I arrived in Berlin at the beginning of last month (September 2026) for an artist residency at SomoS, with a small project in mind, a few materials, and the curiosity to see where they might lead.

During the first few days, I spent a lot of time simply walking around the neighborhood, finding cafés to sit in, and slowly getting a feeling for the area around. There was a canal nearby, and on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, there was a market along the canal, with vegetables and bread alongside fabrics and other little things. I liked this mixture of food and everyday life sitting alongside each other.

In the evening, people would sit by the bridge on the ground reading, talking, or just hanging out. I remember thinking that this was probably one of the first moments when I started to feel like I wasn't just visiting Berlin anymore, but actually living there for a little while.

The city seemed to offer something new at every turn. During Berlin Art Week, exhibitions, performances, and open studios filled the days, leading from one place to another.

Some works invited a closer look at how they were made: the meeting of different materials, the rhythm of a surface, the details that might otherwise go unnoticed. Others stayed in mind because of the way an idea moved between different media, or the way painting, textile, music, and architecture could come together to change the experience of a space.

Not every encounter needed to become a clear reference or an immediate source of inspiration. Gradually, looking began to feel less like gathering information and more like a way of opening up possibilities.

*Work at Hallen 07 by Kunstfestivl during Berlin Art Week*

Visiting artists’ studios brought a different kind of closeness. Beyond the finished works, there were materials waiting to be used, experiments still in progress, and fragments that had yet to find their place. Each practice seemed to have its own rhythm and logic. Some artists worked through careful planning; others allowed the work to change as they went along.

Conversations with artists added another layer to these encounters. Talking about process, material choices, and the thoughts behind a piece offered glimpses into ways of working that could not always be understood through the finished work alone. There were also conversations about the space between art, craft, and design, and the many different forms an artistic practice could take.

What stayed was not necessarily a particular piece of advice, but the feeling that there was no single way to approach the work. These thoughts seemed quite small at the time, but after returning home, some have slowly begun to connect with questions already taking shape in my own practice.

Meanwhile, my own work was taking shape slowly.

The starting point was a question about how a textile object is read. What began as a comparison between a flat textile and a form referencing the body gradually developed into three areas of exploration — Form, Material, and Context — with form becoming the focus for this month.

The first pieces were kept relatively simple, with the material and construction remaining consistent while different possibilities of shape were considered. Yet even these early experiments began to shift the original questions. Seeing the pieces on the wall made their scale feel different from how they had been imagined. Forms that initially referred to the body also made room for other possibilities.

The question began to extend and became a way of thinking, about how we recognize and interpret textile objects, and how much of that understanding comes from the visual information in front of us.

Much of the month was spent looking at other people’s work, following ideas across the city, and having conversations that opened up new ways of thinking. There was less time at the worktable than planned, but the time away from it became part of the process too. Looking, making, and thinking kept returning to one another, sometimes in ways that only became clear afterwards.

Leaving Berlin felt a little premature. A month was enough to begin finding a rhythm, but not quite enough to follow every thought that had surfaced along the way. The work is still at the beginning, with more shapes to try, more materials to explore, and questions that may change again once the next experiments begin.

For now, there is something comforting about not knowing exactly where the project will lead. The month left me with a collection of impressions, small details, and possibilities that have yet to settle into place. Back home, there is time to return to the pieces, look at them again, and see what might emerge next.

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.

Artist in Residence

Making Room for Questions: Notes on Art and Encounters in Berlin

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