The Mundane, Extraordinary Studio Life of Nohana Sayama

Nohana Sayama in studio. Photograph: © Chihiro Shigemitsu

Sharing a studio with Nohana Sayama is, on most days, entirely mundane — and utterly chaotic. We abuse our coffee machine. We panic over applications. We move piles of fabric and stretchers from one corner to another. And yet, every so often, I catch a glimpse of the emerging star that others speak of so confidently.

Driven by her geographically untethered lifestyle since childhood, her paintings are, in one sense, her way of documenting moments and places that held her presence. Interiors that bore witness to her existence. Although devoid of human presence, these shrines of memory evoke a certain warmth– a sense of domestic gravity that grounds what her life rarely allows to linger. 

And yet, when we are alone in the studio, she simply says, “I like the colours. The composition. That’s all there is to it.”

As the primary witness to her process, I watch the durational layering of Gansai washes build contrast with careful deliberation, carrying conceptual weight beyond mere technique. Each stroke is an inward cry — restrained yet insistent — repeating: Remember me. Remember me. I must remember.

Studio days with Nohana are rarely silent. Much like her canvases, she carries a constant hum of energy, filling the room with chatter that drifts between aesthetics, studio ramblings better left unrecorded, and existential spirals. I would love to claim we work with unwavering discipline — but the truth is less glamorous. Some afternoons dissolve into lounging on her handmade beanbag characters, sipping coffee (or tea), and sharing enough cup ramen and chocolate to sustain a dozen uni students.

Other days are less indulgent. We step into the studio only to discover that all the canvases we stretched have warped in the night. Bent, and very not square, I remember us sitting cross-legged in the middle of our cluttered space, forlornly thinking, “ are all our paintings destined to warp?” (stretching paper is a very tricky and temperamental process indeed). Desperately searching for solutions, we attempt to fix the warped corners to the wall (unfortunately all of Nohana’s talent is focused on painting and not on wielding screwdrivers).

However, when we filmed the interview, I was reminded of who artist Nohana Sayama truly was when she spoke confidently to the camera about her work. On camera, Nohana Sayama sheds the quirks and chaos of the studio. Her words are deliberate, measured — a sharp contrast to the laughter and rambling that fill our days. She explains her practice simply: documenting interiors as vessels that carry memory. “My theme is about trying to remember my place and trying to find belonging,” she says. “I don’t really have a place I can call home, or where I belong.”

The studio is both a workspace and a sanctuary. “So this is my working space,” she points out, showing a slightly cluttered tabletop where her primary medium, Gansai, is laid out in a custom palette. Surprisingly (but not really) her favourite section is our snack bar, featuring our rapidly growing mug collection. “It’s either the snack (bar) or the bean bag (corner). I can’t choose.” 

It is a cozy space, and so very Nohana — her handmade beanbags, the stool she stole from uni in first year, the little trinkets she collects to anchor her fleeting sense of home– arranged in a way that feels familiar to her paintings. It strikes me now with clarity that this studio that she shares with me now will one day become a composition when we inevitably leave this space. 

Watching her speak, I see beyond the shared chaos of noodles, warped canvases, and the unholy wielding of screwdrivers. Behind the laughter and the fleeting frustrations– here is the artist carving permanence out of impermanence, one brushstroke at a time– my good friend, Nohana Sayama.

Photo: Chihiro Shigemitsu, Gigi Text: Gigi