The first month has quietly slipped by, and just like that, I’ve reached the halfway point of my residency. What once felt unfamiliar is beginning to settle into a strange, steady rhythm. But everything is shifting again.
Okay. So I’ve been in Japan for a month. I know where to get the best 7-Eleven egg sandwich (seriously, they hit like poetry), where the softest mochi lives, and which café gives me a really beautiful latte. But here’s the thing—I realized I don’t actually know how Japan is divided up as a country. Not emotionally. Geographically. Like, I could NOT tell you how the whole thing is organized. Which is ridiculous.
This morning, I woke up a little disoriented—the kind of feeling where, for a moment, you don’t quite know where you are. Then it hits: you really are completely away.
From fairy lights and quiet corners to sand baths and mysterious seat-swiveling rituals, this little adventure cracked open something in me. A reminder that even when you’re a little lost, a little awkward, or completely out of your depth — you can still find your way. You can still feel cute.
Lately, I’ve been playing around with so many ideas—some fun, some frustrating—and honestly, I’ve been feeling a little stuck. But one morning I woke up and thought: Who freaking cares?
Sometimes in the evenings, I head to the studio shrine. It’s one of the few places where I can sing and play as loud as I want. I love walking in, turning up the volume, and just practicing.
Today we had an in-process studio tour with all of the artists at the residency. There are four houses here, each with its own dedicated studio space. It was an inspiring day of creative connection.
Rain slammed against the window yesterday, furious and unrelenting, like it was trying to shake loose whatever lay quiet inside. Today, not even a trace remains—the sky is pale and kind.
It’s kinda dumb, but when I packed all my clothes, I brought like five bathing suits, lots of shorts, and a ton of little dresses… but no pants. NO FREAKING PANTS. And it’s cold here.
The afternoon sun was fading as I hauled my bags up the stairs—so heavy that I had to toss them one by one, piece by piece.
Who knew that the thing to finally slow me down would be… a shoe?
I had just landed in Tokyo, exhausted from the flight, when I noticed something felt strange as I walked through the airport. I looked down—and saw that my shoe had split in half. Not just a little crack. Fully, dramatically, split.
If you’re reading this, Future Me, you’re probably in a state of mild to moderate panic — but good news: Past Me thought ahead. Here’s the step-by-step emergency plan to get from Tokyo all the way to my residency in Itoshima, Fukuoka. Step 1: Tokyo Airport Transfer (Narita ➔ Haneda) Future me, hi. You just landed at Narita Airport (NRT) and you’re probably tired, confused, and running on pure airport snacks. Now you need to transfer to Haneda Airport (HND) to catch your flight to Fukuoka. If life is kind, you can hop on the Airport Limousine Bus and relax all the way there. If life is feeling spicy and nothing makes sense, stay cool and smile big — it worked in Tanzania. UPDATE: The lady at the check told me to take the train rather than a cab so I shall try with all my stuff. Here’s a handy
Wildroot & Amber is an idea still in motion—a sonic installation and performance project that’s just beginning to take shape. Right now, it lives in sketches, sounds, and possibilities. It’s the dream of creating a space where memory, nature, and the body connect in a way that feels alive, tactile, and deeply present. During my upcoming residency at Studio Kura in Japan, Wildroot & Amber will move from concept to reality. I imagine an experience where sound becomes a way to remember, and objects become bridges to the past. At the heart of it, Wildroot & Amber will be a kind of living archive—not a collection meant to be preserved, but one meant to be touched, activated, and reimagined. I’m gathering mementos to bring with me—photographs of my mom, old letters, and other small pieces of the past. During the residency, I’ll pair these and whatever I find along the
Packing for an artist residency—or simply creating outside a traditional studio—requires intention. You can’t take everything. So you bring what matters most. The tools that inspire freedom. The ones that feel like extensions of your own body. For me, that means a small, carefully chosen set of instruments that lets me build sound worlds from scratch, wherever I am. I call it my mobile studio, but it’s more than that—it’s a hybrid instrument. One that lets me weave together sampled sounds, electronic textures, and analog expression into something entirely my own. Violin and voice – the heartbeat At the center of everything I do are my violin and voice. They are my roots. The violin was my first instrument and when I play, I still hear the encouragement of Mr. Horch, who once made me feel like the most extraordinary musician in the world. That feeling lives in
This spring, I’m heading to Studio Kura, a multidisciplinary artist residency tucked away in the peaceful village of Itoshima, Japan. From May 1 to June 30, I’ll be living and creating there—surrounded by rice fields, mountains, sea air, and quiet. Studio Kura is a residency program and gallery that welcomes artists from all over the world. Housed in a former rice storehouse and located about an hour from Fukuoka City, it offers simple, traditional accommodations and spacious studios that open into the landscape. It’s the kind of place where you wake to birdsong instead of notifications, and where creativity is shaped by the rhythm of nature, not the pressure of deadlines. Artists live in shared traditional homes—each with private rooms, common kitchens, and studio space. Bicycles are provided, and everything you need is within a short ride. The nearest train station, Ikisan, is a 25-minute walk away. Still, I’m nervous.
