provincial language的八卦，Yahoo名人娛樂都在討論

สรุปภาพรวม เศรษฐกิจ ภาคใต้ /โดย ลงทุนแมน
“โอ่โอ ปักษ์ใต้บ้านเรา แม่น้ำ ภูเขา ทะเลกว้างไกล..”
ท่อนหนึ่งจากเพลง ปักษ์ใต้บ้านเรา ของศิลปิน แฮมเมอร์ ที่อธิบายภาพ ภาคใต้ ของประเทศไทยได้อย่างชัดเจน

เราอาจจะรู้จักภาคใต้ ในฐานะที่มีแหล่งท่องเที่ยวทางทะเลมากมาย
แต่นอกจากด้านการท่องเที่ยวแล้ว เศรษฐกิจในภาคส่วนอื่นของภาคใต้ เป็นอย่างไร?
ลงทุนแมนจะเล่าให้ฟัง
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ที่ช่วยอัปเดตสถานการณ์ ในรูปแบบบทความ วิดีโอ
รวมไปถึงพอดแคสต์ ที่มีให้ฟังระหว่างเดินทางด้วย
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ภาคใต้ หรือ ปักษ์ใต้
เป็นภูมิภาคที่ตั้งอยู่บนคาบสมุทรมลายู
ขนาบด้วยทะเลอ่าวไทยทางฝั่งตะวันออก
และทะเลอันดามันทางฝั่งตะวันตก

สภาพภูมิประเทศ มีทั้งแนวเทือกเขาที่เป็นแหล่งกำเนิดแม่น้ำ พื้นที่ชุ่มน้ำที่เหมาะกับการเพาะปลูก และพื้นที่ส่วนใหญ่ทั้งตะวันออกและตะวันตกติดกับทะเล

ภาคใต้ของประเทศไทย มีทั้งหมด 14 จังหวัด
โดยตั้งแต่จังหวัดที่อยู่เหนือสุด คือชุมพร
และพื้นที่ใต้สุดของประเทศไทย คืออำเภอเบตง จังหวัดยะลา

ภาคใต้มีพื้นที่รวม 70,715 ตารางกิโลเมตร
เมื่อเทียบกับพื้นที่ประเทศไทยที่ 513,000 ตารางกิโลเมตร
จะคิดเป็น 13.8% ของพื้นที่ประเทศไทย
และพื้นที่ในขนาดเท่านี้ เล็กกว่าภาคอีสาน ซึ่งเป็นภูมิภาคที่ใหญ่ที่สุดของไทยกว่า 2 เท่า

ภาคใต้มีประชากรทั้งหมดประมาณ 7.3 ล้านคน
คิดเป็นประมาณ 11% ของประชากรทั้งหมดของไทย
และน้อยกว่าภาคอีสาน ที่มีประชากรมากสุดในไทยถึง 3 เท่า

มูลค่าผลิตภัณฑ์มวลรวมรายจังหวัดในภาคใต้ ปี 2560
หรือที่เรียกว่า GPP (Gross Provincial Product) มีมูลค่าเท่ากับ 1.2 ล้านล้านบาท
คิดเป็นประมาณ 8% ของ GDP ประเทศไทย

โดยจังหวัดที่มีขนาดเศรษฐกิจใหญ่ที่สุด 3 อันดับแรกของภาคใต้ คือ
สงขลา ขนาดเศรษฐกิจประมาณ 212,000 ล้านบาท
ภูเก็ต ขนาดเศรษฐกิจประมาณ 200,400 ล้านบาท
สุราษฎร์ธานี ขนาดเศรษฐกิจประมาณ 176,400 ล้านบาท

ซึ่งถ้ารวมขนาดเศรษฐกิจของ 3 จังหวัดนี้เข้าด้วยกัน
จะคิดเป็นครึ่งหนึ่ง ของขนาดเศรษฐกิจภาคใต้เลยทีเดียว

รายได้ต่อหัวประชากรในภาคใต้ (GPP per Capita) ปี 2561 เท่ากับ 147,115 บาทต่อปี
ซึ่งยังน้อยกว่ารายได้ต่อหัวประชากรไทยทั้งประเทศ ที่เท่ากับ 236,815 บาทต่อปี

แต่ที่น่าสนใจคือ เมืองท่องเที่ยวที่สำคัญของภาคใต้
อย่างเช่น ภูเก็ตที่เป็นเกาะเล็กๆ และมีประชากรเพียง 4 แสนกว่าคน
เป็นจังหวัดที่มีรายได้ต่อหัวประชากรสูงที่สุดในภาคใต้ ที่ประมาณ 388,559 บาท

ในปี 2562 ภาคใต้มีจำนวนนักท่องเที่ยวเดินทางไปทั้งหมด 52 ล้านคน โดยแบ่งเป็นนักท่องเที่ยวชาวไทย 26.1 ล้านคน และต่างชาติ 26.9 ล้านคน

จังหวัดที่นักท่องเที่ยวเดินทางไปมากที่สุดคือ ภูเก็ต 14.5 ล้านคน รองลงมาคือ สงขลา 7.6 ล้านคน กระบี่ 6.8 ล้านคน และสุราษฎร์ธานี 6.1 ล้านคน

ภาคใต้ ยังเป็นแหล่งพืชเศรษฐกิจหลักและการทำประมง ซึ่งมูลค่าผลผลิตภาคการเกษตรในปี 2560 เท่ากับ 259,614 ล้านบาท
โดยรายได้จากภาคการเกษตรทุก 100 บาท มาจาก
ยางพารา 41 บาท
ประมงและการเพาะเลี้ยงสัตว์น้ำ 17 บาท
ปาล์มน้ำมัน 15 บาท
ผลไม้ 12 บาท
อื่นๆ 15 บาท

ส่วนในด้านอุตสาหกรรม
ภาคใต้มีมูลค่าเงินลงทุนในภาคอุตสาหกรรมประมาณ 290,000 ล้านบาท หรือคิดเป็นประมาณ 3.9% ของการลงทุนทั้งประเทศไทย โดยจังหวัดที่มีมูลค่าการลงทุนด้านอุตสาหกรรมมากที่สุด คือ จังหวัดสงขลา

ที่สำคัญคือ จังหวัดสงขลา เป็นที่ตั้งของนิคมอุตสาหกรรมฉลุง
ซึ่งเป็นนิคมอุตสาหกรรมแห่งเดียวในภาคใต้ ที่เน้นอุตสาหกรรมการแปรรูปผลิตภัณฑ์ยางพารา

ตัวอย่างบริษัทอุตสาหกรรมขนาดใหญ่ในจังหวัดสงขลา
คือ บริษัท ศรีตรังโกลฟส์ (ประเทศไทย) จำกัด (มหาชน)
บริษัทผลิตถุงมือยาง ที่มีมูลค่าหลักแสนล้านบาท ในตลาดหลักทรัพย์แห่งประเทศไทย

นอกจากนี้ ภาคใต้ยังมีพื้นที่ชายแดนที่ติดกับประเทศเพื่อนบ้าน ทั้งมาเลเซีย และเมียนมา ซึ่งมีมูลค่าการค้าขายตามแนวชายแดนรวมกันกว่า 586,000 ล้านบาท

และที่น่าสนใจก็คือ
ด่านชายแดนสะเดา และ ด่านชายแดนปาดังเบซาร์ ในจังหวัดสงขลา
มีมูลค่าการค้าชายแดน คิดเป็น 42.6% ของมูลค่าการค้าตามแนวชายแดนทั้งหมดของไทยเลยทีเดียว

แต่ปัญหาที่เกิดขึ้น ก็คล้ายๆ กันกับภูมิภาคอื่นๆ
คือเม็ดเงินโครงการต่างๆ และรายได้จากนักท่องเที่ยว กระจุกตัวอยู่เพียงไม่กี่จังหวัด

ทำให้บางจังหวัดที่ไม่มีแหล่งท่องเที่ยวที่เป็นที่นิยม หรือไม่มีพื้นที่ติดทะเล อย่างเช่น พัทลุง ยังมีขนาดเศรษฐกิจ และรายได้ต่อหัวประชากร ที่ยังเหลื่อมล้ำกับบางจังหวัด อย่างเช่น ภูเก็ตและสงขลา อยู่ไม่น้อย
โดยในปี 2560 จังหวัดพัทลุง มีรายได้ต่อหัวประชากร ประมาณ 71,298 บาท เท่านั้น

สรุปแล้ว เศรษฐกิจในภาพรวมของภาคใต้ มีความโดดเด่นในหลายๆ ด้าน
และมีความอุดมสมบูรณ์ของทรัพยากร ที่สร้างมูลค่าเศรษฐกิจได้ไม่น้อย ทั้งการท่องเที่ยว การเกษตร และการประมง รวมไปถึงการค้าตามแนวชายแดน

แต่โจทย์สำคัญ ที่เป็นเรื่องเดิมๆ ก็คือ
จะทำอย่างไร ให้รายได้หรือมูลค่าทางเศรษฐกิจ
ถูกกระจายใน “ปักษ์ใต้” ได้อย่างทั่วถึง และเท่าเทียม..
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Blockdit เป็นแพลตฟอร์มของแหล่งรวมนักคิด
ที่ช่วยอัปเดตสถานการณ์ ในรูปแบบบทความ วิดีโอ
รวมไปถึงพอดแคสต์ ที่มีให้ฟังระหว่างเดินทางด้วย
ลองใช้กันที่ Blockdit.com/download
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ติดตามลงทุนแมนได้ที่
Website - longtunman.com
Blockdit - blockdit.com/longtunman
Facebook - ลงทุนแมน
Twitter - twitter.com/longtunman
Instagram - instagram.com/longtunman
Line - page.line.me/longtunman
YouTube - youtube.com/longtunman
References
-รายงาน ผลิตภัณฑ์ ภาคและจังหวัด แบบปริมาณลูกโซ่ ฉบับ พ.ศ. ๒๕๖๑ สำนักงานสภาพัฒนาเศรษฐกิจและสังคมแห่งชาติ
-https://www.nesdc.go.th/ewt_dl_link.php?nid=8537
-สถิติด้านการท่องเที่ยว ปี 2562 (Tourism Statistics 2019) กระทรวงการท่องเที่ยวและกีฬา
-https://www.set.or.th/set/companyprofile.do?symbol=STGT&ssoPageId=4&language=th&country=TH

Rainbow choir unites Korea’s

With an international 129-person choir the Rainbow Music Tour has experienced that indeed nothing is impossible. The very first group of this size to ever visit the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) crossed the uncrossable Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea with a popular Korean folklore song about a lovers’ reunion.

This 2015 Rainbow Music Tour to the DPRK from September 14th-21st was an extraordinary success. In an unprecedented event, the choir from 17 nations – 64 Dutch nationals and 65 internationals including USA citizens – travelled for eight days to various parts of the DPRK. This historic trip was the first of its kind.

We, the Rainbow Team leadership, share a passionate desire to engage with the world around us, and build bridges between nations. For many years it has been our dream to connect with the DPRK, whose isolation from the world community is unsurpassed.

In 2012 this dream became true when a small Rainbow delegation travelled to the DPRK. This life-changing trip opened our eyes in many ways. We saw first-hand the treasures of this seemingly forgotten land, and we quickly recognised our many misconceptions about the DPRK. Because of its disconnect with the rest of the world, we expected to be met with disdain and bitterness but instead we were welcomed with open arms. We could see that the spirit of the people of the DPRK is strong and resilient, and we realised that there is a greater story to be told than mainstream public opinion. Our hearts were moved forever for this nation and her people.

So, from this 2012 visit, we have been yearning to bring a large group of people from many nations to the DPRK to see and experience its splendour, substantially connect with its people and share with the whole wide world the untold stories of this beautiful nation. This is how the Rainbow Music Tour was conceived.

Hope
The name Rainbow carries deep significance: it is a promise of hope. All rainbow stripes reflect their own specific lights in different shades, and yet together they join into one unified, beautiful arc in the sky. As such the rainbow represents also love, friendship, redemption, and unity.

With Rainbow Music Tours we want to promote these same values. Through the universal language of music, we aim to connect people across cultures. Moreover, our rainbow logo highlights a dove, the symbol of peace. We believe that as we come together in peace, honouring our differences and valuing everyone, that nothing is impossible!

On this most recent trip in September 2015 our team of singers from around the world experienced the amazing country of DPRK and its people. The following are just a few highlights from our unforgettable week.

Connections
Building relationships with the beautiful people of this nation was one of the most important aspects of our journey in the DPRK. Our friendly and knowledgeable guides presented us with a wealth of information and insight into the daily lives of the people of this great nation. As we shared moments of life with our new Korean friends, our hearts were connected in ways that we will carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Not only did we visit the magnificent capital Pyongyang with its spectacular architecture and impressive monuments, we also experienced the provincial flavour of the city of Kaesong and the beautiful port city of Wonsan. In an event that touched all of us all deeply, we were invited to sing Amazing Grace at the highest point of Mount Taehwa, at the DPRK's newest and premier ski resort Masikryong.
Additionally, we were privileged to attend on Sunday a local church gathering where the choral music was angelic and the service profound.

Our hosts had every detail of this tour perfectly arranged. The accommodations were of the highest quality, and every meal took us on a delicious food journey. However, as we have experienced these amazing sights and sounds, the awareness that the Korean peninsula is a divided country is never far from our thoughts.

Demilitarized zone
Scars of war have been keeping many thousands of families separated without any contact or interaction for almost seven decades. Escorted by military staff, we had the honour to visit the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) that splits the peninsula into North and South Korea.

As we stood on a veranda, overlooking the divide that no person can cross, we sang this Korean folk tune Arirang, loved on both parts of the DMZ. The sound of hundred and twenty nine voices from seventeen nations united in this song crossed the uncrossable divide. A hush of hope fell upon us, as we stood together believing for a reunified Korea. The weight of the moment enveloped us, and there was silence. The only remaining sound was the wind rustling through the rainbow-colored flags that we had raised as a sign of hope and respect. It was a profound moment in time. Tears stained our eyes, and we left that spot forever changed. Nothing is impossible!

Rainbow Forest
As western visitors invited into this country, we had to come to terms with the role of many of our nations in shaping the history of the DPRK. Millions of innocent people in this nation suffer, as sanctions imposed by the West affect their everyday lives in unimaginable ways. One such effect is an on-going fuel shortage throughout the nation. This leaves many people freezing during the harsh months of winter.

In order to survive, many people began to cut down trees to burn the wood for heat. Due to this the natural landscape in many places of the DPRK changed drastically. In fact, some areas are left completely without any trees.
So, as a goodwill gesture and a prophetic sign of greater things that we expect to come in the DPRK, we have committed ourselves to plant 3,000 trees in what will be known as the Rainbow Forest. This forest is a living, lasting representation of friendship, life and hope.

There are stories upon stories of what we didn't realize or understand about the DPRK, but now that we know, we are responsible. Our hope is that many more people from many more nations would come with us to personally experience the reality of life in the DPRK. As we connect, person to person, face to face, and heart to heart, we will continue to find that nothing is impossible!

For more information on future Rainbow Music Tours visit www.rainbowtravelcompany.com. For more information on how to sponsor a tree in the Rainbow Forest go to: www.rainbowforest-nk.com.

Nobody’s Fool　　( January 2011 )

Yoshitomo Nara

Do people look to my childhood for sources of my imagery? Back then, the snow-covered fields of the north were about as far away as you could get from the rapid economic growth happening elsewhere. Both my parents worked and my brothers were much older, so the only one home to greet me when I got back from elementary school was a stray cat we’d taken in. Even so, this was the center of my world. In my lonely room, I would twist the radio dial to the American military base station and out blasted rock and roll music. One of history’s first man-made satellites revolved around me up in the night sky. There I was, in touch with the stars and radio waves.

It doesn’t take much imagination to envision how a lonely childhood in such surroundings might give rise to the sensibility in my work. In fact, I also used to believe in this connection. I would close my eyes and conjure childhood scenes, letting my imagination amplify them like the music coming from my speakers.

But now, past the age of fifty and more cool-headed, I’ve begun to wonder how big a role childhood plays in making us who we are as adults. Looking through reproductions of the countless works I’ve made between my late twenties and now, I get the feeling that childhood experiences were merely a catalyst. My art derives less from the self-centered instincts of childhood than from the day-to-day sensory experiences of an adult who has left this realm behind. And, ultimately, taking the big steps pales in importance to the daily need to keep on walking.

While I was in high school, before I had anything to do with art, I worked part-time in a rock café. There I became friends with a graduate student of mathematics who one day started telling me, in layman’s terms, about his major in topology. His explanation made the subject seem less like a branch of mathematics than some fascinating organic philosophy. My understanding is that topology offers you a way to discover the underlying sameness of countless, seemingly disparate, forms. Conversely, it explains why many people, when confronted with apparently identical things, will accept a fake as the genuine article. I later went on to study art, live in Germany, and travel around the world, and the broader perspective I’ve gained has shown me that topology has long been a subtext of my thinking. The more we add complexity, the more we obscure what is truly valuable. Perhaps the reason I began, in the mid-90s, trying to make paintings as simple as possible stems from that introduction to topology gained in my youth.

As a kid listening to U.S. armed-forces radio, I had no idea what the lyrics meant, but I loved the melody and rhythm of the music. In junior high school, my friends and I were already discussing rock and roll like credible music critics, and by the time I started high school, I was hanging out in rock coffee shops and going to live shows. We may have been a small group of social outcasts, but the older kids, who smoked cigarettes and drank, talked to us all night long about movies they’d seen or books they’d read. If the nighttime student quarter had been the school, I’m sure I would have been a straight-A student.

In the 80s, I left my hometown to attend art school, where I was anything but an honors student. There, a model student was one who brought a researcher’s focus to the work at hand. Your bookshelves were stacked with catalogues and reference materials. When you weren’t working away in your studio, you were meeting with like-minded classmates to discuss art past and present, including your own. You were hoping to set new trends in motion. Wholly lacking any grand ambition, I fell well short of this model, with most of my paintings done to satisfy class assignments. I was, however, filling every one of my notebooks, sketchbooks, and scraps of wrapping paper with crazy, graffiti-like drawings.

Looking back on my younger days—Where did where all that sparkling energy go? I used the money from part-time jobs to buy record albums instead of art supplies and catalogues. I went to movies and concerts, hung out with my girlfriend, did funky drawings on paper, and made midnight raids on friends whose boarding-room lights still happened to be on. I spent the passions of my student days outside the school studio. This is not to say I wasn’t envious of the kids who earned the teachers’ praise or who debuted their talents in early exhibitions. Maybe envy is the wrong word. I guess I had the feeling that we were living in separate worlds. Like puffs of cigarette smoke or the rock songs from my speaker, my adolescent energies all vanished in the sky.

Being outside the city and surrounded by rice fields, my art school had no art scene to speak of—I imagined the art world existing in some unknown dimension, like that of TV or the movies. At the time, art could only be discussed in a Western context, and, therefore, seemed unreal. But just as every country kid dreams of life in the big city, this shaky art-school student had visions of the dazzling, far-off realm of contemporary art. Along with this yearning was an equally strong belief that I didn’t deserve admittance to such a world. A typical provincial underachiever!

I did, however, love to draw every day and the scrawled sketches, never shown to anybody, started piling up. Like journal entries reflecting the events of each day, they sometimes intersected memories from the past. My little everyday world became a trigger for the imagination, and I learned to develop and capture the imagery that arose. I was, however, still a long way off from being able to translate those countless images from paper to canvas.

Visions come to us through daydreams and fantasies. Our emotional reaction towards these images makes them real. Listening to my record collection gave me a similar experience. Before the Internet, the precious little information that did exist was to be found in the two or three music magazines available. Most of my records were imported—no liner notes or lyric sheets in Japanese. No matter how much I liked the music, living in a non-English speaking world sadly meant limited access to the meaning of the lyrics. The music came from a land of societal, religious, and subcultural sensibilities apart from my own, where people moved their bodies to it in a different rhythm. But that didn’t stop me from loving it. I never got tired of poring over every inch of the record jackets on my 12-inch vinyl LPs. I took the sounds and verses into my body. Amidst today’s superabundance of information, choosing music is about how best to single out the right album. For me, it was about making the most use of scant information to sharpen my sensibilities, imagination, and conviction. It might be one verse, melody, guitar riff, rhythmic drum beat or bass line, or record jacket that would inspire me and conjure up fresh imagery. Then, with pencil in hand, I would draw these images on paper, one after the other. Beyond good or bad, the pictures had a will of their own, inhabiting the torn pages with freedom and friendliness.

By the time I graduated from university, my painting began to approach the independence of my drawing. As a means for me to represent a world that was mine and mine alone, the paintings may not have been as nimble as the drawings, but I did them without any preliminary sketching. Prizing feelings that arose as I worked, I just kept painting and over-painting until I gained a certain freedom and the sense, though vague at the time, that I had established a singular way of putting images onto canvas. Yet, I hadn’t reached the point where I could declare that I would paint for the rest of my life.

After receiving my undergraduate degree, I entered the graduate school of my university and got a part-time job teaching at an art yobiko—a prep school for students seeking entrance to an art college. As an instructor, training students how to look at and compose things artistically, meant that I also had to learn how to verbalize my thoughts and feelings. This significant growth experience not only allowed me to take stock of my life at the time, but also provided a refreshing opportunity to connect with teenage hearts and minds.

And idealism! Talking to groups of art students, I naturally found myself describing the ideals of an artist. A painful experience for me—I still had no sense of myself as an artist. The more the students showed their affection for me, the more I felt like a failed artist masquerading as a sensei (teacher). After completing my graduate studies, I kept working as a yobiko instructor. And in telling students about the path to becoming an artist, I began to realize that I was still a student myself, with many things yet to learn. I felt that I needed to become a true art student. I decided to study in Germany. The day I left the city where I had long lived, many of my students appeared on the platform to see me off.

Life as a student in Germany was a happy time. I originally intended to go to London, but for economic reasons chose a tuition-free, and, fortunately, academism-free German school. Personal approaches coexisted with conceptual ones, and students tried out a wide range of modes of expression. Technically speaking, we were all students, but each of us brought a creator’s spirit to the fore. The strong wills and opinions of the local students, though, were well in place before they became artists thanks to the German system of early education. As a reticent foreign student from a far-off land, I must have seemed like a mute child. I decided that I would try to make myself understood not through words, but through having people look at my pictures. When winter came and leaden clouds filled the skies, I found myself slipping back to the winters of my childhood. Forgoing attempts to speak in an unknown language, I redoubled my efforts to express myself through visions of my private world. Thinking rather than talking, then illustrating this thought process in drawings and, finally, realizing it in a painting. Instead of defeating you in an argument, I wanted to invite you inside me. Here I was, in a most unexpected place, rediscovering a value that I thought I had lost—I felt that I had finally gained the ability to learn and think, that I had become a student in the truest sense of the word.

But I still wasn’t your typical honors student. My paintings clearly didn’t look like contemporary art, and nobody would say my images fit in the context of European painting. They did, however, catch the gaze of dealers who, with their antennae out for young artists, saw my paintings as new objects that belonged less to the singular world of art and more to the realm of everyday life. Several were impressed by the freshness of my art, and before I knew it, I was invited to hold exhibitions in established galleries—a big step into a wider world.

The six years that I spent in Germany after completing my studies and before returning to Japan were golden days, both for me and my work. Every day and every night, I worked tirelessly to fix onto canvas all the visions that welled up in my head. My living space/studio was in a dreary, concrete former factory building on the outskirts of Cologne. It was the center of my world. Late at night, my surroundings were enveloped in darkness, but my studio was brightly lit. The songs of folk poets flowed out of my speakers. In that place, standing in front of the canvas sometimes felt like traveling on a solitary voyage in outer space—a lonely little spacecraft floating in the darkness of the void. My spaceship could go anywhere in this fantasy while I was painting, even to the edge of the universe.

Suddenly one day, I was flung outside—my spaceship was to be scrapped. My little vehicle turned back into an old concrete building, one that was slated for destruction because it was falling apart. Having lost the spaceship that had accompanied me on my lonely travels, and lacking the energy to look for a new studio, I immediately decided that I might as well go back to my homeland. It was painful and sad to leave the country where I had lived for twelve years and the handful of people I could call friends. But I had lost my ship. The only place I thought to land was my mother country, where long ago those teenagers had waved me goodbye and, in retrospect, whose letters to me while I was in Germany were a valuable source of fuel.

After my long space flight, I returned to Japan with the strange sense of having made a full orbit around the planet. The new studio was a little warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo, in an area dotted with rice fields and small factories. When the wind blew, swirls of dust slipped in through the cracks, and water leaked down the walls in heavy rains. In my dilapidated warehouse, only one sheet of corrugated metal separated me from the summer heat and winter cold. Despite the funky environment, I was somehow able to keep in midnight contact with the cosmos—the beings I had drawn and painted in Germany began to mature. The emotional quality of the earlier work gave way to a new sense of composure. I worked at refining the former impulsiveness of the drawings and the monochromatic, almost reverent, backgrounds of the paintings. In my pursuit of fresh imagery, I switched from idle experimentation to a more workmanlike approach towards capturing what I saw beyond the canvas.

Children and animals—what simple motifs! Appearing on neat canvases or in ephemeral drawings, these figures are easy on the viewers’ eyes. Occasionally, they shake off my intentions and leap to the feet of their audience, never to return. Because my motifs are accessible, they are often only understood on a superficial level. Sometimes art that results from a long process of development receives only shallow general acceptance, and those who should be interpreting it fail to do so, either through a lack of knowledge or insufficient powers of expression. Take, for example, the music of a specific era. People who lived during this era will naturally appreciate the music that was then popular. Few of these listeners, however, will know, let alone value, the music produced by minor labels, by introspective musicians working under the radar, because it’s music that’s made in answer to an individual’s desire, not the desires of the times. In this way, people who say that “Nara loves rock,” or “Nara loves punk” should see my album collection. Of four thousand records there are probably fewer than fifty punk albums. I do have a lot of 60s and 70s rock and roll, but most of my music is from little labels that never saw commercial success—traditional roots music by black musicians and white musicians, and contemplative folk. The spirit of any era gives birth to trends and fashions as well as their opposite: countless introspective individual worlds. A simultaneous embrace of both has cultivated my sensibility and way of thinking. My artwork is merely the tip of the iceberg that is my self. But if you analyzed the DNA from this tip, you would probably discover a new way of looking at my art. My viewers become a true audience when they take what I’ve made and make it their own. That’s the moment the works gain their freedom, even from their maker.

After contemplative folk singers taught me about deep empathy, the punk rockers schooled me in explosive expression.

I was born on this star, and I’m still breathing. Since childhood, I’ve been a jumble of things learned and experienced and memories that can’t be forgotten. Their involuntary locomotion is my inspiration. I don’t express in words the contents of my work. I’ll only tell you my history. The countless stories living inside my work would become mere fabrications the moment I put them into words. Instead, I use my pencil to turn them into pictures. Standing before the dark abyss, here’s hoping my spaceship launches safely tonight….

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