Maho Sekizuka گۏن گپ و تران

The design is inspired by the idea of experiencing time itself. Each bottle represents a different era of aged sake, not through literal visuals, but through a quiet atmosphere that unfolds when the box is opened. I wanted the act of opening the set to feel like entering a special moment — something that works both as a gift and as a personal ritual. The principle behind the design is to let people enjoy the rarity of aged sake in a way that feels intimate, calm, and slightly ceremonial.

My main focus was to design a structure and pacing that guides the user into a quiet, special moment. I paid particular attention to how the box opens, how the bottles sit inside, and how the colors shift subtly between eras. Rather than decoration, I focused on creating an experience — something that feels intentional, calm, and worthy of the rarity of aged sake.

I plan to continue developing this concept as a way to communicate the quiet beauty of aged sake. The award gives the project more visibility, so I hope to collaborate with breweries and craft producers who value time and subtlety. I would like to expand the series to include other expressions of aged sake, creating a small collection that allows people to experience different eras in a calm, intentional way.

It took around 30 to 40 hours to design this concept, including the structural planning, color studies, and the detailed work on how the opening experience should feel. The process required careful attention to express the quiet transitions of aged sake in a subtle and intentional way.

This design was commissioned for a limited release of three aged sake vintages, sold at around 10,000 yen as a special set for personal enjoyment. Even though it was a client project, I personally wanted to make it a unique and conceptual experience — something that would stay in the user’s memory. Because the product would exist only for a short period, I focused on creating a quiet, atmospheric moment that begins when the box is opened, allowing the three eras of aged sake to be felt in a subtle, non‑literal way. The result is a design that works both as a personal ritual and as a thoughtful gift.

This design was created as a commissioned project and produced by the client for a limited release of three aged sake vintages. I do not plan to sell or lease the production rights, as the concept was developed specifically for this product and its short‑term availability. The production and distribution were handled entirely by the client, while my role focused on the design and experience.

I designed this type of work because aged sake carries a quiet depth that cannot be expressed through literal visuals alone. The project involved three different vintages, each with its own era and character, and I wanted the experience to feel more like entering a moment than simply opening a product. Creating a conceptual, atmospheric tasting set felt like the right way to honor the rarity of aged sake — something personal, memorable, and slightly ritualistic.

This work was not influenced by specific designers or existing sake packaging. In fact, I intentionally avoided the conventional “Japanese‑sake look” and focused instead on creating an atmosphere that feels quiet, contemporary, and conceptual. The inspiration came from the subtle transitions of aged sake itself and the idea of designing a moment rather than a decoration.

The target customers are people who enjoy aged sake as a personal, quiet experience, as well as those looking for a thoughtful and memorable gift. This design is meant for individuals who appreciate limited releases, subtle atmospheres, and the idea of tasting different eras in a calm, intentional way. It speaks to customers who value rarity, depth, and a sense of ritual in how they enjoy alcohol.

What sets this design apart is the use of a slit‑animation mechanism that allows the era of each aged sake to shift as the viewer moves the overlay. Instead of relying on traditional sake motifs, the concept expresses time itself as a quiet, interactive transition. The three vintages are revealed through subtle changes in color and movement, creating a calm, conceptual experience rather than a typical tasting set. This approach makes the design memorable, atmospheric, and distinct from conventional Japanese sake packaging.

The name “Utsuroi” means “transition” in Japanese. It reflects three layers of change: the quiet passage of time, the subtle shift in the flavor of aged sake, and the emotional transition that occurs when the drinker imagines the era in which each vintage was made. As the slit‑animation mechanism gently changes the displayed year, the viewer experiences a soft overlap of time, taste, and feeling. The name expresses this calm, evolving moment where past and present meet.

I used Adobe Illustrator for the main layout, color planning, and the slit‑animation structure. Adobe Photoshop was used for texture adjustments and visual testing. I also created physical mockups to verify the smoothness of the slit‑animation movement and to check how the transitions behaved when viewed from different angles. These tools together helped refine both the visual atmosphere and the interactive experience.

The most unique aspect of this design is that the experience begins the moment the package is opened. Instead of presenting the vintages directly, the slit‑animation mechanism quietly shifts the displayed year as the viewer moves the overlay, creating a gentle sense of time unfolding. This approach expresses three layers of transition — the passage of time, the subtle change in flavor, and the emotional shift that occurs when the drinker imagines the era in which each sake was made. It becomes a calm, conceptual ritual rather than a conventional product.

I designed and developed the concept independently, but I collaborated with a printing director for the technical aspects of production. I wanted the slit‑animation and the logo to have a deep, strong black, and although rich black was an option, the printing director proposed cost‑efficient alternatives such as double‑printing black ink. Their technical guidance helped refine the balance between visual intensity and practical production. All conceptual development, graphic design, and mechanism testing were carried out by me, supported by specialized printing advice when needed.

Technology plays a subtle but essential role in this design. The slit‑animation mechanism is a precise analog visual technology that allows the displayed year to shift smoothly as the viewer moves the overlay. In addition, printing technology was crucial: I worked with a printing director to achieve a deep, strong black for the slits and logo, exploring options such as double‑printing black ink instead of rich black to balance cost and quality. These technical elements support the conceptual experience, allowing time, taste, and emotion to unfold quietly through the design.

This design was not driven by numerical data, but it was shaped by analytical research into materials, movement, and visual behavior. I studied the mechanics of slit‑animation to understand how different paper thicknesses, slit widths, and viewing angles affect the smoothness of the transition. I also researched how the flavor of aged sake changes over time to support the conceptual theme of “Utsuroi.” In addition, I worked with a printing director to test methods for achieving a strong black for the slits and logo, comparing options such as double‑printing black ink. These forms of practical and technical research guided the final structure and atmosphere of the design.

This design was shaped by analytical research into materials, visual behavior, and how aged sake is experienced. I studied how the color of koshu changes over time and decided to remove bottle labels entirely so the drinker could appreciate the natural hue without interference. Instead, the era is expressed only through a sealing label printed with varnish and silver foil. I also analyzed the mechanics of slit‑animation, testing paper thickness, slit width, and viewing angles to ensure smooth transitions. Together with printing tests—such as exploring double‑printing black ink for stronger contrast—these research steps guided the final structure and atmosphere of the design.

I decided to submit this design to an international competition because the concept of “Utsuroi” goes beyond the traditional framework of Japanese sake packaging. It focuses on the quiet transitions of time, flavor, and emotion, expressed through a precise analog mechanism rather than cultural motifs. I felt that this approach—removing bottle labels to honor the natural color of aged sake, expressing the era only through a varnish‑printed and silver‑foiled seal, and refining the slit‑animation structure through technical research—could resonate with a global audience. Presenting it internationally was a way to test the universality of this calm, conceptual experience.

During this project, I learned the importance of refining a concept through careful subtraction and precise technical adjustment. Removing bottle labels to let the natural color of aged sake be seen taught me to trust minimal decisions. I also improved my technical sensitivity by repeatedly visiting the printing site to fine‑tune the varnish printing on the sealing label, adjusting gloss, density, and alignment until the expression of the era felt quiet and exact. Working with a printing director further deepened my understanding of how choices such as double‑printing black ink can influence both cost and visual intensity. Overall, this project strengthened my ability to design with intention, precision, and restraint.

One aspect not yet mentioned is the respect for aged sake itself. This design treats koshu not as a product to decorate, but as a material shaped by time. By removing bottle labels and allowing the natural color to remain visible, the design acknowledges the sake as a record of its own history. The slit‑animation mechanism and the restrained sealing label were created to support this idea: that time can be designed, not illustrated. This project allowed me to explore how a package can step back and let the material speak, creating an experience where the viewer encounters the quiet presence of time rather than a conventional graphic narrative.

I’m based in Sanjo City, Niigata Prefecture, where I explore adventurous expressions that combine design with specialized printing techniques.

My design journey began at a night technical school in Tokyo.

By day I worked, and by night I quietly moved my hands.

Within those limited hours, I faced materials directly, searching for the boundary between technique and sensibility.

Today, I work at Prograf Co., Ltd., focusing on branding and poetic copywriting.

Within the physical constraints of print, I continue to challenge how freely “sensation” can be expressed.

To make the intangible tangible.

I’m drawn to the act of translating emotions, memories, and atmospheres into paper and form.

It feels like sending a quiet letter to someone’s heart.

Rather than choosing it, I found myself on this path.

I was captivated by materials and printing techniques—

and before I knew it, they had become my language.

I mainly work on branding, packaging, and copywriting—expressions rooted in print.

In the future, I’d like to create tactile narratives that fuse printing, poetry, and space.

More than mastering technique, they should hold onto questions.

Why are you creating this?

For whom?

What do you want to leave behind?

The depth of those questions defines the depth of the design.

A good designer arranges beauty.

A great designer stirs the senses.

The ability to create emotional resonance—that’s the difference.

Whether it leaves an echo.

After seeing it, after touching it—does something linger in the heart?

I sense its value in the silent reactions it evokes.

Good design endures.

It becomes memory, culture, and part of someone’s life.

That’s why I see it not as an investment, but as a form of inheritance.

If I had time, I’d create “touchable poetry” for emotions that defy words.

Quiet works that gently reach into someone’s inner world.

I begin by observing the background and the environment in which the design will live.

Then I ask myself: *How should this design exist in the world?*

I construct a scenario—who will encounter it, in what moment, and with what emotion.

Words and forms emerge gradually, shaped by that imagined scene.

Finally, I refine the space and rhythm, leaving subtle cues that gently stir the viewer’s feelings.

To ask: *How should this design exist in the world?*

I devote time to building a scenario, not only of how it will be used, but how it will exist.

Once that foundation is clear, the form and language quietly rise to meet it.

Design begins not with decoration, but with intention.

Peter Saville, Shirō Kuramata, Rei Kawakubo, Yohji Yamamoto.

Their works blend information and mystery in poetic ways, and challenge conventional beauty.

I’m deeply moved by how they engage not just the eye, but memory and emotion.

One of the designs that moved me most deeply is Peter Saville’s artwork for music releases.

The waveform graphic for *Unknown Pleasures* transforms scientific data into poetry—quietly visualizing the emotional depth and solitude of the music.

The floppy disk–shaped sleeve for *Blue Monday* features color stripes that correspond to letters; when decoded, they reveal the title and catalog number—a playful fusion of visual design and hidden structure.

This interplay of information and mystery evokes a poetic tension—where visual clarity meets conceptual play.

In product design, I resonate deeply with Shirō Kuramata’s *Miss Blanche* and *Cabinet de Curiosités*.

Roses and memories are suspended in acrylic, creating a sense of floating between dream and reality.

His work carries both fragility and quiet tension—teaching me the beauty of leaving behind what cannot be fully expressed in words.

And the asymmetrical, black-based garments by Rei Kawakubo and Yohji Yamamoto.

Their 1980s collections—known as the “shock of black”—embraced imperfection over perfection, challenging Western ideals of beauty.

Through shadowed fabric and deconstruction, their designs invite introspection—offering new perspectives each time they’re worn.

What these works share is the power to reveal the invisible—and a reverence for emptiness.

They don’t over-explain; instead, they pose quiet questions, leaving space for the viewer’s own interpretation. That’s where I feel the deepest resonance.

In my own work, I continue to explore these principles—poetic emptiness and structural play—as the foundation for new forms of expression.

My greatest design is the *Utsuroi* sake packaging.

It expresses emotional and seasonal transitions through material and space.

It quietly resonates with the viewer’s own memories.

Cultivating the ability to truly see.

No matter the environment, sensitivity to beauty and subtle discomfort is the foundation of design.

In Tokyo, amidst the rapid pace and constant stimulation, I was drawn to fleeting moments of stillness.

The flow of people, the reflection of light, the unconscious choices of color and form—within these fragments, I sensed the seeds of stories.

In Niigata, I find inspiration in the transitions of nature, the presence of seasons, and the culture rooted in the land.

Touching the layers of time and traces of human activity in quiet landscapes deepens my design perspective.

Even when the surroundings change, the ability to see can continue to grow.

That, I believe, is the first step toward becoming a better designer.

I might have become a washi paper artisan—or a manga artist.

As a washi maker, I’m drawn to the quiet dialogue with natural materials—working in rhythm with the seasons, humidity, and the sensitivity of the hands.

There’s a beauty in the layering of fibers and the way light passes through them, as if time and memory are woven into the paper.

As a manga artist, I’m fascinated by the interplay of words and images—how subtle emotions and atmospheric shifts can be told through visual storytelling.

The silence between panels, the pause between lines—these spaces speak gently to the reader’s heart.

Both paths share a common thread with design: the desire to give form to the invisible.

Design is the act of shaping forms that touch the heart.

Beyond function or beauty, it resonates with memory and feeling.

To me, design is a quiet poem.

The team at Prograf, and my family who quietly watched over me.

Even without words, their trust and presence gave me strength—

like air that gently lifts you when you need it most.

Believing in emptiness.

The courage to leave things unsaid, and to trust the viewer’s imagination.

Also, noticing the quiet wonders hidden in everyday life.

Age, being a woman, being a mother—and the environment I was in.

These factors sometimes shaped how I was perceived, and what opportunities were offered.

When I was younger, I was seen as inexperienced.

As I grew older, people questioned my adaptability.

Being a woman, and a mother, occasionally led to assumptions about how committed I could be to my work.

But within these roles and circumstances,

I believe I cultivated a deeper sensitivity—an ability to notice the unseen, and imagine the lives of others.

Constraints can carry quiet strength.

That strength is what anchors my design.

Not by explaining everything, but by allowing the work to speak—through its texture, rhythm, and emotional resonance.

A good presentation leaves space for the viewer’s own interpretation, like a poem with no fixed ending.

I’m exploring the intersection of sound and tactile design—where ambient music and material textures coalesce to evoke memory and emotion.

Expect something that doesn’t just speak to the eyes, but lingers in the senses.

To create something that transcends age, gender, and era—something that quietly touches the heart.

Design that becomes part of someone’s emotional landscape and lives on, quietly.

People may expect clarity.

But I believe what’s more valuable is nuance—the ability to hold ambiguity, to offer beauty that doesn’t shout but whispers.

Design can help us reclaim sensitivity.

It reminds us of values beyond efficiency—

like the subtle irregularities of handcraft, or the texture that lingers in memory.

By drawing attention to these quiet details, design enriches our relationships—with objects, and with each other.

It also gently encourages the user forward,

becoming a bridge that connects people across roles, backgrounds, and perspectives.

I’m exploring a project that blends ambient music, design, and print—

a way to reimagine how we experience sound and perceive time.

Like music dissolving into space,

I hope to create a sensory dialogue between sound, sight, and touch.

Utsuroi Sake Packaging.

Because it allowed me to express the beauty of impermanence—how design can hold time, memory, and emotion in a single gesture.

It’s a piece that continues to evolve with each person who encounters it.

Less emphasis on speed and novelty.

More attention to emotional depth, cultural sensitivity, and the quiet power of restraint.

I hope the industry embraces slowness as a form of innovation.

Toward integration—where disciplines blur, and design becomes a bridge between emotion, technology, and tradition.

I see a future where design is less about objects, and more about experiences that resonate across time.

It depends on how long it takes to feel quietly right.

Sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it lingers.

I don’t measure by hours—I measure by emotional clarity.

I begin by asking questions.

Who is this for? What emotion do I want to evoke?

Design starts by gently lifting the unspoken desires and subtle discomforts beneath the surface.

To create something that speaks without explanation.

I trust in the quiet power of design that reaches people through feeling, not words.

True design exists outside of trends.

It touches deeper layers of emotion and culture, and in doing so, quietly shapes new perspectives.

Technology is a quiet enabler.

Not the star, but the structure that supports poetic experiences and emotional resonance.

I mainly use Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop.

But hand sketches and material experiments are just as essential—

I move between digital and analog to expand my sensory range.

Color creates atmosphere.

Material evokes memory.

Ambient presence becomes a pathway for emotion.

Each element gently touches the viewer’s senses.

I’d love to be asked, “What feeling did you put into this?”

Beyond form and function, I hope people look into the emotional background of the work.

I wonder, “Why does this stay with me?”

Rather than wanting to imitate, I want to understand the structure of its emotion and thought.

Searching for the reason behind beauty is the beginning of learning.

Someone who respects the space between intuitions.

Co-design is a crossing of philosophies—

It reveals landscapes that one person alone could never reach.

Junya Kamata.

He was the first to recognize my work at a packaging design contest in Hokkaido.

At a time when I lacked confidence and clarity, he saw the emotion behind the form.

More than being awarded, it was the feeling of being truly seen that shaped my path.

That experience still guides me to create designs that quietly reach someone’s heart.

*Don’t Design* by Satoshi Miyata.

Its message is not about avoiding design, but about seeing it as a way to build relationships.

He practiced branding and strategic thinking long before it became mainstream.

His approach taught me that design is not just visual—it’s emotional intelligence in action.

Through daily observation and honoring subtle discomforts.

Attending night school while working during the day sharpened my sensitivity to everyday beauty.

Technique is a tool—but emotion is the compass.

Isamu Noguchi and Shirō Kuramata. Noguchi’s work lives between sculpture and space, light and shadow. Kuramata’s designs dissolve boundaries—between material and memory, function and feeling. I’d love to speak with them about the invisible structures of emotion, and how silence, softness, and ambiguity can shape the soul of a space.

Recognition is a gift, but not the goal.

I’m grateful for those who notice what’s quiet and unseen.

Fame isn’t difficult—it’s just not what I seek.

I value resonance over visibility.

- **Color**: Sumi ink black

- **Place**: Omotesando, Tokyo

- **Food**: Spice curry and bánh mì

- **Season**: Late autumn

- **Object**: Handmade washi paper

- **Brand**: Comme des Garçons, Yohji Yamamoto, Zucca

At the Asia Design Prize ceremony, an architect at my table said, “There’s a story living inside this small package.”

He shared how difficult it is to express emotion in architecture, and how surprised he was by the quiet depth of my work.

Later, he asked me to design his business card—

A moment where design bridged disciplines and created a quiet connection.

A great day is when I feel the design has quietly reached someone’s heart.

When someone says, “I just had to pick it up,”

That gentle impulse becomes my motivation.

Not at all.

I struggled to express myself in words and relied on feeling.

But that sensitivity to the unspeakable is what shaped my design today.

I hope for a world where emotional memory is cherished.

Even with advanced technology, the desire for texture and resonance will remain.

A thousand years from now, I believe people will still find beauty in silence.

My design is made not to speak too much.

It leaves space for your own memories and emotions to enter.

If you feel something—

That means your story has appeared within it.

In that moment, the design is complete.

I didn’t have any exceptionally outstanding talent, but in school my art grades were consistently strong, and that made me think, “Maybe I could make a living by giving form to ideas.” Once I decided that for myself, I never looked back. I resolved to pursue work that would leverage my artistic foundation, moved to Tokyo without hesitation, and embarked on the path of design. From that moment on, becoming a designer was my sincere and unwavering goal.

I’m part of Prograf, a small printing company based in Sanjō City, Niigata Prefecture. Although Sanjō is renowned as one of Japan’s premier manufacturing towns, we’ve redefined printing under our philosophy of “making printing captivating.” We regard printing not merely as a technical process but as a powerful means of communication.

Rather than just producing beautiful prints, we dive into experience design—asking “Why this structure?” and “What tactile sensation suits best?”—to craft proposals that fuse printing with design. In packaging and brand development especially, we engage from the very first concept phase, building value through both advanced printing technologies and creative strategy. Our lean, elite team’s agility and close collaboration bring the power of “captivating” printing to life every day.

For me, design is an act that inspires people’s lives. It’s not simply about arranging forms or information; it’s about uncovering the unspoken desires and aesthetic sensibilities within a client and weaving them into visuals and words so that their ideas and actions can move forward more powerfully and gracefully. I firmly believe design possesses this power. At times, a single design can change how someone exists or tells their story, and even reshape their relationships with others and society. That is why I see design as an indispensable practice for creating a better human society.

I’m most drawn to packaging design—especially when it does more than simply wrap a product, instead embracing intangible values like a person’s character or a region’s story. I love designs that leave a subtle question or moment of pause in the viewer’s mind, and whose very act of opening becomes a memorable experience through thoughtful structure and playful mechanisms. To me, packaging’s greatest allure is its power to convey warmth and a sense of time that words alone cannot capture.

One of the designs that moved me most deeply is Peter Saville’s artwork for music releases. In particular, the floppy-disk–shaped sleeves for Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures and New Order’s Blue Monday are outstanding in their balance of expression and clever mechanism. I’m drawn to the poetic intersection of information and mystery. On Blue Monday, the colored stripes correspond to letters of the alphabet and, when decoded, reveal the catalog number and title—a playful fusion of visual impact and hidden meaning that fascinates me.

In product design, I deeply resonate with Shiro Kuramata’s Miss Blanche and Cabinet de Curiosités for their liberated, floating presence. Using transparent materials and unique structures, these pieces drift between dream and reality, teaching me the beauty of leaving the inexpressible lingering in the mind.

I’m also strongly inspired by Rei Kawakubo’s work for Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto. Their radical silhouettes, deconstruct-and-reconstruct techniques, asymmetric draping in black, and the way each garment offers a fresh perspective with every wear all speak to me. From these designers, I’ve learned that true depth often resides in the unseen, and that clever structural devices can invite the viewer into an active, participatory experience. In my own projects, I strive to anchor my work in this poetic whitespace and structural playfulness as I pursue new forms of expression.

My first corporate project was page design for a fashion magazine. I began my career as an editorial designer, always mindful of how to give visible form to the magazine’s overall atmosphere and tone so that the curated world would reach readers comfortably. I loved those moments when a brand’s or feature’s presence would emerge through the careful arrangement of typography, white space, and the flow of the eye. I feel that this sensibility still lives on in my packaging and branding work today.

My favorite materials are twofold. The first is synthetic resin—acrylic in particular—whose transparency and sense of levity create a unique poetry that subtly shifts an object’s contours. Inspired by Shiro Kuramata’s work, I’m deeply moved by how it seems to float free from gravity and physical constraints. The second is Kamo’s traditional washi paper. Its handmade process yields a delicate warmth, and its texture deepens with use, offering a gentle embrace only a natural material can provide. Both the artificial and the traditional, with their contrasting charms, endlessly fuel my creative drive.

Each day flows without pause—between raising my child, caring for our home, and my full-time design work. Even in that chaos, there are fleeting pockets of silence when I’m alone, and in those moments the seeds of creativity suddenly sprout. Wrapped in music, touched by Niigata’s austere yet beautiful nature, or lifted by the shifting colors of the sky, I feel the contours of an idea gently take shape.

Another precious source of inspiration comes when I hit a wall. The time I spend probing for solutions deepens my thinking, unveiling structures and essences that were hidden at the surface. Before I know it, those insights become the starting point for my next design—moments I’ve experienced again and again.

What I value above all in design is paring away the nonessentials to let the core essence emerge. By removing unnecessary ornamentation and explanation—and deliberately leaving just enough mystery for viewers to ask, “What is this?”—I create space for imagination and spark a quiet, two‐way dialogue.

I also believe design should be more than merely beautiful; it must be honest, logical, and capable of fostering a natural exchange with whoever holds it. I’m always drawn to expressions in which information and emotion don’t flow one-way, but instead seep through as the design’s very presence.

When I tackle a design project, I pour in everything I’ve got and set ever-higher challenges for myself, which inevitably brings moments of hardship and impatience. When I hit a tough problem, I’m beset by frustration and restlessness—but I also recognize that this very struggle becomes the fuel for my next idea.

At the same time, when I’m deeply immersed, I lose all sense of time and place, entering a state of total focus and experiencing a surge of exhilaration from the depths of my being. It’s precisely this wide spectrum of emotions that sharpens my expression and drives my creative work forward.

When a design finally takes shape and is released into the world, I feel much like a parent watching their child leave the nest and grow independent. After nurturing an idea for so long, it at last slips from my hands and passes into someone else’s—and the pride and relief I feel in that moment carry a warmth beyond words.

To guide a design to success, the first indispensable step is to achieve a resonance of hearts with the client. By aligning my sensibility with the values and vision they cherish, and moving forward on the same wavelength through open dialogue, truly essential ideas—rather than superficial ones—begin to emerge.

It’s equally important to look to the future. Rather than being constrained by fleeting trends or instant results, I weave into my designs a vision that anticipates the client’s long‐term growth and the shifts in society. This approach allows the work to cultivate value over time.

- Heart Resonance: Deeply understand the client’s aspirations and share nuances that go beyond words.

- Future Focus: Design from a sustainable perspective so that it continues to be loved for years to come.

Only when these two elements coexist can a design truly be called “successful.”

When evaluating a design, the first thing I look for is whether it takes a slightly unconventional but still logical approach. Deliberately breaking the rules while ensuring the core function and message remain solid creates a balance of freshness and conviction. By contrast, I’m not a fan of overly explanatory, ego-driven expressions. I believe the key to success lies in avoiding information overload and preserving just enough mystery for the viewer’s imagination—inviting a quiet, ongoing dialogue.

I believe designers hold the key to creating a better human society. First and foremost, it’s essential to connect people and foster comfortable communication through design. By crafting beautiful scenes and spaces that move people and spark their imagination, designers fulfill a vital social responsibility.

Moreover, a designer’s work must inspire life and give people the strength to look forward. That moment of emotional impact can ignite new actions and ways of thinking, ultimately driving positive change throughout society.

In Japan, the population decline is becoming critical, and creating a social environment where women can feel secure about having and raising children has grown increasingly difficult. As a result, the field of design is evolving beyond products, graphics, and UI/UX into a macro perspective that rethinks the very structure of nations, regions, and cities.

Going forward, design will play an ever more vital role in shaping social infrastructure itself—whether by planning “compact cities” where everyone can live safely and prosperously even with a smaller population; revitalizing communities through the reuse of vacant homes and fallow land; or updating public spaces that seamlessly bridge the digital and real worlds. I believe the future of design will expand into the “design of societal structures” aimed at enhancing people’s well-being in a world where declining birthrates, an aging population, growing diversity, and advancing technologies coexist.

My most recent exhibition was a group show at the NIIGATA ADC DESIGN AWARD 2022, where I presented “UTSUROI” at the Niitsu Museum of Art in Niigata City. It wasn’t a solo exhibition but a curated space shared with a diverse lineup of creators.

I haven’t settled on a specific date for my next show yet, but I aim to unveil a cohesive body of work focused on a single theme—either in a solo or group exhibition—by the time I’m around 45.

My design inspiration is fundamentally rooted in the philosophy of minimalism and the serene stillness of Japanese Zen. The beauty of empty space in a karesansui garden and the crisp atmosphere created by stones and sand always serve as the starting point for my creations.

Even amid the daily “chaos” of parenting and full-time design work, those fleeting moments of silence alone become an invaluable source of creativity. Wrapped in music, touched by Niigata’s austere yet beautiful nature, or uplifted by the ever-changing colors of the sky, I feel extraneous noise wash away and the contours of an idea quietly emerge from the turmoil.

Hitting a wall and diving deep into the essence of a problem is another vital moment that sharpens my inspiration. Through trial and error, hidden structures and core truths surface, becoming the seeds that sprout into my next design—a cycle I repeat again and again.

This Zen-inspired aesthetic of whitespace, the fragments of everyday life, and the iterative process of trial and error—these three pillars sustain and nourish my creativity.

I believe designers hold the key to creating a better human society. First and foremost, it’s essential to connect people and foster comfortable communication through design. By crafting beautiful scenes and spaces that move people and spark their imagination, designers fulfill a vital social responsibility.

Moreover, a designer’s work must inspire life and give people the strength to look forward. That moment of emotional impact can ignite new actions and ways of thinking, ultimately driving positive change throughout society.

I believe designers hold the key to creating a better human society. First and foremost, it’s essential to connect people and foster comfortable communication through design. By crafting beautiful scenes and spaces that move people and spark their imagination, designers fulfill a vital social responsibility.

Moreover, a designer’s work must inspire life and give people the strength to look forward. That moment of emotional impact can ignite new actions and ways of thinking, ultimately driving positive change throughout society.

I place the highest priority on dialogue with my clients. Even when I never meet distant customers face to face, I lean on Zoom, phone calls, and chat to dive deeply into their business goals, the story behind their brand, their target audience’s lifestyle, and so on. Armed with that background, I share rough sketches and prototypes at an early stage and fold their feedback into the design in real time.

When presenting ideas, I value not only the client’s viewpoint but also an outside perspective, always aiming for that “Ah—so that’s how we do it!” moment of surprise. While in-person workshops are ideal, I believe that as long as our communication remains genuine, we can co-create designs that hit the essence of the project—even if we never see one another’s faces.

When a company brings a designer on board as a partner, the most important thing is to build a relationship where you can jointly ask, “Why are we creating this?” Designers aren’t just visual producers—they’re thinkers who deliberate on how to engage society. That’s why you shouldn’t select them based solely on internal preferences or tastes; instead, listen closely to the societal perspectives and vision they bring. By sometimes exchanging views that differ from your own, you unlock more universal, core value.

To spot a great designer, look beyond the surface beauty of their work and pay attention to the underlying problem awareness and thought process. When reviewing their portfolio, ask them to articulate:

- What problem is this design trying to solve?

- For whom does it function, and how?

Digging into the research, hypothesis testing, and decision-making logic behind each piece will reveal whether they’re the right partner for your journey.

It’s also essential to establish a mechanism for direct dialogue between your organization’s leadership and the designer. Going through intermediaries tends to dilute enthusiasm and intent. By enabling honest, early-stage conversations between executives and designers, you can align visions and achieve results that exceed expectations. Even without face-to-face meetings, I believe that high-quality dialogue makes true, essence-driven co-creation possible.

My design process begins with dialogue. I start by delving deeply into the client’s goals, project background, and challenges, then crystallize those insights into clear objectives. The understanding gained here becomes the compass for every idea that follows.

Next, I remove all initial constraints and freely generate concepts. By producing rapid sketches and rough prototypes in volume, I explore possibilities from multiple angles and uncover unexpected sparks of inspiration.

The bulk of my time—about eighty percent—goes into the “elimination” phase. From the ideas generated, I rigorously strip away superfluous decorations and elements, sharpening only the core message. Repeating this refinement brings the design’s essential power into focus.

Finally, I fine-tune details like color, typography, and material choices. At this stage, whitespace and contrast are already balanced, allowing the minimal elements to convey the maximum possible impact.

My favorite design items at home are:

1. “Sun Book,” the monograph by Japanese graphic artist Yoshirotten

2. A LE KLINT pendant light

3. A LE KLINT table lamp

4. A Karimoku New Standard low table with a polygonal top

5. A sofa-and-table set by Isamu Noguchi

All of these share a minimal form stripped of superfluous ornamentation and a deep focus on materials and the interplay of light. The vivid color arrangements in Sun Book teach me about visual rhythm, while the LE KLINT lamps let me experiment with the soft atmospheres created by shadow and light. The Karimoku low table’s polygonal top creates a striking silhouette, and Noguchi’s sofa-and-table set offers daily inspiration through its organic curves and structural contrasts. Surrounded by these pieces, I find the foundation for exploring “stillness and movement,” “light and shadow,” and “form and space” in my own design practice.

I wake at 6:30, help my child get ready, and see them off to school. In the morning’s quiet, I swiftly clear the floors and tables—mindful not to leave anything out—and restore a sense of spaciousness to our home.

Once I settle into my home office, I check email and chat messages as they come in, then dive into design work. At noon, I carve out a moment for myself: I prepare a simple lunch, flick through interior- and architecture-focused YouTube channels, and then take a short nap to reset my mind.

In the afternoon, I immerse myself in tasks again, working steadily until 7 p.m. As evening flows in, I prepare dinner, clean up, and wrap up any remaining work. At 10 p.m., it’s my personal time once more—I research design and music, watch self-development videos—and before I know it, it’s past midnight and I often find myself dozing off on my Isamu Noguchi sofa.

What matters most when you’re young is stoking your curiosity without fear of failure. The ideas born from hands-on work may be rough at first, but by daring to try them out—and then reflecting on what didn’t work—you give your creative voice real depth. Don’t limit yourself to familiar techniques: leap into unknown methods and cross-disciplinary fields, and watch your thinking expand in unexpected directions.

Equally vital is the power of perseverance. When your energy flags, break your ambitions into small, manageable goals and move forward one step at a time. By practicing daily and steadily increasing your output, you’ll build both skill and confidence—and that breathing room will become fertile ground for fresh ideas.

Finally, refuse to be confined by your current surroundings or settle for second-best learning opportunities. Immersing yourself in cutting-edge cities or culturally vibrant communities will hone your perspective and give you the tools to keep updating yourself—no matter where you are. Youth is your greatest weapon: turn your mistakes and doubts into fuel, and pursue both action and learning with unrelenting passion.

The best thing about being a designer is that, in striving to solve every challenge in front of me—thinking hard and keeping my hands busy—I continuously sharpen my problem-solving skills. Whenever I hit a wall, the reservoir of ideas I’ve accumulated proves invaluable, and with each project I complete, I gain another bit of “know-how” about how to overcome obstacles. As a result, I build what I think of as creative resilience: the ability to bounce back and adapt, generating flexible thinking and outputs no matter the circumstances.

At the same time, living in the countryside and being part of a child-rearing generation sometimes brings a subtle cultural gap between my professional awareness as a designer and the local community’s sensibilities. Yet that very discomfort becomes a seed for fresh perspectives. I turn the small frictions that arise where local values and my work ethos intersect into clues for honing my own expression. In this way, the cultural and generational gaps that present a challenge also spark new ideas—and I cherish that duality as a driving force in my creativity.

The golden rule of design is to create a sense of harmony that makes viewers feel comfortable almost unconsciously. When elements like proportion, rhythm, and color are balanced, the eye is guided smoothly without any stress.

True harmony arises when a logical structure and free imagination coexist. It’s crucial to construct the relationships between elements with reason, while also suggesting a beauty that goes beyond those constraints.

Whitespace is the space that allows a design to breathe. By avoiding information overload and preserving a generous layout, you emphasize the key points without ever feeling intrusive.

On top of that, deliberately introducing twists or unexpected surprises—stepping just outside predictable harmony—creates fresh, memorable experiences. It’s the balance between harmony and subtle dissonance that forms the golden rule of the most satisfying design.

I believe the two most essential skills for a designer are:

- Future Vision

The ability to read shifts in markets, technology, and society—and to imagine needs and possibilities that haven’t yet taken shape. Design isn’t only about making the “here and now” better; it’s about crafting the experiences of “what’s next.” By always holding a forward-looking vision, you create solutions that truly matter to users.

- Courage to Transcend Preconceptions

The boldness to break free from the norms and assumptions of “how things should be,” deliberately choosing paths that might feel off-kilter. By questioning past successes and industry conventions and daring to experiment with unknown methods and ideas, you unlock fresh, high-impact expressions.

These two may seem at odds, but together they form the twin engines of creativity. By envisioning the future and then leaping into it—iterating through trial and error—you uncover discoveries only possible through that journey. Those discoveries become the seeds of the next big idea.

I use Adobe’s graphic design software.

The book I’m reading is Keiichiro Fujisaki’s Don’t Design—a biography of Draft’s founder, Satoru Miyata.

Design is a process where thinking and hands-on work are tightly intertwined, so once I dive in, I often lose track of time. It’s not uncommon for tasks to spill over beyond standard business hours.

Since I work in my living room, I carry out my daily tasks fluidly—juggling parenting and housework without a clear on/off switch.

The time required for object design varies widely depending on the project’s scale and objectives.

Logo design, in particular, demands the most time because it becomes the “face” of a company or brand. We dive deep into the brand’s story, conduct market research, and develop concepts; sketch and refine dozens of rough drafts; and iterate closely with client feedback.

Thanks to this thorough process, the quickest turnaround is about three weeks, while a more typical timeline spans one to two months.

What does “design” mean to you?

My most significant professional experience has been the UTSUROI project. Having it receive top honors at both the Asia Design Prize and the Niigata Design Award was an unrivaled joy for me as a designer. Through this journey, I came to truly appreciate the power of using design to add value to regional resources and to create genuine empathy among people. Moving forward, I plan to leverage what I learned from UTSUROI to tackle further challenges in regional branding and product development.

My clients tend to be those who cherish their region’s and culture’s unique character and want to explore their brand’s core together. From local sake breweries to regionally born startups, what they share is a view of design not as mere decoration but as a language for expressing their own values. With clients who resonate with that, deep conversations begin on day one, and by aligning our visions, projects proceed smoothly.

I also work with clients who aren’t afraid to say, “This should be done this way,” or who reach out for guidance when they’re uncertain. That trust lets me propose ideas with confidence, and they, in turn, engage actively with the final deliverables. As a result, long-term partnerships form naturally, and new commissions and referrals continue flowing in even after a project wraps up.

Above all, designing labels for Japanese sake is the most enjoyable work for me. Packaging that visualizes the local terroir and the brewery’s history—and conveys emotion to the drinker—becomes a medium that tells culture rather than merely decorating it.

I take great pleasure in the process of refining colors and motifs, imagining the first impression and tactile feel the moment someone picks up the bottle, and weaving together that narrative.

What’s more, one of the true delights of this work is combining our company’s proud printing techniques with specifications never tried before. By boldly experimenting with foil stamping, embossing, gradients in specialty inks, and more, each “label” yields a completely different expression. Those moments when technology and design spark a chemical reaction to deliver fresh surprises are what most powerfully ignite my creative drive as a designer.

In the future, I plan to leverage the paper and printing–technique insights I’ve developed to take on product design that incorporates local materials and traditional crafts. By creating objects imbued with gentle narratives that blend seamlessly into daily life, I hope to bring new value to people’s everyday experiences.

At the same time, I’ll pursue products that enable entirely new musical experiences. My goal is to design mechanisms where sound resonance, tactile feedback, and the joy of interaction intersect—providing a space not only for listening but also for active “performance” and “creation.”

I generally develop my designs entirely on my own. From initial sketches to rough drafts, refinement, and final files, I find that thinking through every step in my head and carrying it out by hand ensures conceptual consistency and produces a deeply satisfying result.

That said, design can easily become self-indulgent. For that reason, I actively seek feedback from trusted colleagues, mentors, and clients. Bringing in these different perspectives uncovers issues I might have overlooked on my own and sparks the seeds of new ideas—striking this balance, I believe, is the key to marrying originality with objectivity.

At this point, I can’t share the project details yet, but I’m currently refining the core concept while experimenting with new materials, printing techniques, and structural combinations. Working by hand and iterating prototypes every day has been a tremendous learning experience in itself.

As soon as the design takes shape, I’d love to reveal it—so I’d greatly appreciate your feedback when the time comes.

By email, phone, Instagram, or Facebook.

Although these questions haven’t covered this, I’m always striving to break through new barriers with my designs. I want to continue creating innovative, emotionally moving works that aren’t confined by existing boundaries. And when an exciting idea takes shape, I’d love to enter it in competitions and exhibitions so that many people can share in the experience.

The slit animation embedded in the Utsuroi package was designed to convey the passage of time—not through technology or illustration, but through a simple, tactile motion triggered during the act of opening. As the user gently slides the outer sleeve, the year indicator changes, evoking the subtle yet constant movement of time itself. This visible transformation becomes an abstract metaphor for aging—a core element of sake itself.Rather than merely preserving sake in a box, I wanted the package to serve as a witness to time. The motion invites reflection, encouraging the recipient to feel the gap between when the gift was given and when it is finally opened. The device is simple, but intentional. By asking the user to interact physically—to draw time into motion with their own hands—it breathes life into what would otherwise be a static object.This design is meant not just to house a bottle, but to shape an experience: a poetic device that quietly connects sender and recipient across the years. It invites them into a small ceremony of memory and anticipation, making the moment of opening not the end of a gift, but the culmination of shared time.

For the vintages of 2004, 2012, and 2019, Utsuroi expresses the temporal depth of aged sake not through ornate decoration, but through restraint. To emphasize the subtle transformation across time, the year labels were printed solely with silver foil and clear varnish—deliberately omitting any excessive ornamentation. This visual economy reflects the quiet dignity of aged sake itself.The clear varnish was designed to reveal itself only under shifting light, making the year appear almost ethereal. Because of this delicacy, we were especially careful about the balance of transparency and contrast—ensuring the print would be perceptible without being overpowering. I personally attended the printing sessions, collaborating closely with the press technicians to make countless subtle adjustments to ink density, foil pressure, and finish quality until every layer aligned as intended.Printing, often considered a technical step, became a deeply sensory and intuitive part of the design process. We weren't just transferring ink onto paper—we were attempting to give visible form to something typically intangible: the gentle accumulation of time. The year—barely visible, yet undeniably present—emerges quietly through silver and light, offering a poetic representation of maturation, memory, and the beauty of restraint.

During my time in Kamo, observing the traditional process of washi paper-making left a quiet but lasting impression on how I approach design. It wasn’t about technique—it was about attitude. I was struck by the rhythm of repetition, the stillness of labor, and the profound attention to every invisible detail that makes the final piece speak without raising its voice.This sensibility lives on in the way I developed Utsuroi. Although there was no direct stylistic borrowing, the process of creating it—especially the iterative refinement of printing foil and varnish for the year markings—reflected the same kind of devotion. I personally attended multiple printing sessions, carefully fine-tuning light reflection and visibility in close dialogue with craftsmen on site. That experience felt very close in spirit to the silent dedication I witnessed in Kamo's washi studios.In Utsuroi, the beauty doesn't come from how much is added, but from how much is allowed to remain still. My time with regional craft reminded me that design is not just about making form—but about how we choose to relate to time, to materials, and to the people who bring things into being.

Utsuroi was priced at around 10,000 yen—a high-end item intentionally limited to just 100 sets. This specification was predetermined by the client, and within that framework, my role was to explore how to deliver a sense of refined exclusivity through design. Rather than aiming for standardization or everyday usability, the concept focused on creating a singular, memorable experience tailored for discerning individuals—a so-called “connoisseur” who savors not only the drink, but the time around it.Because the item was not mass-distributed, it didn’t need to conform to commercial norms or establish long-term brand recognition. Instead, its brevity allowed room for poetic experimentation. We embraced that rare opportunity to design something sensorial and bold—unconventional in form, yet elegant in tone.The limited quantity became a strength. It gave us permission to propose a structure that would not follow familiar packaging tropes, but instead resonate emotionally. From the first tactile interaction to the act of opening, the package invites quiet surprise and personal reflection—especially when given as a gift. That moment of unveiling becomes a shared memory between the sender and recipient, rooted in rarity and intention.It is, in every sense, a luxurious and unapologetically niche product—born precisely because it was never meant to be ordinary.

My design approach is shaped by two distinct but complementary perspectives—one rooted in metropolitan branding and graphic design, and another shaped by firsthand exposure to traditional regional crafts. Both have quietly informed the way Utsuroi balances a restrained structure with an emotive undercurrent.For instance, the use of slit animation and the decision to express the passage of time using minimal visual cues reflect a metropolitan mindset: one that values communicating more through less. At the same time, my involvement in the printing process—standing alongside craftspeople to fine-tune the balance of foil and varnish by hand—draws from the sensibility I gained by observing local artisans’ dedication to subtle, tactile details.What may appear at first as an innovative structure is in fact deeply rooted in sensitivity to material, time, and silence. I believe this dual perspective—between efficiency and attentiveness, between concept and craft—is what gives Utsuroi its quiet strength and sense of cultural resonance.

Long-aged sake and gift-giving both carry a quiet weight—the weight of time. That sense of anticipation naturally made me wonder: could the act of opening a package become a small ceremony in itself?For Utsuroi, I wanted to craft an experience in which the opening gesture would gently heighten awareness of time. Rather than treating the box as a neutral container, I focused on designing an unfolding process that carries a rhythm—a deliberate moment of pause. The slit animation that shifts the year as the package is slid open is not merely a gimmick, but a subtle way to make the invisible motion of time feel tangible.The idea began with a simple question: how might we turn a "first encounter" into a memory? That led to a structure and sequence in which the recipient does more than just access the contents—they mark a moment, almost like opening a quiet threshold between past and present.By encouraging a slower, intentional interaction, I hoped the packaging would support the ceremonial nature of enjoying sake itself. It’s not just about design function—it’s about honoring the time both within and around the object.

In designing Utsuroi, I chose not to directly reference the geographical landscape or physical features of the brewery’s coastal location. Instead, my focus was on capturing a more internal landscape—the emotional sense of time that slowly accumulates.While Takeda Shuzo's deep roots in Niigata Prefecture certainly evoke a connection to place, what resonated with me most was how their long-standing tradition reflects a quiet continuity through change. The design does not overtly depict dunes or coastlines. Rather, it invites the user to experience the passage of time through minimal means—by touch, by motion, by silence.This was an intentional approach: to express the regional story not by illustrating it, but by allowing it to quietly permeate the experience. In this way, I hoped to evoke the essence of “utsuroi”—that which shifts, fades, and endures all at once.

Utsuroi challenged conventional notions of what "premium" means in the beverage industry. Because of its high price point, the initial expectation from some parties was to use a traditional wooden box to signal luxury. But through close dialogue with the client, we recognized that not all premium experiences rely on conventional symbols of wealth or tradition.Instead, we considered the behavior of the intended audience—connoisseurs who may wish to savor their sake in solitude, as a personal ritual. For such individuals, the notion of luxury might not lie in external materials, but in the internal resonance of the moment itself. This insight led us to explore a different idea: that packaging could evoke value through emotional memory, not just physical appearance.Thus, rather than choosing a conventional luxury material like paulownia wood, we focused on creating a structure that feels like a quiet ceremony. A design that allows time, silence, and motion to create atmosphere. This approach suggests that future premium beverage packaging might move beyond protection and opulence, becoming instead a stage for emotional engagement.Winning the Silver A' Design Award affirms this alternative path—acknowledging that luxury today may be less about grandeur, and more about the subtlety of experience.

With Utsuroi, I wanted the packaging to highlight—not overshadow—the subtle beauty of aged sake’s amber hue. Over time, the color evolves delicately, and I felt that the design should make space for that natural change to be appreciated. Rather than masking or competing with it, the packaging needed to step back and let the sake speak for itself.While decorative elements like gold or elaborate motifs are common in Japanese sake packaging, I believe that sometimes the act of not over-explaining can speak louder. Leaving space for the viewer to wonder—“What is this?”—isn’t a lack of storytelling, but another way of inviting engagement.By limiting visual information to the barest elements—silver foil, clear varnish, soft reflection—I aimed to create a sensory experience rooted in restraint. The shifting visibility depending on light and angle becomes a quiet metaphor for transience and subtlety. In a way, the package is designed not to communicate everything, but to whisper.Looking back, this choice may be informed by a sensibility akin to Japanese Zen—where silence, impermanence, and simplicity converge into their own kind of elegance.

Creating the slit animation mechanism for Utsuroi required an unusually high level of technical precision. We adjusted the spacing and alignment of the stripes on the sleeve multiple times until the animation flowed seamlessly when viewed in motion.One of the most crucial visual elements was the black ink used in the central logo and the sleeve stripes, where the changing year needed to feel clear and impactful. I wanted the black to have both depth and sharpness—something that isn’t always easy to achieve in offset printing. Thanks to the suggestion from press operator Mr. Hasegawa, we used a double hit of 100% K ink (pure black), followed by a clear varnish coating. This approach helped us achieve the strong, condensed black I hoped for while still keeping production costs reasonable.None of this would have been possible without the extraordinary support of the team at Prograf. Their technical expertise, attention to detail, and creative problem-solving played a vital role in realizing the design. I’m deeply grateful—this award is not mine alone, but a shared achievement built on trust and collaboration.