Of all the people who have shaped my life, Yoko Ono has had the most profound influence on who I am today.

I first encountered Yoko—or rather, her work—sometime in my mid-to-late twenties.

To be honest, I can’t remember exactly when. Those were years of intense change. I was throwing myself wholeheartedly into the pursuit of a dream, and my life was changing just as rapidly. Looking back, it all seems a little blurred. But I believe it happened somewhere in the midst of all that.

A friend invited me to visit the John Lennon Museum in Saitama, and that was where it began.

Back then, John Lennon was little more than a famous, almost legendary figure in my mind. Of course, I had heard the Beatles’ music, but that was about the extent of my knowledge.

As for Yoko, I knew her primarily as the wife of the famous John Lennon, and as a fellow Japanese person. I knew she was an artist, but I had never seen her work. To be honest, I had assumed she might be an artist in name only.

Looking back, I think that assumption came, at least in part, from the subtly negative image of her that seemed to circulate in Japan. Nothing necessarily explicit, but enough to leave an impression.

And at the time, I accepted that impression without questioning it.

I was still far removed from the world of art, and my perception of Yoko was, in many ways, the conventional one.

That was about all I knew of the two of them. Still, I made the trip all the way to Saitama simply because my friend had invited me. We were both from Chiba, so Saitama was quite a distance from home.

And so I went, without knowing anything more.

As we wandered through the museum together, my friend, who had gone a little ahead of me, came back and said,

“You have to see this! It’s incredible!”

“What is?”

I looked in the direction they were pointing. There was a ladder, with a magnifying glass hanging from the ceiling.

“What’s so special about that?” I wondered.

Still not understanding, I climbed the ladder and peered through the magnifying glass at the ceiling.

And in that very instant, I felt something inside my body that I had never experienced before.

It was as though a little light had suddenly flickered to life inside me, and warmth began to spread throughout my body.

The work I had encountered was Ceiling Painting.

It is a pivotal work in the story of how John and Yoko first met. That, I imagine, was why it was exhibited at the museum.

But this was long before the days when we could look everything up online before experiencing it for ourselves. I had arrived with absolutely no prior knowledge of the work, and so I was able to encounter it without expectations or preconceived ideas.

In a way, I was able to experience it just as John had.

I encountered it purely, without knowing what I was supposed to think or feel.

The experience was extraordinary.

What I felt was entirely different from anything I had ever experienced in front of a work of art. More than anything, it was a feeling of immense warmth—something expansive, tender, and filled with love.

I was genuinely astonished.

I had thought Yoko might be an artist in name only. But I was wrong.

She was the real thing.

I knew it then, with absolute clarity.

Even now, whenever I recall that moment, I can still feel that same warmth slowly spreading through my body, just as it did back then.

Decades have passed, and yet the feeling remains.

That is how extraordinary this work is.

And yet, at the time, I was completely absorbed in pursuing my own dream. I was moving forward with everything I had, and I never stopped to explore Yoko or her work any further.

Life carried me on through its rough waters. For many years, although I remembered my experience of Ceiling Paintingvividly, I never really went beyond that memory.

Then, nearly twenty years later, after many twists and turns, I finally began making art of my own.

And one day, something suddenly occurred to me.

What if the thing that had guided me all those years, bringing me to where I was today, was that warmth Yoko had given me back then?

The more I thought about it, the more deeply I felt that this might be true.

That day, Yoko had given me something extraordinarily precious.

A seed filled with immense love and warmth.

I cannot shake the feeling that this is what happened.

Over the years, that seed had been growing somewhere deep inside me, entirely beyond my awareness. Without my knowing it, it had taken root, sprouted, and grown into a great tree, its branches spreading and its leaves flourishing in abundance.

All the while, it had been gently nudging me from within, again and again.

Until, eventually, the tree grew so large that it could no longer be contained. It began to break through the walls of who I thought I was, until I found myself doing what I had truly wanted to do all along.

It was as though Yoko had been supporting me all along, with an immense and tender love, helping me find the courage to become who I truly am and to live as my authentic self.

Perhaps it sounds too good to be true.

But I genuinely cannot shake the feeling that this is what happened.

I believe that those who have had the chance to experience Yoko’s work with an open heart may have received something of that same immense love.

Even if they have not yet realized it themselves.

I do not make a habit of looking up to people easily. But Yoko is someone I know, without a doubt, that I deeply admire.

Not only as an artist, but also for the way she lives as a human being—for the purity and authenticity with which she continues to live and express herself.

And yet, I know that I cannot become Yoko. Nor do I need to.

What I want is to cherish what she gave me and continue to live and create in my own way, with the same wholehearted commitment that she has brought to her life and work.

To express myself as only I can.

To live fully as myself.

That is what I want, with all my heart.

October 18, 2026

mienaimonotachi

みえないものたち