Aki Goto

Interview by Monica Uszerowicz

In Aki Goto’s video, Tender Alignments, recently on view at Frieze New York, the artist’s daughter, Senka, counts her brother Yuki’s teeth—“three, four, five; no, wait…this one you lost!” She’s interrupted by a warbling underwater voice, though it’s brief; the music stops when Yuki requests, “Can you take a picture of my teeth, Mama?” His smile, maloccluded and beaming-bright, becomes the freeze frame for the short film, which catalogues, as Goto’s videos often do, the day’s sublime interstices: a ballroom dance class behind plexiglass; a cat in a flowerpot; Senka dancing in an empty parking lot, lit by the neon light of a department store’s sign.

Among the many iterations and interests of Goto’s work—film, music (she is a member of the noise-pop act Masaaki), textiles—permaculture is, I think, an unintentional throughline, guided by her inclination toward the natural world. The practice asks of its participants real awareness of our interconnectedness, which Goto reflects in everything she produces. The abrupt, stop-and-start quality of her videos is, she tells me, a byproduct of each moment mattering as much as the others, and life’s mercurial nonlinearity. Nature, she adds, reminds her that everything—past, present, future, good, bad, grey—coexists. The moments she memorializes are precisely selected, driven by a desire to see them live for a long time.

Tender Alignments is accompanied by a short text:

I watched my children slowly come into alignment\ As their teeth grew and straightened, something tender shifted inside me\ I hoped their feelings would never fully align\ Is this motherhood or my ego\ Or simply being

This video lives between love, growth, and a quiet sense of loss.

The space between love, growth, and a quiet sense of loss, as rendered by Goto, is a real place; it is the hidden undercurrent of the day-to-day, existing alongside it. She makes it visible and physical; she makes it known. On the occasion of her installation at Frieze with Europa, we spoke about the meaning and meaninglessness of it all.

Monica Uszerowicz (MU): Tell me about your work at Frieze (The Soft Lattice), where you incorporated furniture and assemblage, as you did with your 2025 installation Eyes on Shine, which was also with Europa. I’m curious about the inclusion of a third dimension for your videos.

Aki Goto (AG): My installation included three videos and a found dental chair and equipment. Almost everything, except the screens, were covered in glitter. I’ve been thinking a lot about a kind of flickering, shiny feeling inside me—something fleeting, which reminds me of glued glitter. Glued glitter is usually fragile, not really meant to be touched. And although it’s shiny, it can’t shine by itself. It has to be reflected by other lights. That gives me a sense of something weak and real at the same time. The video is about human growth and strength and weakness, and the emotions around that.

I think this installation carries feelings both similar to and different from the last one. I like adding the third dimension to the video pieces because I want to somehow limit the imagination of the world I make: focusing and narrowing, but also deepening it. I want my videos to exist within this odd layer of reality that, to me, feels like an aspect of the world that already exists but only reveals itself when we’re not really paying attention. I’ve been slicing things in my installation, too.

"I like adding the third dimension to the video pieces because I want to somehow limit the imagination of the world I make: focusing and narrowing, but also deepening it. I want my videos to exist within this odd layer of reality that, to me, feels like an aspect of the world that already exists but only reveals itself when we’re not really paying attention."

MU: I wanted to ask about that. At your 2025 show with Desnivel Gallery, “DIVINATION: Trust Not Your Process, Trust Your Process,” you sliced through all the objects that made up the Major Arcana of your tarot deck and that were presented with the cards.

AG: For me, slicing often represents the coexistence of beauty and violence. Or maybe beauty within violence or violence within beauty—neither of which might be beautiful at all. I’m also talking about motherhood right now. I feel this relationship between violence and beauty many times in myself as a mom. Maybe in mothers in general, too. But I’m not judging it.

The other day, I was just cutting my son’s hair, for example. There’s a kind of beauty you might see in something like a haircut, where this cut line is perfectly straight, no matter what the hair condition is. Another example: when children have been whining for five to ten minutes, and then the mother finally yells at them and they stop whining. It’s like when the mess ends through some kind of force. This also reminds me of words such as “decisiveness” or “persuasion” or “enforcing.” And I feel like there’s something very Japanese about this feeling—maybe in our traditional art or culture or martial arts, or in our character or relationships. Maybe it’s the part we don’t really explain, but we all understand the vibes between us as Japanese people. Those are the feelings that I have, almost subconsciously, behind the element of slicing: violent and beautiful, both.

The dental element came from the video, which is about taking my children to the dentist. My son needed braces. We didn’t know what was going to happen. He just sat in the dental chair and trusted the dentist, but also felt a little bit skeptical. That’s how it is: it could hurt or it could not hurt, and we just open our mouths without asking them any questions and then they do whatever they have to do. It feels weird to me, but we don’t question it. And then we come back to the house and can even look in a mirror and still won’t know what happened, even though it happened in our mouths. They dig a hole, pull out a tooth, apply medicine, sometimes it hurts. Isn’t it weird?

The Soft Lattice (installation) with its accompanying film, Tender Alignments, 2026. Photo by Tim Schutsky.

MU: It’s really weird. I wore braces for a long time. One orthodontist had a specific idea about what my teeth should look like, but he damaged my bite. Then another orthodontist had a totally different idea about what to do. Something that should have been straightforward and prescribed was actually very open to interpretation.

AG: It’s amazing. We’re supposed to have trust in them, and we don’t even know if it’s working until years later.

MU: When you talked about creating a physical world for your videos to live and exist within, it made me think of how I experience your work in general. Like you mentioned, you’re not necessarily creating a new world, but for me it does feel like you’re exposing what is wistful or special or violent about the world we’re already in. It’s a poetic layer that isn’t always visible in the day-to-day, but you see it. “I hope their feelings would never fully align,” a line from the description for Tender Alignments, got to me. It’s so moving.

AG: Thank you for understanding. That is very touching. When I wrote it, I was definitely emotional, and that part is a raw, very honest feeling. I often feel it when the kids and I fight. I say stuff that’s very logical, and they say stuff that sounds like it’s not really making sense, but one hour later I think about it and they actually made a lot of sense. They speak real, because they’re not aligned yet. Sometimes I try to align everything, make it all make sense. I can’t really explain that part.

The Soft Lattice (details), 2026

MU: You explained it perfectly, but I think the lack of a need to explain it is important, too. Some feelings are not fully explicable. I’m thinking about your understanding of violence and beauty. Your videos also align with that concept. They’re sweet and chaotic—a moment accompanied by a song of yours will abruptly stop, then turn into something else. I’m so interested in your editing process.

AG: I personally have had many traumas throughout my life, and acknowledging them has been very healing for me. It’s like telling myself that my pain isn’t because of me, but because of those traumas. Acknowledging them as things that exist is the key, and I try to recognize each emotion for its own existence within me. The same goes for my body parts, or memories, or knowledge. They’re like creatures, or elements in nature: my heart or my hair, sadness or desire, memory, breathing, tendencies. They don’t necessarily have clear relationships to each other, but each element is part of what constructs me.

It feels a bit like all these moments and parts exist simultaneously in a parallel world. The abruptness in my videos partly comes from their coexistence. The scenes may look random, but they simply exist at the same time, just changing. I respect each element, so I let each of them exist. It’s almost like through the abruptness, I’m trying to say that the strongest moment is not necessarily the most important part of the video or of life—as if you’re being woken up from a good dream or a bad dream.

When I think about motherhood—I started recording because I wanted to laugh at my life. Things felt really crappy, you know, when the kids were so little and motherhood was just really exhausting. I felt like I deserved laughter, and filming and editing became a small resting place for me. I wanted to feel like the exhaustion could be laughed at, that my life was still good. Laughter has been an important part of my life. That’s how I started recording everything.

MU: And recording your kids specifically, too?

AG: Yeah, I felt like having kids was kind of destroying my life or something. But at the same time, I wanted kids. So I was feeling very responsible and also guilty about those feelings. I started recording and I wanted to affirm my decision and remind myself that it was right and that my life is still good. It sounds very negative, but I loved filming and I was able to feel really good. It was not about showing that to the world, but rather to myself—that life is good.

MU: I don’t think it sounds negative. Motherhood is hard. I wanted this so badly and I’m so grateful, and also I don’t sleep anymore.

AG: It's hard and fun at the same time. I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling at that time. I thought I was really enjoying it, like it was easy, and I felt very present, but it also felt hard. It’s complicated.

MU: I remember reading something you shared on your Instagram: “The videos were on my side. Eventually, this openness brought me to the realization that I was the one who’d been creating my life in this chaotic way.” You described it as a divine choice.

AG: I often look at my life, my actions, and my situations as the result of my own decisions and desires. Maybe nothing is really happening by chance; those decisions and desires are born from the scenario that is my life, and that scenario is connected to my subconscious. The scenario and my subconscious might be the same thing; I think the scenario was written before I was born, written by my soul. But there’s still a lot of freedom within it. It’s not about just following it; it’s more like improvising, and the improvisation can change the story. It excites me when I think about this. Becoming a mother was a sudden shift in life. I don’t know about you, but in general, I feel like as a mother, you start to feel a lot of resistance and delays in everyday life. The rules you built for your life no longer work in the same way anymore.

Even if it was already written, you still have to turn the corner or change lanes. My soul probably wanted to experience the parts that are not smooth, that are rough; maybe it wrote the scenario in an overexcited way, wanting to experience everything through my physical body and my emotions. These experiences are often not exciting to me as a human, Aki, but I have a desire to access my subconscious—letting each element of me and this life exist.

MU: That reminds me of something else you’ve said: the best motherhood advice you’ve ever received is that there is no meaning in the universe. I feel so much relief when I hear that. How does meaningless show up for you, what does it feel like?

AG: Thank you for asking about it, because it’s so important to me and I really love thinking about it. I still don’t know the exact answer for this—but I feel pretty sure that this idea is somehow true and it’s funny to keep thinking about the concept’s meaning, while also believing there’s no meaning behind it. Even now, I can’t stop looking for meaning. I heard this message during a personal ceremony many years ago. It was so clear. The voice said: “There is no meaning.” I was so shocked, because I had always loved meanings, synchronicity, and faith. Even love itself might not require meaning or purpose behind it.

I reached a point in the ceremony where I felt a strange relief. If there’s no meaning in the universe, then we are actually really free. We’re born with these unique, one-of-a-kind bodies with the ability to feel. Limits, restrictions, rules, and judgments—those are scenarios we made. We think and we hurt and we love and we enjoy those meanings we’ve created on earth; we’ve created meaning where there was no meaning at all. We’ll keep looking for meanings and sometimes feel disappointed by their absence. We are creatures who suffer and challenge ourselves. When I think that there’s no meaning, I feel forgiveness for myself—but I should stop giving meaning to that too, you know. I feel like the voice is just laughing hearing me talking about it.

"If there’s no meaning in the universe, then we are actually really free. We’re born with these unique, one-of-a-kind bodies with the ability to feel. Limits, restrictions, rules, and judgments—those are scenarios we made. We think and we hurt and we love and we enjoy those meanings we’ve created on earth; we’ve created meaning where there was no meaning at all."

MU: I like the idea that there’s no meaning because it’s a rebellion against different ideas around what life is supposed to be like. There’s a relief in knowing “None of this really means anything, none of it has to mean anything.” I think that makes everything we do more profound. We make our own meaning. I once spent so much time thinking about and desperately searching for synchronicity. I loved—and still love—tarot, partly for that reason.

AG: I love tarot for that reason, too; it’s all about meaning!

“DIVINATION: Trust Not Your Process, Trust Your Process” presented by Desnivel at Psychic Readings by Marie in New York’s East Village, 2025

MU: Your tarot deck and the symbols on them—you ascribed your own meanings to them. There’s a BTS photo card, an aluminum foil wand made by your daughter, sliced soap bars. I loved the title of the exhibition, too.

AG: I sliced a lot of those objects because I thought they should stay within the dimensions of the card size, but I also allowed them to be free in the third dimension. I wanted to say they were tarot cards even though they’re also sculptures; I wanted to give them some respect, so they kept their shapes and materials, like soap bars, a tin can, a baby monitor. Some of them slightly exceeded a card size because it made sense for them. I like when there’s one character in a movie who’s not wearing the same uniform as the others or something; maybe they have a different body or hat or other unique conditions, but nobody really talks about it. They blend in with their uniqueness and everyone harmonizes with each other.

In my tarot deck, there’s a jumping Spiral Owl holding a selenite crystal. I found this owl one day at a Woodstock flea market. I was looking at it for a long time and the seller came to me and said, “You can have it.” I brought it home and let it hold a crystal, then glued it on. I thought about maybe slicing it to fit the card size, but it felt funny, and real, too, like it was exceeding the size by jumping, so I decided not to change it. Sometimes I improvise and I try not to give any fixed meaning to each card or object. I wanted to leave it up to the tarot reader to decide. I love tarot; it’s so deep and so open and each card has different original meanings, but those depend on the reader or how you listen to the reader. The most important part is whether you trust it or not. You can trust your process, or you can trust not trusting your process. But what you trust becomes what you experience and I think that, overall, becomes your life.

"You can trust your process, or you can trust not trusting your process. But what you trust becomes what you experience and I think that, overall, becomes your life."

MU: I’m glad you told me about the title. I know we talked about meaninglessness, but it’s a very meaningful title.

AG: Nobody really asked me about the title. I was so excited that you asked me about it.

MU: Your work titles all feel like poetry. Eyes on Shine, especially.

AG: My name, Aki, means “shining” in the Chinese character kanji, and I secretly wanted to include myself in the title—eyes on Aki, look at Aki. It also sounds like, “look at the light,” or the positive side. And then “Trust Not Your Process, Trust Your Process”: I often encounter these statements, especially in the US. I’m not judging, but I just love those little human statements that live between something real and something a little bit like bullshit. I also don’t like that part of myself, but I definitely have it, too. I keep learning about myself and try not to judge it.

MU: Americans use quotes like that a lot: “Trust the process.” We can be a little bit full of shit, but we’re still sincere.

AG: At the Frieze installation, there’s a video called She Left a Filling in my Chest. It comes from a kind of dreamy feeling. “She” could be the dental chair or maybe the dentist or assistant; it’s unclear. My story about it is this: the treatment is finished, and then my kids and I leave the dentist office and go home and you realize there is a feeling in your heart that’s very uncomfortable, maybe even a little sad. We don’t know much about dental stuff, we just think “this must be the right procedure,” even though we’re uncomfortable. That kind of passiveness exists in me and I also see it in my kids and it’s very fragile.

She Left a Filling in My Chest, 2026. Photo by Tim Schutsky.

MU: All medical settings give me a weird, nostalgic, and sad feeling that’s hard to describe. I am so curious about where you go home to, your life in upstate New York.

AG: It’s beautiful, but I also love New York City. It’s two different kinds of beauty. When I first moved to New York City from Japan, the impact was so strong and it really affected my entire life. Because of that, I believed another environmental change—moving to the countryside in New York, in the early 2010s—would have a similar effect. Around that time, I was into permaculture and herbalism and spirituality, and I was studying those fields passionately and trying to bring them into my artwork and life. I also noticed something strange happening around them. I was studying flower essences. Do you know about them?

MU: I do. Even though my mom is a retired RN, she was into them, and she made me take them when I was a teenager, for my moodiness.

AG: That’s so sweet. I was really into them and I was taking the course, but I had many issues with the way they were teaching—the teacher’s attitude, the materials they sent, everything. I often felt like I was in the furthest possible place from the actual concept of flower essences. I also discovered a world-famous herbalist was living very close to me. I got excited, and even thought I’d been brought to this house because of her, as if it were fate. She was known for her intense personality and the communication with her turned out to be a very hard experience. My expectation collapsed and I was so embarrassed that I believed this was fate or something. I didn’t take her course.

A few years later, I was able to take another course by two dear herbalist friends and it was truly an amazing experience. During that time, I was witnessing my partner’s battle with illness. Our kids were 3 and 1; they were still little. On the first day of the herbalism course, I arrived late because my partner was having a hard time at home. In a discussion circle, I ended up crying uncontrollably because I was feeling scared; my partner didn’t know yet what was happening to him but he was gradually losing his mobility. The class accepted me crying before I even introduced myself. They just listened to me and even shared their similar experiences. Some people cried with me or made me laugh. It was a really special experience.

Later, I thought about how I applied to this herbalism course, and it was because I wanted to become knowledgeable and more connected to nature. But what I actually learned was much bigger and came from a completely unexpected direction. I realized I should not focus on taking notes, but instead stay with the moment. I began to understand that my intention for the course had shifted into something like, remembering I’m part of the universe and I’ve always been part of the universe. I also saw how much I’d wanted to impress the world with my new knowledge and new ways of living; I guess I wanted to impress the world as an artist, too, even though my interest in flower essences and permaculture was definitely real.

But I realized that nature doesn’t work as something you simply reach out to. It also reaches back to you. Those experiences, like with the herbalist and the first flower essence course—I was reaching out to them, and I felt they weren’t responding to me in a “good” way. But they were responding to me in a perfect way; I just wasn’t ready to get those actual messages. Then my partner got sick, which was also nature’s way of reaching back to me. That’s why I felt so moved in the circle at the herbalism course. My relationship with nature had been lacking me giving my intention completely. I wanted a lot from nature, but I was passive. Opening and giving and being with my vulnerability—if those exist within myself, then everything else also exists within myself, and that is the environment I’m surrounded by, or at least the one I wanted to be surrounded by. I love permaculture because it’s a method that allows you to learn about what nature means, anywhere you are. You don’t have to be surrounded by nature. You can be in a city and still be connected to nature.

"I realized that nature doesn’t work as something you simply reach out to. It also reaches back to you."

MU: What you’re saying reminded me of a scene from Twin Peaks, when Annie Blackburn is in the Miss Twin Peaks pageant. Part of what she says is, “Maybe saving a forest starts with preserving some of the feelings that die inside us every day—those parts of ourselves that we deny. For if we cannot respect that interior land, then neither can we respect the land we walk.” It sounds like you reached out for nature, trying to better understand the earth for a multitude of reasons, and it reached back to you and reminded you that you’re also part of this ecosystem, this land. The parts of you that needed to be cared for were just as important. Nature can teach us so much about ourselves.

AG: That is really beautiful. It gave me chills.

Monica Uszerowicz

Monica Uszerowicz is a writer, editor, and photographer born and based in New York City. Her writing has been featured in Artforum, Atmos, The Believer, BOMB, The Guardian, The New York Review of Books, and elsewhere, and her photographs have been exhibited throughout the US and internationally. She is the recipient of a 2020 Arts Writers Grant from the Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts.