ARTiST STATEMENT
O faithful people,
to the tale of the red wolf who wandered the untamed wilds!
Behold, from the icy north came beings, who with them carried the chilling winds of distant island and the pungent blood of beastly skulls.
They were weary and parched, and they longed for refuge.
And so it was that the benevolent wolf came forth, transforming the clouds into plump lambs and the darkness into robust cattle, and bestow her children with sustenance and garb.
With her massive frame she shielded them from the bitter gales, and her servent guided them on their path, whilst her embrace offered them sanctuary.
But lo!
Is there truly such a thing as selfless sentiment in this world?
Can there be a present that demands nothing return?
A trifling amount compared to the agony they had borne on the northern place, and paled in comparison to the bounty she had bestowed upon them.
Yet cruelly was she betrayed, in her declining years robbed of limb and stripped of soul, forever to be confined within a vessel of a human’s cranium.
Forever？
No. It cannot be forever.
For there will always be someone, ever someone, who hates them as she loathes.
And for that day, she will bide her time, as long as it takes.
↓
I don’t know.
Is there some kind of projection of the self hidden in all this? No one says that a creator’s work has to be necessarily related to herself, but it is obviously difficult for the creator to avoid ending up with such a result. So I don’t know.
It is a straightforward story that, when presented to everyone in its final pictorial form, becomes neither beginning nor end, becoming very much like, like, a picture carved on a stone wall by some long-forgotten primitive religion. In the visually visible, that is, an illustrated form of the entire series, the story begins with the gods emerging from the wilderness at some point and ends when the gods are sealed and buried in the earth. I thought this was a pretty good choice. It made me feel safe and like I made that to pretend beginning and end. I don’t understand why I can straightforwardly tell my story with words, but I do my best to make every clue meander when I use a paintbrush and then strongly resist telling it verbally, even though I have the whole story figured out.
I don’t know.
But there’s no need to find out now.