The Beginning, Without a Clear Reason
Kishin began painting in the late twenties, according to the artist. There was no strong motivation or fixed vision of the future. It started simply by being drawn to the feeling of “wanting to make something,” which led to oil painting. Without consciously deciding to keep going, Kishin tried one thing after another, following whatever came to mind. And along that same line of continuation, the practice still exists today, the artist says.
Later, Kishin also worked in design. At the same time, the desire to create freely—work without a client—gradually grew stronger. Rather than a single clear turning point, it seems that through the accumulation of everyday days, making work naturally settled into life as something inseparable.
A Quiet Distance Between Colors, Shaped by a Screen That Refuses to Speak
Standing in front of Kishin’s works, one of the first things you notice is this: they may feel like landscapes, yet no specific place is ever indicated. Horizontally layered bands of color can suggest sky, sea, or a distant horizon—yet it can also feel as though the work refuses to let any of that be fixed into words.
In pieces with a pale palette, light seems to spread as if gently bleeding outward. Even when reds or blues appear, the impression is not one of emotion being pushed forward. The boundaries between colors remain ambiguous, and within that in-between, a quiet distance is preserved—space for the viewer’s own sensibility to enter. Because of this, rather than trying to “read” something from the painting, you find yourself facing it while naturally overlaying your own memories and mood.
What It Means for a Work Not to Close Itself
Kishin describes the work with the word “taciturn.” It means the painting does not say much—and at the same time, it reflects a stance that values not saying everything to the end.
Instead of presenting a clear message, the ideal is that when a viewer confronts the work, something shifts inside them. Becoming the trigger for that small internal change is what Kishin considers the best possible form. Not an intense stimulus, but something quiet, modest, and not excessive. Leaving room for the work to remain unfinished—open to be activated by the viewer’s perception—lies at the core of Kishin’s practice.
“Pictorial Strength” as a Measure
In making, what Kishin values most is a sensibility referred to as “pictorial strength.” This is not physical strength—such as dense color, sharp contrast, or thick layers of paint. It is an intuitive measure: can the image withstand the viewer’s gaze and time, and does the world deepen as you continue to look?
There are paintings that catch your eye at first glance, yet reveal their thinness after a short while. And there are works that gain depth the longer you spend with them. While working, Kishin moves the hand as if conversing with the surface, continuing until that strength can be fully felt. The attitude resembles the experience of viewing a work in a museum—except for one decisive difference: here, the artist can still intervene, again and again, with their own hand.
Imagining the Work Living in Someone’s Everyday Space
Finished pieces are made with the assumption that they will be hung within someone’s daily life. For that reason, Kishin does not aim for expressions meant only to display technique, images that hurl emotion too forcefully, or works so large that they overwhelm a room. The standard is consistent: if it isn’t something the artist would want to live with, then it isn’t something the artist wants to make.
The work is created in a room at home. During preparation, music plays while tools are set in order. Then, just before taking up the brush, the sound is turned off. Entering silence flips a switch in the senses. During painting, an environment free of unnecessary noise is what feels most conducive to deep concentration, the artist says.
Stepping Away from Words, Entrusting the Senses
Ideas arrive not when you search for them on purpose, but in moments when your grip loosens. Associations that surface while reading, or the colors that appear in early morning and evening—when the sun sits low. The soft gradations and horizontal expanses in Kishin’s work can feel like quiet reflections of such temporal sensations.
Recently, Kishin says there is a strong move toward “departing from words.” Not constructing meaning, but approaching the surface with only the senses and the body at work. Precisely because the difficulty of this is understood, if even a slight discomfort appears, the choice is made not to force it forward—to stop the hand.
Looking ahead, Kishin seems to want to return to formats in which multiple works affect one another—such as paired works or triptychs—once again.
What It Means to Face a Work
When standing before a work, there is no need to decipher the artist’s intention. Rather, Kishin says, the viewer is invited to notice what their own senses are feeling.
Hanging a work should not be treated like an obligation, either. You can change it with the seasons and with your mood, enjoying the shift in the room’s atmosphere. And if, within that rhythm, one of Kishin’s works could be there—then that would be a joy, the artist says.
A surface that does not speak too much, and a quiet distance carefully held.
Kishin’s works continue to be there, softly—like something you meet in daily life when you pause, and let your breathing settle.
About the Photographs Shared for This Column
For this column, Kishin kindly provided photographs, which we would like to introduce here. Seen alongside the paintings, these images may offer clues—small starting points for imagining the artist’s viewpoint and interests during the process of making.
