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The shimmering of heat haze flickers within memory.

A constant, vivid afterimage lingers behind my eyelids, ceaselessly wavering.

That light, imbued with a certain warmth—could it be the glimmer of horsehair? Or the reflection of white?

Perhaps it is something latent—or perhaps, it is the reflected light that comes from you, arising in the dialogue between people.

As I recall each of these rays—these fragments of reflection—I gaze quietly out the window.

Just as deeper light intensifies shadows, my practice begins with perceiving the reverse side of every scene and thing—the land where history and blood have accumulated, and the truth that can only be seen through my own eyes.

Because everyone carries a kind of paleness within them, I have come to accept and affirm the boundary line.

“When facing someone in daily life, I inevitably think about the boundary line that lies between us. The very act of setting up a sign creates and reinforces that boundary.

There is the undeniable reality that boundaries are eternal—and with them, the order and comfort they preserve.

These elements, along with the landscape, reflect and refract one another, shaping the world we inhabit. It may be impossible to cross the boundary itself, yet by standing before it, continuing dialogue, and deepening mutual understanding—that, I believe, is what is asked of us.”

And as time flows on, one’s body is carried back into the everyday—back before the canvas.

The humidity, the land, the fleeting conversations—a glance downward brings a quiet sense of reassurance.

Indeed, I am here.

And the paintings inherit these memories of mine, preserving them alongside the light.

Machi Sugita