'The moon is floating in the room'

Whether it’s my home, a ryokan, or a business hotel, a room holds something inherently special.

Maybe that’s why so many painters and musicians I admire use rooms as a central motif.

I used to prefer sparse, minimalist rooms—spaces that felt empty on purpose.

But lately, I’ve come to appreciate the chaotic comfort of “normal” rooms:

Rooms that feel like home.

Filled with mysterious trinkets, mugs and cushions with strange patterns, and things that make you ask, “Why this?”

Almost like Saul Leiter’s studio.

Maybe it’s a common experience for those who’ve moved out of their family home.

In my case, my childhood room has become storage.

When I visit now, I sleep in my mother’s old room, while she has moved into my grandmother’s.

On a recent trip back to Osaka, I spent a lot of time alone in that room.

No drinks with friends, just beer and a mikan (mandarin orange),

wrapped in a futon, letting laziness take form.

At some point, I looked around and took in the “ordinary” details of the room:

A photo of me as a child, taken by my grandfather, who loved photography

A sun-faded family portrait, now soft like a Luigi Ghirri photo

An art assignment that earned me my first "Top Gun" comment from a teacher

A fabric flower I made when I was 18 and gave my mom for Mother’s Day

These objects had been there all along, part of the background of our lives.

And maybe it was the beer, but as I looked at the flower on the wall, that same feeling washed over me:

“There’s something beautiful about this.”

It reminded me of how I feel staring at the moon from the rooftop.

Even rooms have moons.

But just like the one in the sky, you can’t always see them when your mind is clouded.

Maybe that’s why we need a kind of switch—something to turn the light back on.

When I think about “switches,” I often come back to uniforms — clothing that helps toggle between work and personal life.

In the world of workwear, aprons might be the clearest example of that switch.

I’ve always admired uniforms and workwear for their utility and symbolism, shaped by history.

But I wonder—what if clothing could function in a more emotional way?

What if a garment could subtly support your mood, like a quiet moon in the room?

That’s the kind of uniform I want SHINYAKOZUKA to create.

Uniforms not just for tasks, but for feelings.

I want to see what happens when design is freed from pure functionality.

When I create, I try to understand what truly motivates me.

Yes, there’s frustration—sometimes with the world, sometimes with myself.

But often, it’s less about anger and more about:

Unease

Comfort

Empathy

Resonance

Maybe just wanting to look cool

Maybe all of the above

Or maybe none of it

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know this:

The moments when fashion moves me are rarely driven by logic.

They’re vague, abstract, hard to explain—and I’ve come to believe that’s what makes them powerful.

It’s difficult to express, and maybe it doesn’t need explaining.

But because I believe in it so deeply, all I can do is keep creating—honestly and consistently—and share it with you.

Every time I reflect like this, I realize I’m tracing the same thoughts, walking a familiar path.

I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

But I do believe this: honesty is one of the most essential tools in making anything meaningful.