Narihiro Matsumoto: "Time is Just a Concept"
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In the winter of 2023, Japanese artist Narihiro Matsumoto spent two months in residence at Voronja Gallery. At a time when Lake Peipus lay frozen beneath a sheet of ice, temperatures dipped below –20°C, and the landscape seemed to dissolve into nothing but white. He wandered the lake almost every day, gathering impressions that have since found their way into the language of art.
On 5 August, MIGA presents "40–42," Matsumoto's new exhibition, unfolding from his earlier series "35–39." Though the moments captured in his photographs often appear dreamlike and at times even impossible, every image is composed in the physical world, using real spaces and tangible objects.
In this interview, Matsumoto reflects on his singular relationship with time, chance, and reality. Recalls the quiet vastness of a winter on Lake Peipus and offers insight into the ideas that have guided the creation of this photographic series over the past decade.
1. Your previous photo series "35–39" showed moments that seemed impossible, but were actually real. How would you describe your artistic journey from that exhibition to the new series "40–42"?
Yes, that's right. What matters to me is that I actually saw it with my own eyes. In an age when photographs can be easily manipulated, people often have doubts. But it doesn't matter to me whether they believe it or not. Creating the work itself is a gift to me. I think this new series is a little different from the previous one. My experience at Voronja Gallery had a profound impact on me.
2. You have said that creating one work can take weeks of preparation, and in the end everything is captured in a single photograph. Why is this slow process important to you?
Actually, I don't think making my work is a particularly slow process. I'm more of an impatient person. The weather is very important to me. I generally don't go out to photograph my work when it's raining, so that may be one reason why the process sometimes appears slow. For me, making the piece and photographing it are part of the same process. I don't want to leave the piece sitting around after I've made it. I want to photograph the work while it is still fresh. In a way, it's like food. Freshness matters.
3. How do you know when a work is finished? Is it a rational decision or more of a feeling?
I decide intuitively. I like things that are based on feeling.
4. Your work often brings together reality and something that seems impossible. Are you trying to create new worlds, or to make visible something that is usually hidden?
I often wonder whether our sensibilities would be different if the sky were green instead of blue and we had lived under it all our lives. I think that idea is reflected in my work.
5. You have described yourself as someone for whom the past, present, and future exist at the same time. How does this way of thinking about time influence your work?
Yes, my thoughts about time haven't really changed. If anything, I feel even more strongly that time is just a concept. Of course, it is a very useful tool in our daily lives. When people get older, they often say that time feels as if it passes faster. But to me, the changes we experience and the concept of time are different things. I feel there is a mismatch between change itself and the idea of time. I don't think people grow old because of time. I think we simply oxidize little by little through our contact with the world. To be honest, I don't know whether this way of thinking influences my work. Perhaps a trace of it remains, like a scent.
6. In the winter of 2023–2024, you spent two months in residence at Voronja Gallery. What was your first impression of Lake Peipus and the village?
I felt it was perfect for me.
7. That winter, the temperature in Estonia dropped to around -25°C. Do you remember a particular moment that has stayed with you? How is an Estonian winter different from a Japanese winter?
I remember it very clearly. There are places in northern Japan that reach similar temperatures, but the area where I live does not. During my stay, I often went for walks. Everywhere I looked, the landscape was white, and I walked through it every day. Then one day, I found a spot under a tree where there was no snow. I saw green grass there. It had been a long time since I had seen anything green. I was so happy and excited that I instinctively picked some and ate it. Of course, it didn't taste good at all.
8. You spent two months at the Voronja residency. How did the slow pace of life and being part of a small community influence your thinking as an artist?
Everyone was really kind to me. I didn't see them every day, but whenever I met someone, they were always smiling. As for how it influenced my thinking as an artist, I honestly don't know. I've spent my whole life with myself and I've been talking to myself all along, yet I still don't really understand who I am. I think that's quite interesting.
9. Was there a place, a person, or a conversation in the Peipsi region that stayed with you after you left Estonia?
Yes, definitely. Especially Lake Peipsi. Walking on the frozen lake and seeing nothing but white all around me was an unforgettable experience. Even though I had never seen a landscape like that before, it somehow felt familiar. That's how I felt.
10. Can we see traces of the Peipsi region in the exhibition "40–42", or is its influence more hidden and emotional?
I hope people can sense it in my photographs. I will also bring an object that evokes the feeling of Peipsi.
11. You have said that the new series moves through orange and magenta and finally reaches blue. What do these colours mean to you?
They're simply my favorite colors. That's all.
12. You have worked on this series for nine years. How have you changed during that time?
Actually, I was wrong. I've been making these works for ten years, not nine. During that time, I encountered a few special moments. I don't think my photographs are the work itself. The work exists in the process of making it. I don't think time exists in the way people usually describe it. This is just a hypothesis, but I think each of us has something like a point inside us, almost like the ticking of a second hand. Each person has a different rhythm and lives with it. Sometimes that point stretches into a line, and an indescribable space opens up. In those moments, I find myself thinking, “I wish this could continue forever.” Maybe it's similar to being drunk. When I'm making something, there are moments when I can be in that space. I've experienced that a few times over the past ten years. So rather than saying I have changed, I would say that I have had a few encounters with those moments.
13. Why did it feel right to finish this series in Estonia?
I think so too, and that's an interesting point. Actually, it was a coincidence. Many different things simply matched up at the same time, what I wanted to do and the timing of it, and that led me to choose Estonia. It wasn't a calculation or a plan. It was a coincidence, and I like that kind of thing.
14. HAKI Gallery was a small gallery, and MIGA is even smaller. How does the exhibition space affect the way your work is experienced? Do you enjoy showing your work in small and intimate places?
Yes, I think I will enjoy it. I think a smaller space tests the strength of the work more directly. For me, the size of the space is not the important thing. What matters is what the artist does within it.
15. What would you like the Estonian audience to notice when looking at your work?
I would be happy if people could look at my work the way they look at the sea or a lake, or the way they sit quietly on a bench in a park without thinking too much.
Yes, that's right. What matters to me is that I actually saw it with my own eyes. In an age when photographs can be easily manipulated, people often have doubts. But it doesn't matter to me whether they believe it or not. Creating the work itself is a gift to me. I think this new series is a little different from the previous one. My experience at Voronja Gallery had a profound impact on me.
2. You have said that creating one work can take weeks of preparation, and in the end everything is captured in a single photograph. Why is this slow process important to you?
Actually, I don't think making my work is a particularly slow process. I'm more of an impatient person. The weather is very important to me. I generally don't go out to photograph my work when it's raining, so that may be one reason why the process sometimes appears slow. For me, making the piece and photographing it are part of the same process. I don't want to leave the piece sitting around after I've made it. I want to photograph the work while it is still fresh. In a way, it's like food. Freshness matters.
3. How do you know when a work is finished? Is it a rational decision or more of a feeling?
I decide intuitively. I like things that are based on feeling.
4. Your work often brings together reality and something that seems impossible. Are you trying to create new worlds, or to make visible something that is usually hidden?
I often wonder whether our sensibilities would be different if the sky were green instead of blue and we had lived under it all our lives. I think that idea is reflected in my work.
5. You have described yourself as someone for whom the past, present, and future exist at the same time. How does this way of thinking about time influence your work?
Yes, my thoughts about time haven't really changed. If anything, I feel even more strongly that time is just a concept. Of course, it is a very useful tool in our daily lives. When people get older, they often say that time feels as if it passes faster. But to me, the changes we experience and the concept of time are different things. I feel there is a mismatch between change itself and the idea of time. I don't think people grow old because of time. I think we simply oxidize little by little through our contact with the world. To be honest, I don't know whether this way of thinking influences my work. Perhaps a trace of it remains, like a scent.
6. In the winter of 2023–2024, you spent two months in residence at Voronja Gallery. What was your first impression of Lake Peipus and the village?
I felt it was perfect for me.
7. That winter, the temperature in Estonia dropped to around -25°C. Do you remember a particular moment that has stayed with you? How is an Estonian winter different from a Japanese winter?
I remember it very clearly. There are places in northern Japan that reach similar temperatures, but the area where I live does not. During my stay, I often went for walks. Everywhere I looked, the landscape was white, and I walked through it every day. Then one day, I found a spot under a tree where there was no snow. I saw green grass there. It had been a long time since I had seen anything green. I was so happy and excited that I instinctively picked some and ate it. Of course, it didn't taste good at all.
8. You spent two months at the Voronja residency. How did the slow pace of life and being part of a small community influence your thinking as an artist?
Everyone was really kind to me. I didn't see them every day, but whenever I met someone, they were always smiling. As for how it influenced my thinking as an artist, I honestly don't know. I've spent my whole life with myself and I've been talking to myself all along, yet I still don't really understand who I am. I think that's quite interesting.
9. Was there a place, a person, or a conversation in the Peipsi region that stayed with you after you left Estonia?
Yes, definitely. Especially Lake Peipsi. Walking on the frozen lake and seeing nothing but white all around me was an unforgettable experience. Even though I had never seen a landscape like that before, it somehow felt familiar. That's how I felt.
10. Can we see traces of the Peipsi region in the exhibition "40–42", or is its influence more hidden and emotional?
I hope people can sense it in my photographs. I will also bring an object that evokes the feeling of Peipsi.
11. You have said that the new series moves through orange and magenta and finally reaches blue. What do these colours mean to you?
They're simply my favorite colors. That's all.
12. You have worked on this series for nine years. How have you changed during that time?
Actually, I was wrong. I've been making these works for ten years, not nine. During that time, I encountered a few special moments. I don't think my photographs are the work itself. The work exists in the process of making it. I don't think time exists in the way people usually describe it. This is just a hypothesis, but I think each of us has something like a point inside us, almost like the ticking of a second hand. Each person has a different rhythm and lives with it. Sometimes that point stretches into a line, and an indescribable space opens up. In those moments, I find myself thinking, “I wish this could continue forever.” Maybe it's similar to being drunk. When I'm making something, there are moments when I can be in that space. I've experienced that a few times over the past ten years. So rather than saying I have changed, I would say that I have had a few encounters with those moments.
13. Why did it feel right to finish this series in Estonia?
I think so too, and that's an interesting point. Actually, it was a coincidence. Many different things simply matched up at the same time, what I wanted to do and the timing of it, and that led me to choose Estonia. It wasn't a calculation or a plan. It was a coincidence, and I like that kind of thing.
14. HAKI Gallery was a small gallery, and MIGA is even smaller. How does the exhibition space affect the way your work is experienced? Do you enjoy showing your work in small and intimate places?
Yes, I think I will enjoy it. I think a smaller space tests the strength of the work more directly. For me, the size of the space is not the important thing. What matters is what the artist does within it.
15. What would you like the Estonian audience to notice when looking at your work?
I would be happy if people could look at my work the way they look at the sea or a lake, or the way they sit quietly on a bench in a park without thinking too much.
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