Henri Bergson (1859–1941) stated that “memory is not the past itself, but the movement by which the past penetrates the present.” In other words, memory is not simply a return to an earlier point in time; it is the activity through which the past breathes within this very moment.

Memory may be something like a house without form. Within the flow of time, human memories accumulate quietly. Even after a person leaves a place, faint whispers that were never spoken and feelings that were never conveyed continue to layer upon one another, forming invisible strata. The place I wish to gaze upon through portraiture is not a specific, personal narrative. It is a very small, yet unmistakably true story—something that cannot be called poetry, yet cannot be called silence either. / Shimpei YOSHIDA

In recent years, Yoshida has shifted her medium from colored pencil to oil paint, and her mist-like portraits now appear to possess greater concreteness than before. Yet, through the repeated rendering of the same motifs, the figures never reveal distinct individuality; instead, they maintain an even more elusive and intangible sense of fictionality. The dramatic effects created by the play of light and shadow evoke time and memory, quietly speaking to the viewer’s emotions while giving rise to a poetic world. The scenes he paints seem somehow familiar, as though fragments of the countless portraits depicted throughout the long history of painting were gently overlapping and drifting across Yoshida’s canvases.

In this solo exhibition, the word “House” resonates with particular significance. GALLERY crossing is a space in which a white cube has been inserted into a former residence holding the memories of a family’s past, creating an intentional interplay between the two. It is precisely the kind of site where, as Bergson argues, “the movement by which the past penetrates the present” takes place. When the metaphor of the house is reflected both in the works and in the space itself, what kinds of narratives will emerge?