Singulart: Hirofumi Miyauchi (Andecian)
1.What is your artistic background and training?
My artistic background and training are rooted in the following four experiences:
“Innate Autistic Disposition”
I am a person with a disability who has bipolar disorder. I believe this stems from my innate autistic temperament surfacing due to incompatibility with society. Though I try to act normally, I find it extremely difficult to fit in and it causes great inconvenience. Conversely, this also means that people who can fit into society cannot become me. I possess a source of chaos—a “constant friction heat generated by ongoing conflict with society.” I interpret this as artistic talent and create works based on it.
“Traditional Performing Arts from Childhood”
I have been studying the rough festival music of the port town, “Choshi Bayashi,” since 1997. In recent years, I have been learning the powerful traditional performing art of the agricultural region, “Oni Taiko.” These regional traditional performing arts were created over generations by nameless people. I believe they embody the life force cultivated through the body. I also find it characteristic that this power can radiate outward beautifully yet fleetingly, like fireworks.
On the other hand, the “Noh theater” I’ve recently begun learning requires showcasing extremely slow movements. It demands inner density rather than outward display. Perhaps I can transform the raw, local power I’ve already experienced into this inner density. This idea immediately struck me as applicable to painting. Even a single quiet line should be able to contain intense, internal tremors. Traditional performing arts demand repeated study of “forms.” Freedom is only truly attained not through verbal understanding, but by embodying them through repetition. These arts, which require both form and the voice of the body, have become indispensable to the foundation of my art.
“Training in Traditional Wooden Architecture”
I was shocked by the 2011 nuclear disaster and attended a vocational school for wooden architecture. Believing that wood does not lie, I immersed myself in my studies, trading paintings for tools. I then apprenticed under a Miyadaiku carpenter, a traditional wooden architecture craftsman. These craftsmen build temples and shrines using nail-free timber-frame techniques, aiming to ensure that these structures last for over 1,000 years.
However, I simply could not adapt to the world of traditional craftsmanship and quit after just four months. I still vividly recall the atmosphere in the workshop, so vividly that I dreamed of it for so long. After quitting my job as a carpenter, I lost both my destination and my confidence. It felt like my life had melted down like a nuclear power plant, and I gazed out at the ocean in despair on a southern island. Then, I suddenly felt a strong desire to paint. It was precisely because I once let go of art through reason and failed on the path of technical skill, which I could call faith, that I was able to clearly pursue the path of art. Currently, my experience in architecture has become the technical foundation for practicing “social sculpture” by regenerating spaces as if painting when reviving vacant houses as galleries, and my understanding of materials and their textures has become one of the backgrounds for my art, allowing me to “paint as if creating space.”
“University Studies and International Experiences”
I graduated from the Department of Art at Wako University in Tokyo in 2009. Lacking the brand power of a prestigious art university, I needed to explore my own expression, rather than relying on traditional academia. However, as a student, I simply couldn’t paint. I could only continue to struggle, beating the drums with a sense of emptiness. Even after graduation, I still felt like I hadn’t achieved anything, like searching for a diamond in the rough in the mud.
From 2015, I lived in a local community hub in Leipzig, Germany, for two years. It was located on what was once known as Germany’s worst street (Eisenbahnstraße), on the front lines of the struggle for coexistence and prosperity with the wave of immigrants. After continuing to struggle as a university student, I finally felt like I’d been thrown into the midst of a global struggle, and every day was filled with exciting inspiration. These vivid experiences led to my work at Spinnerei (Leipzig) and Kintai Arts (Lithuania). They also inspired my subsequent children’s projects and gallery creation in Japan, and remain the background to my art.
2. What themes or concepts do you explore in your work?
I believe the themes of my work lie in the non-verbal realm. If I had to say, I would say “voiceless voices,” but I never create my works with an overall theme or concept in mind. Each series or piece may have a theme, but the basic premise is that I need to draw pictures in order to live a normal life. People eat because they’re hungry, so there’s no need to talk about a concept for each one. I eat and draw to stay healthy.
I also believe that human thought is made up of words. I believe that a work of art is “a visible form of invisible, vague sensations.” For this reason, I try to refrain from getting ahead of myself and putting them into words. A work can only shine when sensation is always one step ahead of words.
I can’t keep up with the trend that says, “You should actively put the crystallization of your soul, the work of art, into words.” Art’s emphasis on concepts can also be seen as an attitude of trying to measure things solely through the values of human thought. If art truly leaves behind the “voiceless voice” of the body in this way, then I feel it is tantamount to a desecration of life.
I believe Marcel Duchamp’s “Fountain” can be one of the origins of this trend. And so I bring up the “god of the toilet.” In Japanese Shinto religion, it is said that gods reside in everything, even toilets. The idea is that cleaning the toilet is a way to purify one’s own soul. I have learned a great deal by literally getting covered in mud, including directly cleaning the toilet. Blue-collar work has the potential to amplify the voice of the hands. To me, it is a proud quest as an artist, a kind of noblesse oblige.
I am well aware that I am in the minority when I say this. However, modern values are always transient, and being in the majority does not prove they are correct. In contrast to modern values, there are traditional values. It is true that traditions are always outdated, and that there are aspects that are absurd and inefficient and need to be updated. This is why they may preserve wisdom that can withstand the times when modern values reach a dead end. In other words, the value of tradition lies in the fact that it cannot be explained in modern terms alone.
Depending on the tradition, it can be effective to suspend judgment and pass it down to the next generation. An easy-to-understand example is how we perceive the deceased. When facing the grave where a deceased person rests, you are sure to take even a moment to wonder what that person would be thinking. Many people try to carry out the wishes of the deceased, no matter how economically unreasonable it may be. In this way, the voices of the dead certainly continue to influence the living.
“Tradition is nonsense. What cannot be seen does not exist.” If there is someone who seriously says this, I would like to ask, “So, when you die, shall we throw away your body and your ancestors’ graves with the trash?” If they are shocked or angered by this, it is proof of how unconsciously they have relied on tradition.
A universality that will withstand the time after one’s life is over is basically impossible to put into words in the current era. “The attitude of prioritizing verbalization over the work itself, and of defining one’s future work through language” to me is a tradition that needs to be updated. It has taken me 20 years to respond to the pressure of concepts with a concept of equal physicality.
I do not want to tarnish the conceptual work of other artists, but rather to protect small, faint voices. I believe that the future is shaped not by words, but by the voices that reside in the body and hands. I was once given an old sword of unknown origin from a temple. In Japan, the sword is said to be the soul of the samurai, and to be imbued with spiritual power. I carefully purified it myself, cut it in two, and returned it to its state as raw iron. I’m no expert on religion, but I relied on my invisible sense of touch. I believe this awareness of the boundary between the sacred and the profane is common to painting, which makes the invisible visible. In other words, learning traditional physicality is a form of training in the aura of art.
I call works of art those that resonate with the “voiceless voice” within people. I would like to prove this in 100 or 200 years, but this is not the theme of my personal work. I believe that an attitude of challenging what lies beyond words is a normal, obvious theme in art.
3. How would you describe your artistic style and technique?
In my artistic style, technique is not the top priority. I value breathing as a human being. First, I will explain this using the Japanese tea ceremony as a model. Tea ceremony flourished during Japan’s Sengoku period. Putting aside one’s sword, one enters the tea room through a small entrance. No matter the difference in social status, one is considered equal. Putting aside one’s sword firmly is probably considered wise, as it paradoxically allows one to understand the subtleties of war.
Rather than artistic training, I love a daily cup of tea and a walk. I strive to regulate my breathing not as an artist, but as a humble, vulnerable human being. I have no desire to live without the power of the ocean or the beauty of the stars. I believe that this attitude, setting aside business competition and the title of artist, leads to art that truly resonates with the soul. When one regulates one’s breathing and feels as if the painting is speaking to them, the brush is free.
I’m happy to use techniques that don’t interfere with the exquisite freedom of the moment. Ideally, I paint as an extension of my daily life, so that I can refine my breathing and maintain that freshness while I create. I find it stifling to travel to a distant studio, and I feel most at ease creating at home, where food, clothing, and shelter are close by.
Also, when I try to use a special technique, I get distracted by the preparation and cleanup, and it feels like the freshness of my breathing is diminished. It’s not that I’m not interested in exploring techniques. In fact, I find them too fascinating. I’m prone to sudden periods of hyperconcentration, so once I become absorbed in something, I can’t focus on anything else. (I’ve been so focused that I once watched an anime series with over 1,000 episodes straight through for a month, from waking up to going to bed.)
Because I explore techniques with such passion, I first thoroughly research how to handle materials, as well as their theory and history. Combined with my knowledge of architecture and other fields, I’ve become fascinated with at least the following techniques:
- Experimenting with the development of watercolor techniques for waterless lithograph prints.
- Repairing Japanese musical instruments (shinobue, ryuuteki, noh flute, taiko drum, small drum). Handling glue, lacquer, bamboo, and rattan.
- Researching raw materials and making traditional plaster from scratch. Hand-dug wells.
- Installing solar power generation and storage batteries. Sheet metal work, welding. Overhauling and repairing a wood-fired boiler.
- Programming linking ultrasonic sensors and speakers. Number theory.
However, I tend to forget all of these things once the excitement dies down. Even if I forget them in my head, the experience of interacting with the materials remains in my body. For me, exploring my everyday breathing even leads to the elimination of elements that are socially expected of me as an artist. Even preparing water to wash my brushes, preserving my paintings, and taking photographs feel difficult.
Because I prioritize production over recording or selling my work, just thinking about these things often makes me lose the desire to paint. Exploring the profound realm of the everyday requires an enormous amount of energy. I am only able to face my creative process by cherishing my own breathing like a tiny spark. I strive to transmute my innate hyperconcentration into the vital force of my work.
When creating my works, I don’t find it particularly difficult to incorporate techniques that are unconventional in the realm of art. All that’s required is a change of mental mode and physical preparation, and I don’t think it affects the essential depth of the work. For this reason, I usually employ established techniques for painting on a flat surface. The main materials I use are oil paint, watercolor, ink, acrylic paint, pastel, etc., and the supports I use are canvas, drawing paper, Japanese paper, cardboard, pieces of wood, etc., depending on what suits my impulses at the time.
I believe that painting directly is the surface, and that the experiences accumulated in the body up to now give the work depth. It feels like the time I spend painting an invisible picture crystallizes into a physical painting. Running a gallery or a children’s project is also social sculpture, and it is essentially the same as admiring flowers or handling a cup with care. When we take a steadying breath and connect the voiceless voices of the past with the present, I believe the freedom there exists will connect with the future. I hope that it is a prayer for the world, like a cup of tea that seeps into the soul. This is my artistic style.
4. What drives and inspires your work?
I believe the driving force behind my work lies in my innate autistic tendencies. I am attached to my own unique rules and routines and hate being disrupted. Because my senses are different, even when I speak the same words as others, the meaning changes, and if I’m not careful, misunderstandings can occur. When I try to convey something accurately, it takes a huge amount of time to explain the definition.
When I go to government offices, for example, I sometimes end up surrounded by about 10 people because the flow of what I’m saying is so different, which is terrifying. Also, when I panic, I tend to spin in circles. Just living a normal life is already putting me out of step with society. Until I took a psychological test in 2023, I never even considered I had autism. Now, it’s much easier because I just have to accept that premise. We don’t need to understand each other; we just need to respect our differences.
Once I understood where I stood, I was finally able to contain my exhaustion and see them as possibilities. I now believe that the heat of friction with society is the very essence of artistic talent, and the source of the chaos that resides in a work. One of the reasons I was forced to endure such inconvenience for so long is the current state of Japanese society, which strongly demands homogeneity. I believe this is the result of distortions caused by Japan’s social structure and historical background, but I needed to continue to protect it so that my soul wouldn’t be eroded.
In 2015, feeling like I would have gone crazy if I stayed in Japan, I moved to Germany. Germany has its own problems, but for the time being, no one expected me to be homogeneous. I’ll never forget the openness of that society. However, my depression worsened in Germany. The combination of the cold and darkness of winter, heartbreak, and family and money issues caused my mind to break down. Sober, things seemed distorted, and I had a text titled “Suicide Note” saved on my computer desktop.
Just before making my emergency return to Japan, I listened to local traditional music at full volume on my headphones. My hometown, Choshi City in Chiba Prefecture, Japan, has long flourished as a port town. It has the highest fish catch in Japan, but the sea is rough and full of danger. More and more people are living a fleeting life of “big catch or death,” and not long ago the town was known for its gangsters and gambling.
The festival music I learned was created over generations by unknown people who lived on those rough seas. Neighboring towns have the same tunes, but Choshi’s version has an unusually fast tempo. I believe that the power of life that challenges dangerous seas is condensed in this music and the physical movements of the taiko drums.
At the time, I didn’t think as deeply about traditional performing arts as I do now; I continued simply because it was fun. However, my experience of listening to music in Germany while at risk of suicide forced me to thoroughly confront my roots and spirituality. Precisely because my hometown is in a dangerous stretch of the sea where lives have been taken so easily, I might be able to express in my paintings the power of life embodied in that culture.
The power that kept me alive could be transformed into paintings and become a source of strength for others. Some musicians say that they couldn’t surpass the Beatles without taking drugs, but the underlying strength of life that I gained through my mental breakdown doesn’t require drugs.
Furthermore, like Noh, I compress this explosive vitality into inner fulfillment. Even though from the outside it may appear that I am painting quietly, inside my body I feel a heat of contradictions shining brightly. I believe that the transpersonal physical sensations obtained through “explosive physicality and its compression” are connected to the profound alchemy of art’s universality. For me, my works are concentrated prayers in praise of life.
Related working notes: