Kensuke Koike

Your work takes an innovative approach to portraiture, blending traditional representation with a unique process of deconstruction and reconstruction. Was there a specific moment or experience in your life that sparked the realization that this method would become a defining element of your artistic practice?

When I was a student, I lived in a very small apartment in Venice that didn’t have enough space for painting. This limitation led me to explore video art as an alternative medium, and for a while, I became a video artist while I was a student. However, when collaborating with a gallery, they needed something physical to exhibit, as video art can be challenging to present. That’s when I transitioned to working with photography. 

Initially, I approached it in a traditional collage style—merging two images into one. Over time, I found that too straightforward. For instance, if I needed a dog’s head for a piece, I’d simply photograph a dog and integrate it, which started to feel too easy. I began seeking a more challenging approach, something that demanded more creative constraint. That’s when I turned to single vintage photographs. Their unique qualities and inherent limitations required a greater level of precision and imagination, and this challenge became the foundation of my current practice.

In your series No More No Less, you describe your creative method as ‘nothing is removed, nothing is added,’ emphasizing the exploration of possibilities within an image composed solely of itself. This approach intertwines freedom and constraint, presenting a fascinating paradox as the framework for your work. What draws you to this delicate balance between freedom and limitation, and how does it challenge or inspire your creative process?

The concept of ‘nothing more, nothing less’ is challenging because you have a limit. I need to use everything that I have, and I cannot remove anything. This means that before cutting the original piece, I spend a significant amount of time studying it thoroughly. Without that preparation, it would just become simple image mixing.

When I begin working with a vintage photograph, which is a one-of-a-kind piece, I start by creating prototypes. I make many copies using a basic printer, ensuring the paper’s weight and size match the original. Then, I use these copies to experiment and play by hand, to explore possibilities. It’s during this playful stage that I make discoveries and decide on a direction—a figure or concept I want to bring to life.

From that moment, the process becomes more precise. I study the position, size, and every tiny detail down to the millimeter or even micrometer. Once I’m confident, I begin the precise cutting process. Preparing for this stage is critical because there’s only one original image, and there’s no room for a mistake. For instance, I avoid drinking coffee beforehand to keep my hands steady. If I feel I’m not fully prepared, I simply take a break and resume another day. The precision and calculations required mean that crafting a single piece usually takes about two weeks. It’s not important if the image is large or small, it takes the same amount of time.

You’ve mentioned already your usage of archival images, such as in your series Single Image Processing. Your approach breathes new life into these old visuals, preserving their history while reshaping their narrative. Do you typically delve into the original story behind the portrait, or is your focus on creating an entirely new narrative?

When I work with a single image, sometimes I have additional details like the name, date, or location where the photo was taken, but often, there’s nothing. As I spend time with the portrait—usually around two weeks—working on the prototype and viewing the image daily, I start to create a story in my mind about the person. Who he is, who he was, and what he was doing. Whether or not this story is real doesn’t matter to me; what’s important is that I’m inventing something new. I’m reshaping the image, and in doing so, I give it a new life. For me, all the information about the original photograph matter, but what’s more important is what I’m giving to the new image.

Is the story a person can tell—whether it’s their original story or the new story you’ve given to them—also the reason why you’re drawn to using portraiture?

I have about 60,000 photographs in my archive, and when I work, I pick up one randomly and put it in front of me. I don’t consciously choose a specific image; I give each one an equal chance to be used. While I have many non-portrait images, like landscapes, I always gravitate toward portraits. The reason is that portraits often come from abandoned or unwanted family photographs—images that people no longer value or hold on to. When I search for new photos, I often come across these overlooked family portraits.

What draws me to portraiture is when I make a small change, like shifting the eyes or mouth, you see something happen. But if I cut a landscape image, it doesn’t evoke the same immediate impact. There’s a unique emotion in a portrait that’s harder to find in a landscape. This is why I prefer portraits—because a small intervention can create a significant impact.

Your work possesses a strong transformative essence, often revealing not just the final piece but also the process of transformation itself—whether through sequential steps or literal movement. What role does transformation play in your creative process, and how does it shape the way you develop your art?

Before social media, I didn’t show the process, only the final work. But at some point, I started to think about why can’t I show the process of what I’m making?

If people like what I do in the end, they will eventually discover how I created it. They might find out, for example, that I started with a French portrait, and they can explore who that person was. Sometimes, I also receive messages from students or artists who digitally reconstruct the image, adding their own spin on it. They’ll say, “I discovered who he is or who she was.” It’s interesting to see how others engage with the work. People are curious to uncover the person I’m cutting, which is fascinating to me.

On a more personal level, what does transformation mean to you? How do ideas of personal growth and cultural shifts have influenced your path to where you are now?

On a personal level, transformation for me is about adapting to the conditions around me. My decision to move to Italy was influenced by my love for classic Italian art since I was a kid. However, my path took a different direction due to my experiences. For instance, during my school years, when I didn’t have enough space for the type of work I wanted to do, so I began creating video art as a response. But when galleries preferred photography, I transitioned to photography instead. These changing conditions pushed me to explore new challenges and mediums.

Your work is rooted in reality, as we’ve discussed earlier, yet it takes on a distinctly surrealist form. What inspires you to transcend the boundaries of normality and challenge conventional perceptions of reality through your art?

The aspect of surrealism was born from something deeply rooted in my childhood nightmares. I believe every culture has its own share of fears or dark stories, and I was terrified of monsters and spirits as a child. But when I moved to Italy, I realized that I no longer feared the things that I used to be afraid of. I understood that these Japanese monsters couldn’t follow me here—they were just creations of the human imagination.

That’s when I became fascinated with where human imagination comes from. Of course, all imagination is based on things we’ve already seen. It’s about combining elements we’re familiar with. Take the mermaid, for example—half human, half fish. It’s not an entirely new idea; it’s simply a mix of things we’ve already encountered.

Finally, what message or feeling do you hope viewers take away from your work when they view it?

My art is not to provide answers but to evoke questions, emotions, and reflections that linger long after the images are seen.

With my art I want to create an intimate space to pause, to explore, to confront the tensions and vulnerabilities that shape our existence. Ultimately, I hope my work inspires a deeper awareness of what it means to be human — to feel, to grow, to connect — and a greater appreciation for the delicate balance of life that surrounds us. If it stirs even a small moment of introspection or empathy, then I feel it has fulfilled its purpose.