Yasuko
Some of my earliest memories are of drawing.
When I was about five years old, growing up in a small coastal town in Hokkaido, Japan, I would walk to a little shop near my home, buy stacks of paper, and turn them into handmade books filled with drawings, characters, and comic stories of my own.
And I kept creating them.
Throughout elementary school and into my teenage years, I loved imagining characters, scenes, and the worlds surrounding them. Even then, I wasn't interested only in drawing a picture. I wanted to know what was happening inside the picture.
Every Painting Begins With a Story
WHAT WAS THE STORY? WHAT DID THE MOMENT FEEL LIKE?
Music became part of that imaginary world, too. I learned to play the piano and grew to love classical music. Music helped me imagine the mood of a scene—the tenderness, excitement, sadness, or drama I wanted a story to carry.
And I loved to sing. I sang all the time. Singing gave me energy and joy, and whenever I felt sad, music gave me courage and helped me feel strong again. It became another way for me to express feelings that weren't always easy to put into words.
I didn't know then that I would become an artist. I simply loved stories, images, and music—and the feelings they could create together.
As I grew older, so did my dreams. Living near the ocean, I would look toward the horizon and imagine what kind of life might be waiting somewhere beyond it.
Someday, I wanted to cross that ocean.
When a Dream Found Its Direction
Years later, during a visit to Mission Viejo, California, I watched Disney's Aladdin with a friend.
I was captivated. It wasn't only the characters or the story. I was fascinated by the entire world the artists had created—the backgrounds, colors, light, atmosphere, and music that made an imaginary place feel alive.
“I WANT TO BE PART OF CREATING SOMETHING LIKE THIS SOMEDAY.”
Suddenly, my dream of coming to America had a direction. I wanted to study art in California and someday become part of a team creating a feature animated film.
When I returned to Japan, I began preparing seriously. I studied English for the TOEFL, worked day and night, and saved everything I could toward tuition and living expenses in America. I was young, full of hope, and incredibly excited about my future.
Eventually, I earned the TOEFL score I needed for the school I hoped to attend. I was thrilled. But no matter how hard I worked, saving enough money was difficult.
Then I realized I didn't have to wait to begin. I could move to Tokyo and begin learning animation much sooner.
I CHANGED THE ROUTE, BUT NOT THE DREAM
Learning to Paint a World
I moved to Tokyo and studied animation with all the excitement and determination I had carried with me.
One day, a teacher introduced me to an animation background studio led by a highly respected art director known for his work creating backgrounds for Japanese animation. He became one of the greatest mentors of my life.
He taught me that a background was never simply something behind the characters.
Later, I discovered that my mentor was also creating background artwork for a Japanese children's publication connected with Disney. The atmosphere of Disney's worlds had always felt magical to me, so I asked him to teach me how to paint that feeling.
He did. Eventually, he trusted me enough to let me contribute to some of those pages myself.
Crossing the Ocean
My mentor knew how deeply I dreamed of coming to America. He encouraged me constantly—and sometimes he would tease me:
“ARE YOU STILL HERE?
WHEN ARE YOU ACTUALLY LEAVING?”
I can still hear him saying it.
Eventually, he introduced me to a Japanese animator working at Disney's studio in California. I flew there to meet him, and he showed me around the studio while artists were working on Tarzan. I remember seeing the artists, drawings, workspaces, and all those individual hands creating one enormous story together. I was thrilled.
He also took me to DreamWorks, where The Prince of Egypt was being created. During that visit, I heard that a highly regarded artist from Japan had recently been there discussing a future project.
At the time, it was simply another exciting glimpse into a world I dreamed of joining.
I HAD NO IDEA THAT OUR PATHS WOULD CROSS AGAIN.
Later, that project reached the studio where I was working in Japan, and I had the opportunity to contribute as a background painter as part of the Japanese production team working on DreamWorks' Joseph: King of Dreams.
I had once crossed the ocean simply to see how animated films were made.
AND SOMEHOW, THE WORK FOUND ITS WAY BACK ACROSS THE OCEAN TO ME.
“You Really Made Your Dream Come True”
Eventually, I did what my mentor had teased me about for so long.
I came to America.
Years later, after my daughter was born here, I received a letter from him.
“CONGRATULATIONS! YOU REALLY MADE YOUR DREAM COME TRUE!”
I was so happy to hear from him. I wrote back and thanked him.
At the time, I didn't know how precious those words would someday become. I didn't know there were so many things left unsaid.
When the Story Changed
Then came 2011.
In March, the devastating earthquake and tsunami struck Japan. My family and friends were safe, but watching the enormous loss of life unfold left me deeply shaken.
Only a short time later, in May, I received news I never expected. My mentor had passed away from cancer.
I hadn't even known he was ill. Later, a friend told me that he had asked her not to tell me.
Only then did I realize that when he wrote to congratulate me on the birth of my daughter, he had already been fighting cancer. I had simply written back, “Thank you.”
If I had known, there would have been so much more I wanted to say. I wanted to thank him for teaching me, believing in me, opening doors I could never have opened by myself, and encouraging a young artist with an enormous dream.
I never had the chance to say all of that to him. But the things he taught me never left.
Then, in August, I lost my aunt. And in October, I lost my mother.
Within one year, three people who had been deeply important in my life were gone.
For a long time, grief changed the way I saw the world. Eventually, it also changed the way I understood art.
Painting What We Carry Inside
The lessons my mentor had given me about storytelling began to mean something different.
Painting was no longer only about creating a beautiful scene or mastering a technique. It became a place for the things I couldn't always express in words.
MEMORY. LOVE. LOSS. FAITH. HOPE.
Over time, I began creating paintings for families who were also carrying stories of their own.
Some of the most meaningful works I have created bring together people who could never have been photographed together—a grandfather holding a grandchild born after he passed away, or a family reunited on canvas with someone they deeply miss.
ART CAN CREATE A PLACE WHERE MEMORY AND IMAGINATION MEET.
A painting cannot bring back someone we have lost. But perhaps it can give love and memory somewhere to live.
