Many years ago, a friend asked me why I collect. Why was it important? At the time, I didn’t have a clear answer. But over the years, the question has stayed with me, lingering in the back of my mind. Perhaps collecting is, in some way, a response to trauma—a way of reclaiming control, of preserving something stable in a world that often feels unstable. Some collect for beauty, for history, for the joy of possessing something rare. Others collect as an escape, building a world of their own, piece by piece. I collect to create a sanctuary—one where I am safe, where I can surround myself with things that bring me peace.
For me, Japanese art objects have become a way to hold onto my most cherished memories of this land. But more than that, collecting allows me to build a personal sanctuary in an ever more threatening and unstable world. At times, I have felt particularly under threat, caught in the turbulence of forces beyond my control. In such moments, these objects provide a refuge—a world I can curate, where beauty and history remain unshaken. Through collecting, especially Edo-period art, I create a bridge between past and present, between fleeting experiences and something enduring. The Edo period, in particular, speaks to me—not only for its aesthetic refinement but for its 250 years of peace and introspection (it is arguably the Galapagos islands of the art world). By surrounding myself with these objects, I shape an interior world where I can reclaim a measure of control, where the chaos of the outside world cannot reach.
Perhaps collecting is my way of holding onto something physical, something that lasts, when experiences can feel so fleeting. A walk through Teramachi, the scent of fresh shokupan drifting from a bakery, the lingering traces of incense from a nearby temple, the quiet thrill of discovering an object that speaks across time—these moments pass, but the pieces I bring home become touchstones. They anchor memory, allowing me to step back into those streets, to hear the rustle of noren curtains, to see the way afternoon light falls on a gold-flecked screen.
There was a shop I walked past every day on Teramachi Street, its window displaying a Japanese sake bottle made for export to the Dutch East India Company. Across its pale porcelain surface, the words Japanschzake were painted—charmingly clumsy Latin letters, inscribed by an Edo-period craftsman who likely had no understanding of their meaning. And yet, those letters, that bottle, came to evoke everything about my time in Kyoto, about the quiet joys of familiarity, of seeing something each day and feeling a connection grow. My friend, the dealer Yvan, later found another similar one for me, a piece of that memory I could keep.
In another shop along Teramachi, I bought a lacquer box in the form of a ginkgo leaf. The ginkgo trees of Japan hold a special place in my heart. Their golden hue in autumn—brilliant and fleeting—has been burned into my memory, the vivid colour illuminated by the sharp, clear sunlight that is so characteristic of those crisp afternoons. Holding that box is like holding a moment of Japan itself, a precious fragment of time that can never be replicated. It reminds me of walking the streets of Kyoto, the ginkgo leaves fluttering down in the breeze, as the sunlight cast long shadows over the stone paths.
And in Tokyo, at my friend Yvan’s gallery, Dentsdelion, I found a bronze incense burner in the form of a mythical baku, the nightmare-eater, with a baby baku nestled against it. Though meant to represent a supernatural beast, to me, it was unmistakably elephantine, calling back to my childhood love of elephants. The baby baku only reinforced that feeling, reminding me of the deep familial bonds that elephants are known for, their quiet strength, their loyalty. Now, it sits in my home, a silent guardian of dreams, of memory, of Japan itself.
Japanese art objects are more than just beautiful things; they are vessels of memory, portals to the places and moments I hold dear. They allow me to step outside of time, to return to Japan in my own way, to find comfort in the enduring presence of craftsmanship and history. But more than that, they give me the ability to create a world of my own, a sanctuary that is mine alone. In a world where so much is uncertain, this is something I can hold onto. Even when I am far away, these objects bring Japan back to me—solid, unchanging, eternal.
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