Interviews, Issue 7

Chiharu Shiota

Threads That Bind Us All

Words SUBIN ANDERSON

Photography RICARDO WIESINGER

In the heart of Berlin, amidst the juxtaposition of the bustling cityscape and the serene whispers of the forest, Chiharu Shiota emerges as a luminary weaver, intertwining emotions and memories with unparalleled finesse. Her artistic alchemy extends beyond tactile materials, delving into the essence of the threads composing our collective narratives. Evoking the spirit of a contemporary enchantress, she defies artistic boundaries, urging us to ponder interconnected existence. Shiota’s creations reveal a symphony of red threads, crafting emotional labyrinths balancing fragility and resilience. Within this tension lies a captivating paradox—where individuality intertwines with unity, and strength emerges from vulnerability. Her immersive installations transcend physical boundaries, urging exploration of invisible ties, reminding us of shared humanity in her universe.

SUBIN ANDERSON: Chiharu, the incorporation of the red thread in your artwork is quite intriguing, carrying profound symbolism. Could you share a bit about your upbringing and how it has shaped your perspective on human connection?

CHIHARU SHIOTA: I always dreamt of being a painter, but everything I painted felt like it had been done before. It wasn’t until I started working with thread that I found my true artistic voice. It still felt like drawing, but now I was sketching in the air, adding that third-dimensional touch.

It is also a profound way to express connection, especially through the symbolism of the color red. In Japan, there’s a beautiful legend: when a child is born, a red thread ties their little finger to someone else, signifying a shared fate and a lifelong connection. The red thread is an extension of a blood vessel from the heart to the little finger. In my installations, I strive to make this invisible yet powerful connection visible. Though not seen with the naked eye, we are all intricately linked. Living in this world is impossible without these connections, and through my art, I hope to unveil the threads that tie us all together.

SA: What a beautiful way to describe it. The colors you select for the thread installations—black, red, and white—carry profound emotional resonance, crafting dynamic contrast that transforms the ambiance. How do these specific color choices contribute to the overall emotional impact, and to what extent do your personal experiences shape these decisions?

CS: I actually first began working with black thread, which was like an extension of a pencil line from a painting; the mass of black lines creates something abstract, like the night sky. In 2015, I began working with red thread because of the installation The Key in the Hand at the Venice Biennale. This period marked a poignant chapter for me as I experienced a miscarriage and lost my father. Amidst the exhibition preparations, I yearned for connection.

It felt like these significant threads in my life were slipping away, and I wanted to recreate them.

For me, the red color is like blood and human connection and relationship. The white color may be connected to mourning, as white is the color of death in Japan. However, the color is also pure, as it can be a new beginning and an end. It is a blank space, another aspect of human life.

SA: It’s truly touching to hear about the profound stories behind each color choice. As you described, there’s this organic flow from traditional art forms to a three-dimensional expression of connection. Speaking of it brings my attention to the concept of “Ma,” or negative space, which subtly weaves into your installations.

CS: It’s interesting because even though I don’t explicitly mention “Ma,” it naturally finds its way into my work. Space and time are inherently connected, and even a single line can act as a powerful border, defining and separating the room. It’s all interconnected, and that interplay between space and thread is what I find so intriguing.

SA: And the relation between space and thread almost feels like they’re dancing together. As your works create immersive experiences, the intentional pathways guide viewers to evoke different feelings.

CS: I want people to step into my installations—it’s like inviting them into a different world. The first impression is crucial. People might be initially mesmerized by the visuals or have technical questions, but as they explore, they start feeling and thinking about the concepts behind the work. It’s like taking a journey through the art, especially when they pass through doors, guiding them through various emotions and thoughts.

SA: It’s as if you’re guiding them through each step, revealing a new layer of meaning. Furthermore, your pieces frequently transform spaces, engaging in a dialogue with the surrounding architecture. I’m curious about your approach to this relationship and how you balance meticulous planning with spontaneity in your process.

CS: When I first visit a space, I imagine how to create a work that fits the space; sometimes, the space itself inspires me because I often install it in very historic buildings or abandoned spaces. When I was invited to install [Lost Words, 2017] at the Museum Nikolaikirche in Berlin, my installation was a collaboration with the space itself. I was thinking of the church and how Christianity was perceived in Japan. In the 16th Century, Portuguese Catholics arrived in Japan with hopes to bring Christianity to the country. Many people were converted, but everything changed under the reign of Hideyoshi and the succeeding Tokugawa Shogunate. Christianity was repressed, and its followers were persecuted.

Over the next 250 years, Christians had to spread the content of the Bible orally, leading to several adaptations and misunderstandings. The Bible itself was not as important for them as the act of adapting its meaning in order to make it their own personal guidebook. Pages flow in the air like lost words ending up in each individual’s mind. For this reason, I choose to insert bible pages from different languages.

I do believe that the architecture that surrounds us is like our third skin. We have our first skin, our clothes are our second skin, and our surroundings are our third skin. This is also a central theme in my artwork Inside-Outside (2008/2022).