Painting as Necessity: Sotaro Takanami on Discipline, Solitude, and Transcendence

Susan Wilson
5 days ago
6 min read

Sotaro Takanami

Renowned for his uncompromising dedication and the meditative intensity of his canvases, Japanese painter Sotaro Takanami has spent decades transforming an inner compulsion into a visual language that bridges the physical and the spiritual. His work moves between abstraction and emotion, restraint and release, revealing a lifelong dialogue between East and West, discipline and instinct. In this conversation, he reflects on painting as both necessity and revelation—an act that deepens with age, carrying the weight of memory, solitude, and transcendence.

You have described painting as a vital act, almost as essential as water in the desert. Could you tell us how this profound necessity has evolved throughout your life? Has the thirst changed?

Ever since graduating from art school, I have felt an almost compulsive need to paint at a fixed time each day. Until the age of forty, I found enjoyment in other pursuits as well, but beyond that point, painting became the only means by which I could truly feel alive. The older I grow, the stronger this thirst becomes, to the extent that I now find myself questioning whether I live to paint or paint to live.

At the 2022 Sinjyuku Takashimaya solo exhibition venue

Many of your works carry an intense physicality, both in gesture and in material. When you are painting, how conscious are you of the body – your own, and perhaps the viewer’s?

When I begin a painting, I observe it with a calm and analytical eye. Yet as time passes, I am drawn into the canvas, absorbed entirely by the act of creation. It often feels as though the painting itself is dictating its form, urging me to follow its lead. Once completed, I transition into the role of an observer, continuously studying the work until I instinctively recognise the precise moment to intervene and refine it.

In your practice, the abstract and the emotional seem inseparable. Have you ever felt that certain emotions resist translation into painting? What happens when the feeling is too vast, or too complex?

When my desire to paint is at its most intense, I apply pigment directly from the tube onto the canvas, allowing instinct to guide my movements. Yet, even in such moments of unbridled expression, my discerning eye remains engaged, ensuring that the composition ultimately reaches its intended completion. Minor imperfections are refined later.

Your titles—enigmatic, poetic, at times playful—seem to open a window into your inner world. How do you choose them? Are they born with the work, or do they arrive after the painting is complete?

I have always loved literature, cinema, and music. If a painting’s emotional resonance aligns with a particular theme, I may borrow titles from these mediums. At other times, inspiration strikes upon viewing the final work, prompting me to choose a name that reflects its essence.

As an artist who grew up surrounded by both traditional Japanese aesthetics and Western modernism, how do you feel these two worlds coexist within your paintings? Do they clash, harmonise—or create something entirely new?

As a Japanese artist, I have been influenced by the great painters of my homeland, both in traditional Nihonga and Western-style painting. Naturally, my artistic sensibilities have also been shaped by masters from Europe, America, and beyond. If I can internalise these influences and distil them until they truly become my own, then surely my paintings will emerge as creations that no one else could produce.

Your works often carry a deep sense of time: memory, transience, repetition. How does your experience of ageing influence your brushstroke, your themes, your sense of urgency—or patience?

Memory is, for me, a formidable force—both exhilarating and terrifying. Throughout my life, certain memories have been deeply imprinted upon me, just as each painting retains its own distinct recollections.

In your career, you’ve passed through many mediums—from oil to hand-coloured woodblock prints and back again. What draws you to change materials? Is it curiosity, restlessness, or necessity?

My personality is very impatient, and when I am depressed with a lot of emotional ups and downs, everything is troublesome, but when I start painting, I think I have to live my life with a positive attitude.

I draw about 30 points on one theme, but when I don't feel any change in it, I move on to the next theme. The important thing is to pursue it to the extreme. There is nothing is more tedious than stagnation. My artistic style and themes have always evolved naturally, and I liken this journey to ascending a spiral staircase—each step leading to a new vantage point that enhances the whole. Regardless of style, I feel that my paintings have steadily become more authentically my own.

There is a spiritual current running through much of your work—what you’ve described as a “voice from heaven” that guides your hand. Do you think art can serve as a bridge between worlds?

To grasp the profound essence of art is no easy task; I do not believe that everyone can achieve such insight. However, a true visionary—an opinion leader—has the capacity to guide others and, through patient effort, bridge cultures and ideas across the world.

You’ve said repetition is something you resist. How do you continue surprising yourself as an artist, even after decades of painting? What makes you stop and say: “This is new”?

Only I can discern whether my work is truly new, yet each discovery offers fresh inspiration. When the process ceases to yield revelation, I will know that it is time to stop. Those who advance towards true originality will find that those capable of recognising it will indeed understand. To break through the barrier of repetition, an artist must possess an unrelenting, deep-seated desire to paint.

In Japan, you are widely known and respected, yet your recent exhibitions abroad show a growing international interest. What does it mean to you to have your inner world recognised by people from entirely different cultures?

Human nature remains fundamentally the same across all nations. If a work is genuinely remarkable, people from any country will be able to appreciate it. There is great joy in knowing that one's art is understood.

If one of your paintings could speak, what do you think it would say? Would it whisper? Would it sing? Or would it remain silent, asking the viewer to do the talking?

I believe that a painting serves as a mirror to the viewer’s soul—it whispers to those who look upon it, inviting them to perceive its meaning through the depths of their own hearts.

You once shared that you do not teach, because you believe talent cannot be taught. Yet if someone truly wishes to be a painter, what do you believe they must be willing to risk or endure?

If one can sustain a lifelong yearning to become an artist, somewhere along the way, providence will lend its aid. Yet within the soul of one who maintains such passion, there must also exist darkness. The true test is whether one has the strength to endure it.

You have painted thousands of pieces over the years. Is there one that you consider a personal turning point—something that changed how you see your art, or yourself?

After graduating from art school, I initially painted in oils. Around the age of thirty, I turned to hand-coloured woodblock prints, yet by forty-five, I found myself drawn back to oil painting. I made this transition because I sensed that printmaking had begun to succumb to repetition, prompting my return to oils. At first, the approach was to apply a thin layer of oil paint, but as the oil painting changed one after another, the painting became thicker and thicker. At its peak, it reached the stage of "Asiatic Dayflower" with deep blue dots - one of my most thickness oil paintings, 73 × 91 cm and weighing about 30 kg. My style is still evolving. My latest series, Clouds, is painted in oil on cardboard.

Finally—what is the question you wish someone would ask you, but no one ever does?

Are you happy at this moment?　