気がつくと家の中にはもう一人いました。

１０歳の頃、家のドアを開き放しで友達と遊びに出かけたその日から人が入り込んだのです。帰ってドアが開き放しなことに気が付き、友達と恐る恐る家の中を探し回りましたが勿論誰もいません。でも確かに２階の押入れにいるのです。

３人家族にもう一人、あるときは同じ位の歳の少女、あるときは妙齢の男性。まるで足があって顔がないゆうれいのようにこちらを見遣ります。聴こえるはずのない足音や居るはずのない気配に、もし出くわしたとしたらこう逃げようと道筋を考えていました。その家から引っ越し何年か経った頃、その彼とも彼女とも言えない何かも消え思い出すこともなくなりました。

顔のないゆうれいを思い出さなくなったある日。祖父が撮った写真を見つけました。そこには毎日家の中に居る気配を感じた何かがいるのです。私は確かに写真の中の人々と遊んだのです。もう見ることなできない何かを描かねばならない思いになりました。

私の絵の多くには顔がありません。どこに居るのかもわからず、存在しない人々です。もう会うことの出来ない愛しく恐ろしい人々です。

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Before I realized it, there was someone else in the house.

When I was ten, I went out to play with a friend, leaving the front door open. From that day on, something entered. When I came back and noticed the door still open, we nervously searched the house together, but of course no one was there. And yet, it was definitely in the closet upstairs.

In a family of three, there was always one more. Sometimes it appeared as a girl around my age, other times as a grown man. Like a ghost with feet but no face, it would turn its gaze toward me. I would hear footsteps that shouldn’t exist, sense a presence that shouldn’t be there, and I would plan escape routes in case we ever came face to face. Some years after moving away from that house, that presence—neither he nor she—disappeared, and I stopped remembering it.

One day, after I had long forgotten the faceless ghost, I found photographs taken by my grandfather. In them was something I had felt in the house every day. I am certain that I played with the people in those photographs. I felt compelled to draw what can no longer be seen.

Many of my paintings have no faces. They are people whose whereabouts are unknown, people who may not exist. They are dear to me, and at the same time, frightening—people I can never meet again.​