In conversation with Sho Shibuya
Sho Shibuya‘s art exists at the intersection of ritual, reflection, and the relentless passage of time. What began as a quiet, daily meditation, painting over the front page of The New York Times during the early days of the pandemic, has since become a poignant, ongoing visual diary. By layering gradients of color and abstract imagery over headlines, Sho Shibuya draws a contemplative contrast between the emotional weight of current events and the serenity of the natural world. This contrast is not only aesthetic but deeply personal, rooted in his desire to process the chaos outside by creating moments of stillness within.
Based in Brooklyn but originally from Japan, Sho Shibuya continues to use ephemeral, everyday materials like newspapers to investigate presence and impermanence. His growing archive of painted newsprint compresses time into a tactile, visual record, speaking to both personal routine and collective experience. Whether exhibited at global institutions like Triennale Milano or in collaboration with Saint Laurent at Art Basel Miami Beach, his work remains intimate and introspective. In our conversation, Sho Shibuya shares how consistency fuels his creativity, and why the project, like time itself, may never truly end.
Greetings, Sho Shibuya. It is an honor for us to speak with an artist of your caliber and esteem. Sho, you strike me as a quiet soul who bears the world’s weight on your shoulders with an unflinching yet thoughtful resolve. When did you first realize that your artistic voice could be used as a tool for world change?
I have worked as a graphic designer, creating commercial work for years. The first time I painted and posted my work on Instagram was in 2016, and the reaction I received was different from anything I’d experienced with my design work. The comments were more personal—more connected to the truth of who I am. Although there were fewer likes and comments, I found real joy in expressing my emotions through painting. Since then, I have painted almost every day.
The sunrise painting in the New York Times format was born four years later, in 2020, as a response to the pandemic—an extended version of the piece I first created in 2016. At my core, nothing has changed. It never mattered how many people reacted; I continued because I enjoyed the process. That remains the only reason I keep going.
I never set out to make art as a tool for world change. My work comes from a deeply subjective and narrow place—each morning, I read the newspaper and feel something. I transfer that feeling into the artwork. As a private person who doesn’t speak out much, I’ve found that art allows me to communicate through the internet in a way I never expected. Even though I live in a quiet world, I’ve realized I’m still part of this society—without needing to speak aloud.
The New York Times exists as a throne of cultural power which you re-contextualize with the might of your painterly stroke. This transmutation from news into art object speaks to the importance of medium and message. What does it mean to you that power in art can shift so viscerally depending upon its medium?
I can’t ignore the fact that if I painted the same sunrise on a traditional canvas, it wouldn’t carry the same weight. The contrast between political news and the stillness of nature creates a charged, dynamic reality. The newspaper—anchored in time by its daily cycle—adds a unique layer of context and value. Knowing that nothing is permanent, I feel fortunate to live in an era where I can still use this medium as my canvas. It is fragile, fleeting, and immediate—just like the moment I’m trying to capture.
Similar to the former question, at Art Basel Miami Beach with Saint Laurent, you reframed The New York Times as a palimpsest for your sunrise gradients, simultaneously appropriating and making personal the paper’s authority. What philosophical stakes underpin this act of overwriting, and how do you interpret the shift in power when a disposable medium becomes a site of aesthetic sovereignty? Feel free to discuss the importance of Mottainai here.
As Japanese people who believe in the concept of “Eight Million Gods,” we understand that every object holds a spirit. This belief teaches us to cherish things deeply—to treat even the most ordinary items, like newspapers or metro cards, with reverence. One of my favorite moments is seeing a newspaper spin on the street, forming a small tornado. It’s a reminder that beauty exists in the overlooked, if we change our perspective.
In 2020, as the pandemic reshaped our lives and the daily news became a source of exhaustion, I turned to the newspaper I receive at home. I began to overwrite it with the sunrise I saw from my small window. It was instinctive. This simple act transformed a disposable object into something personal and hopeful. It offered a quiet resistance—a way to reclaim empathy, to assert that even in the noise of crisis, there is still light.
This relates deeply to the philosophy of mottainai—the idea that nothing should be wasted. By painting over the newspaper, I am not discarding it, but honoring it. It becomes a vessel of memory, emotion, and meaning—an ephemeral object granted a second life.
Your art — iconic symbols, holes, gradients — turns time into a single, codified image, compressing complex turmoil into a glance. Upon acknowledging that the marks you leave tend to become more celebrated than the events they exegete, how does this flattening feel to you knowing that your images remain memorable in the cultural zeitgeist more than the stories easily lost to the speed of the news cycle? I acknowledge that you couple stories with your paintings, but, images tend to be more easily recalled over narratives sans headlines.
I invest my pure energy into creating a painting each day. My goal is to craft an image that speaks without needing explanation—something that can be shared and felt instinctively, like a universal symbol or an emoji. Sometimes, words fall short in expressing the emotional weight of an event, but a simple visual language can cut through that gap.
It’s true that images often outlast the stories behind them, especially in a time when news cycles move so quickly. I don’t take that lightly. I see it as both a responsibility and a limitation. While I do include stories with my paintings, I also accept that the image may become what people remember most. In that way, I try to create something timeless, something that holds a feeling even if the headline is forgotten..
Where Dada wielded absurdity as a blade against war and political cartoons criticized hypocrisy, your art opts for softened gestures like hopeful salves instead of openly bitter indictments. What does your choice to sidestep cynicism say about your vision of art’s role in healing or reorienting a fractured world, and how does it shape your approach to living?
I put my honest emotions into my art—nothing more than that. I choose to offer something gentle, something human. I also believe that freedom of speech and expression must be fully protected. That freedom allows artists to choose different tones—whether it’s sharp criticism or quiet reflection. My way is simply to respond with sincerity and compassion. In a world that can feel harsh and overwhelming, I don’t want to add more noise. I want to offer a pause—a breath.
Your daily practice evokes a ritualistic discipline, yet due to its nature the news becomes an opposite force because of its constant flux though is similar in that it’s repetitively ever present. How do you think this interplay between control and chance mirrors the broader human struggle to impose order on an unpredictable world? Do you ever think about these relationships?
I try not to dwell on things I can’t control. Both nature and the news fall into that category — they’re unpredictable and constantly changing. What I can control is my daily routine, so I focus my energy there. It helps me stay grounded. As for everything else, I’ve learned to let it flow and unfold as it will.
Your Instagram and website exist as dynamic chronicles of your practice, while exhibitions like Fifty Sky Views of Japan at Tokyo National Museum anchor the ephemeral in physical space. How do you navigate the tension between the immediacy of digital visibility and the depth of tactile presence, and what does this duality expose about the modern hunger for connection amidst attention’s further fragmentation?
I love repetition. Every day, I take a sunrise photo from the same spot. In exhibitions, the same frame and format repeat — only the sky changes. It’s a way of grounding the digital immediacy in something physical and meditative. This routine helps me notice the smallest shifts, and if I can find joy in that, my life feels full.
Byron Kim’s Sunday Paintings render the sky a meditative continuum, a neutral field of contemplation, whereas your sunrises instantiate repetition as rupture of the moment’s chaos. You paint skies from different locations in the world yet all of them have the common trait of being of a unified substance. What is the importancs? Render this question literally or as a figure.
Continuity is the most important part of my practice. No matter where I am in the world, I can still paint the sky on the same day as the newspaper — as long as the newspaper exists. That shared timeframe creates a sense of unity, even across different places and skies.
Please do tell us more about your coming shows or personal projects, or please do leave us with a message you feel is important.
I recently traveled across all 50 states in America during the 2024 election period, collecting each state’s newspaper and painting the corresponding sky. I’m still reflecting on how this body of work will take shape. Looking ahead, I have several upcoming exhibitions: in August 2025 at the Podo Museum in Korea, in October 2025 at Bienvenu Steinberg & C Gallery in New York, and in December 2025 at the Dib Museum in Bangkok.
All images courtesy of Sho Shibuya, shared with permission
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