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Tomoni Shintaku
1982 Born in Hiroshima, Japan
2005 Bachelor of Fine Arts Kyushu Sangyo University, Fukuoka
2013 Shinjuku Culinary Institute, Tokyo
2016-2018 Activities in Singapore
2019-2020 Activities in Los Angeles
2021-Currently Living in the Netherlands
1982 Born in Hiroshima, Japan
2005 Bachelor of Fine Arts Kyushu Sangyo University, Fukuoka
2013 Shinjuku Culinary Institute, Tokyo
2016-2018 Activities in Singapore
2019-2020 Activities in Los Angeles
2021-Currently Living in the Netherlands
Published on March 2nd, 2026. Artist responses collected in months previous.
Was pursuing your creative work a calling for you? How do you define calling within your practice? Share a concise definition and a moment when this felt most true.
I once believed strongly that creative work was my calling, but now I think of it more as a pillar that supports my life, a part of my identity. As I have entered middle age and begun to feel a kind of midlife crisis, I find myself drawn to deeper, more fundamental questions such as why I am alive in the first place. Because of that, creation itself feels secondary to the question of existence. I sense that the moment I stop creating—or doing something like creating—will probably be the moment I die.
What does a successful career in the arts look like to you today? Describe how you measure success now and note any shifts from earlier in your career.
Every day I see different forms of “success” presented by artists on social media. In the past, those images triggered jealousy, self-blame, and a sense of misfortune in me. Now I am much quieter inside. It feels almost like a kind of small enlightenment: I have begun to look beyond the surface and ask whether such success is truly happiness. Anyone, even someone who appears socially successful, can still be deeply unhappy. For me, success means not stopping. Even without praise or sales, the act of continuing to create with hope is what I now consider success—or what I choose to believe is success.
How are you kind to yourself in your art practice? (Include one or two concrete examples such as boundaries, rest, or studio routines.)
I live on one meal a day and I never skip my daily strength training. I also love alcohol, and every night I go to a bar and drink until I am completely relaxed. Drinking is, of course, not healthy, but life is not something I can enjoy in a permanently sober state. I try to balance my moments of collapse with moments of clarity and construction, and I plan to survive that way until the end. Yet honestly, if my life were to end this very moment, I would feel neither regret nor unfinished business.
What impact do you hope your work has on others? Name the response you hope to spark and who you most want to reach.
There is a vulgar part of me that wants to hear praise—amazing, interesting, wonderful. But what I truly hope for is that my work becomes a doorway into me as a unique human being. In the end, I want people to be interested not only in the work but in the person behind it. My art, especially my paintings, is only a small portion of what I create. My writing, which I have continued for more than twenty years, and my daily audio blog, which I have recorded for over five years, feel like far more essential forms of “art” to me.
Do you have any rituals or spiritual practices that you integrate into your daily life as an artist? If relevant, mention frequency, timing, or how the practice supports your work.
Every morning, I film a short video in which I shout, “I have to die!” I have been doing this for about three years and plan to continue for the rest of my life. I expect to release the work shortly before I die—perhaps in thirty or forty years. The ritual comes from my belief that life is not something I am actively living but simply something I have not yet lost. Each time I record the video, I find myself thinking, “All right, maybe I will live one more day.”
Was pursuing your creative work a calling for you? How do you define calling within your practice? Share a concise definition and a moment when this felt most true.
I once believed strongly that creative work was my calling, but now I think of it more as a pillar that supports my life, a part of my identity. As I have entered middle age and begun to feel a kind of midlife crisis, I find myself drawn to deeper, more fundamental questions such as why I am alive in the first place. Because of that, creation itself feels secondary to the question of existence. I sense that the moment I stop creating—or doing something like creating—will probably be the moment I die.
What does a successful career in the arts look like to you today? Describe how you measure success now and note any shifts from earlier in your career.
Every day I see different forms of “success” presented by artists on social media. In the past, those images triggered jealousy, self-blame, and a sense of misfortune in me. Now I am much quieter inside. It feels almost like a kind of small enlightenment: I have begun to look beyond the surface and ask whether such success is truly happiness. Anyone, even someone who appears socially successful, can still be deeply unhappy. For me, success means not stopping. Even without praise or sales, the act of continuing to create with hope is what I now consider success—or what I choose to believe is success.
How are you kind to yourself in your art practice? (Include one or two concrete examples such as boundaries, rest, or studio routines.)
I live on one meal a day and I never skip my daily strength training. I also love alcohol, and every night I go to a bar and drink until I am completely relaxed. Drinking is, of course, not healthy, but life is not something I can enjoy in a permanently sober state. I try to balance my moments of collapse with moments of clarity and construction, and I plan to survive that way until the end. Yet honestly, if my life were to end this very moment, I would feel neither regret nor unfinished business.
What impact do you hope your work has on others? Name the response you hope to spark and who you most want to reach.
There is a vulgar part of me that wants to hear praise—amazing, interesting, wonderful. But what I truly hope for is that my work becomes a doorway into me as a unique human being. In the end, I want people to be interested not only in the work but in the person behind it. My art, especially my paintings, is only a small portion of what I create. My writing, which I have continued for more than twenty years, and my daily audio blog, which I have recorded for over five years, feel like far more essential forms of “art” to me.
Do you have any rituals or spiritual practices that you integrate into your daily life as an artist? If relevant, mention frequency, timing, or how the practice supports your work.
Every morning, I film a short video in which I shout, “I have to die!” I have been doing this for about three years and plan to continue for the rest of my life. I expect to release the work shortly before I die—perhaps in thirty or forty years. The ritual comes from my belief that life is not something I am actively living but simply something I have not yet lost. Each time I record the video, I find myself thinking, “All right, maybe I will live one more day.”
Find Tomini Shintaku on Instagram
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