Itoshima: A month of weaving in the wind, among fields and sea

Traces of Stillness: Art and Nature in Setouchi