錆で描く、時間と記憶
── アーティスト・鈴木勁

I found it in my senior year of college. It started with a really small assignment: “make something with your own material.” It was very open—some people picked up branches, laid them on the ground and spelled out letters. While I was looking into what to do, I saw a YouTube video of someone who seemed to be a vintage shop owner, rusting everything—cars, gates, anything—to give it a vintage look.

First I was amazed: “You can control rust this much?” “You can make something this fast?” But when I looked into it, nobody was using this technique to actually “draw” anything. In that moment I thought there was a huge opportunity here.

There were people who left iron plates out in the rain and presented the resulting surfaces as abstract, organic works. But I couldn't find anyone who controlled rust and painted pictures in rust colors—not within the range I searched. I probably still haven't met anyone like that. It was a flash of inspiration: this is what I'll do.

Yes. Until I came to the U.S., I lived a life with no connection to art. I didn't go to a specialized art school, but to the art department of a regular four-year university. I decided to try everything there, both flat work and sculpture. Once I started, I got completely hooked and began to hope this could become my job.

But just like someone who has played piano since childhood, people who have drawn since they were kids are far ahead of me in rendering skill and fundamentals. Partway through I realized I shouldn't compete on that track, and I was trying to find something of my own. I met rust right at that moment.

I think so. I wasn't drawing, but since high school I liked making small accessories and embroidering clothes. I preferred wearing slightly goofy accessories I'd made myself over trendy fashion. They'd never overlap with anyone else's.

Rather than entering a competition that already exists, I like stepping out of it and competing in a place only I occupy. I've always liked that. Originality is still what I value most.

No, not at all. My university was near Chicago, which is very far from New York. International students can't stay in the U.S. after graduating without a job. While I was wondering what to do, I happened to get a job as an assistant to a Japanese artist.

The artist's studio was in New York. I just charged in and said, “Please take me in,” and they found it funny and took me on. So I moved from Chicago. I started alone, with no family or acquaintances.

No. I worked there for about three years and quit last spring. I got my own artist visa between last spring and summer. I've only been independent for a little over a year.

Flat rust works are, in fact, a material you can't take your time with. If left alone, the color keeps getting darker. If I want to keep rust's bright orange, it's a race against time. It depends on size, but even the large ones take a month at most. I think that's quite fast compared with other artists.

At the end I spray on a finishing coat, and without it the rust never stops progressing. So even while I'm painting, I'm thinking, “The color is already changing, I need to wrap this up soon,” and I feel constantly chased. There are quite a few lucky punches too, where chance comes to my rescue.

No. Once I stop it with the coating, it's fine. Everything on display is in its post-coating state. The only time I'm chased is until that point.

With sculpture, I often assemble with no plan, going by the live feel—saying things like, “this one should be longer.” Recently I've changed my approach a little, and even for flat works I sometimes sketch out a rough design first. I like both.

Building without a design or reference feels very pure. Just as everyone has different favorite colors, everyone surely has their own shapes that feel “cool.” When I build with only that in mind, the purity is very high.

Man-made objects. Partly because I use rust, but I love decaying artificial things, like factories. My studio is also in a factory-district kind of area, and I often go for walks.

When I walk, I find shapes that only I can see in unintended places—like a shape formed by a car happening to be parked in front, overlapping with what's behind it. I take photos of those and save them, like my own inspiration board.

I've done both. But the influences I'm under at a given time naturally become the common thread of the work. So I don't mix in older pieces much; I gather recent ones to show. These days, rather than deciding the theme first, I more often look over what's finished and discover, “maybe this is what it's about.”