Shohei Katayama is a Japanese American artist exploring the intersections of nature, technology, and scientific forces. His work investigates liminal spaces where opposites converge—light and dark, life and death, beauty and danger. Through line drawings, sculptures, and installations, he examines interconnectedness, material phenomena, and ecological patterns. Influenced by physics, ecology, and grief, Katayama reveals hidden relationships within natural systems. His materials evolve and adapt, embodying transformation and entanglement.

Katayama received his MFA from Carnegie Mellon University in 2019. He is the inaugural recipient of the MTV: REDEFINE award, as well as the recipient of the Outstanding Achievement in Contemporary Sculpture Award by the International Sculpture Center, the Frank-Ratchye Fund for the Art at the Frontier Award, and a finalist in the 21C Artadia award, among others. His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally at Palazzo Mora in Venice, Italy; 5 Manhattan West Building in New York; Plaxall Gallery in Long Island City; Littman Gallery in Portland, OR, and more.

Katayama has participated in NARS International Residency in Brooklyn, NY; the Mattress Factory International Residency; the Facebook Artist-in-Residence Program; the Arctic Circle Residency in Svalbard, Norway; the Labverde Amazon Residency in Manaus, Brazil; the International Sculpture Center Residency at Grounds for Sculpture in Hamilton Township, NJ; Tough Art Residency Program in Pittsburgh, PA; and at the Asia Institute Crane House in Louisville, KY.

Can you share a bit about your background and how you began your artistic journey?

I grew up in Tokyo, Japan, during my early adolescence and have lived in the U.S. since. I’ve always been deeply curious about the natural world—how light bends, how forces interact, how patterns emerge in nature. As a child, my curiosity sometimes got me into trouble—like the time I “experimented” with magnets on newly purchased TVs, mesmerized by how they distorted the screen. That same inquisitiveness still drives my work today—occasionally leading to trouble, but always pushing me to explore materials and forces in unexpected ways.

My artistic journey began at the intersection of that curiosity and a need to express what I couldn’t always put into words. Moving to the U.S. presented a significant cultural and linguistic gap—gestures, posture, slang, accents—subtleties that were entirely new to me. Without a community that shared my upbringing, I leaned heavily on mimicry to assimilate and blend in. I spent a lot of time observing friends and acquaintances, trying to understand not just what they were saying, but how they experienced the world.

This question of whether true understanding requires direct experience shaped my approach to both people and art. Could a musician who has never sculpted truly grasp what it feels like to carve stone? Could a painter ever fully understand the motion of a dancer’s body? Rather than following a linear path, I expanded my interests in multiple directions, seeking to embody different disciplines as a way of connecting.

This examination of the world is likely why I’m always drawn to materials, processes, and experimentation. It’s what eventually led me to explore technology alongside traditional art-making, blending disciplines to better understand—and challenge—the structures that shape perception and interaction.

Over time, my practice evolved into something that blends sculpture, digital fabrication, and kinetic elements, often engaging with concepts from philosophy, science, and ecology. Eastern philosophies, particularly those emphasizing interconnectedness, have been a huge influence on me, especially in the way they align with ideas about systems, forces, and the invisible networks that shape our reality.

One of the defining moments in my journey was the Fukushima Nuclear Disaster, which deeply impacted my thinking about the fragility of systems—both natural and human-made. That event reinforced my interest in the ways technology and nature intersect, sometimes harmoniously and sometimes in tension. It also led me to explore themes of grief, resilience, and transformation in my work. My journey is still unfolding, but it’s always driven by a desire to explore the unseen forces that connect us all, something that feels both intimate and universal.

What keeps you inspired and motivated to create new work?

I’m driven by curiosity—how objects, forces, and systems interact in ways that often go unnoticed. I find inspiration in nature, scientific phenomena, and philosophy, particularly object-oriented ontology and Eastern thought, which emphasize the agency of things beyond human perception. My work is rooted in questions rather than answers, exploring the tension between control and chaos, presence and absence, permanence and impermanence.

At the same time, I don’t just make work out of inspiration—like many, I make work out of necessity. I’ve always had difficulty seeing myself as a good artist, and while I don’t think of this as particularly inspirational, I see myself as the challenger, always seeking to get better. That constant need to push my own boundaries keeps me engaged and moving forward.

Physical movement—whether sports, playing piano, or even video games—helps reset my thinking. When I’m stuck, I turn to the piano to unravel my thoughts. When exhaustion dulls my senses, I immerse myself in something fast and instinctive. The occasional act of “serious play”—whether through gaming, improvisation, or low-stakes creative exercises—helps me avoid burnout. It gives me the space to explore freely, without the pressure of deep investigation. These moments of lightness are necessary, reminding me that discovery and the drive to create often happens when I step away from intensity.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

My artistic style has changed alongside my shifting interests, materials, and philosophical inquiries. Early on, my work was more traditional—rooted in drawing and sculpting—but I was always drawn to material experimentation and process-based exploration. Over time, I began integrating sculptural elements, moving toward public art, installation, and interactive works that engage viewers beyond passive observation.

A key shift happened when I started working with digital fabrication—laser cutting, CNC machining, and 3D printing—allowing me to bring precision and complexity into my forms while still embracing chance and organic interactions. This intersection of tech and materiality became central to my practice, reinforcing themes of interconnectedness, unseen forces, and the way structures emerge in both nature and human-made systems.

Looking back, my evolution has been less about changing mediums and more about deepening my understanding of the impetus of my work. My work became less about representation and more about experience—inviting viewers to engage with senses beyond sight.

Lately, my focus has turned toward the body, memory, and grief, incorporating elements that suggest presence and absence. I’ve been thinking about how digital and physical processes can convey loss, transformation, and healing. This has led me to explore life-size 3D printing and materials that mutate over time.

For me, creativity is about discovery—the ideas that emerge through making. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching an abstract concept take physical form, transforming thought into something tangible. The process allows me to explore questions without clear answers, test ideas, and engage with the unknown in a way that’s both challenging and liberating. It’s an act of freedom, a way to exercise agency in a world often bound by rigid structures.

Another deeply rewarding aspect is how my work resonates with others. When someone interacts with a piece and experiences a moment of realization, curiosity, or even just a visceral response, that connection is incredibly meaningful. When viewers engage with my work on an intuitive, reflective level, it reaffirms why I create in the first place.

Creativity also opens opportunities for collaboration. While this applies to any interdisciplinary practice, there’s something uniquely exhilarating about stepping into the unknown with a collaborator—tackling something beyond my expertise, feeling terrified and vulnerable, yet making it happen together. It’s a microcosm of human potential, a glimpse of hope that things can improve when separate minds come together.

On a more personal level, creativity carries deep significance for me. It was something my late father always aspired to, and toward the end of his life, he told me he was proud of me. My siblings also became creatives, and in a way, it feels existentially fulfilling to know that, after all these years, there’s a shared respect and understanding within our family.

What challenges have you faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

The challenges I face are fairly universal— balancing time between self-care, relationships, finances, and my practice. There’s always a tension between making time for my own work and fulfilling external commitments, especially when non-art-related responsibilities require just as much mental and emotional energy. It all draws from the same well. When unexpected events disrupt routines, or self-doubt creeps in, things can start to spiral. One method that helps me stay grounded is committing to something creative each day, even if it’s just 15 minutes. Small,
consistent efforts—similar to what James Clear describes in Atomic Habits—keep me moving forward, even when everything else feels overwhelming.

Another challenge is navigating imposter syndrome, especially as a Japanese artist working in predominantly Western institutions. While I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, I sometimes second-guess whether I truly deserve them—whether my work speaks for itself or if my identity plays a role in how I’m perceived. It’s an unproductive mindset, and I’ve learned to counter it by trusting the words of close friends and colleagues—people whose opinions I deeply respect. Their belief in me helps reinforce my own confidence.

I wouldn’t say I’ve completely overcome these challenges, but I’ve found ways to manage them. Creativity itself is a process of navigating uncertainty, and I’ve come to see these struggles as part of the journey. The key is to keep showing up, keep making, and, as Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann puts it, believe in the me that believes in myself!

What advice would you give to emerging artists looking to establish themselves?

Be sincere, but not naive. Surround yourself with people who genuinely care about you, and care for them in return. Build a support system, but protect yourself from exploitation. Collaboration is essential—work with others and take on challenges that once seemed impossible. Treat every interaction with compassion and integrity.

Create something daily, even if it’s just for a minute—especially on days when it feels difficult. Consistency matters more than waiting for inspiration. Stay curious. Explore widely and recognize how vast the world is. Indulge in your passions, but also practice restraint. Don’t just hear—listen.

Step outside your studio. Sit on the grass. Get at least 15 minutes of sunlight a day. Keep learning. Haters will always exist, but they don’t define you. Stay open, and don’t box yourself into a single identity. Don’t just look at the leaf—see the forest, the mountain, the earth. Perspective is everything.

Text & photo courtesy of Shohei Katayama

Website: https://www.shoheikatayama.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/shohei_katayama_/