Good Pain: The Broken Skate Deck Sculptures of Haroshi
Discussing Haroshi’s work is impossible without having a conversation about skateboarding. The Japanese artist’s wood sculptures—objects composed of skate decks that look as if they have been melted into new forms through an obscure alchemy—balance loud, in-your-face subject matter with painstakingly laborious craft. Behind the surly physiognomies of his figurative carvings is a sensitive, intuitive creative process that pays homage to the sport that has served as an outlet for countless creatives since its inception.
Growing up in Tokyo, where he is currently based, Haroshi often spent his time at a local skatepark he and his friends referred to as the “Mecca for skateboarders.” “I liked their way of thinking, fashion, and music. I had a time [when I kept away from] skateboarding, but I ended up [going back] to it,” recalled Haroshi in our interview, translated from Japanese with the help of his manager, Akinori Kojima.
Haroshi came into his teenage years in the late ’80s and early ’90s, when skateboarding was ascending to worldwide popularity. Inextricably tied to punk rock, graffiti, and all things DIY, skateboarding was emblematic of youth culture in the U.S. and was gaining prominence in Japan, as well. Though wary of Japan’s imitation of U.S. pop culture, Haroshi and his friends readily embraced the sport.
It is almost remarkable how many artists whose careers have taken off in the past decade have roots in the skateboarding scene of the ’80s and early ’90s. Skateboarding inspired a boundary-pushing milieu that transcended cultural background and physical location—even in the days before the digital age. Mexican street artist Curiot, featured in Hi-Fructose Volume 29, referred to skateboarding as his first love. Mike Giant, who had a solo show at San Francisco’s Fecal Face in 2012 titled Confessions of an Old, Dirty Skateboarder, attributes his artistic way of seeing to his early days of skating. Innumerable artists have been inspired by the early skateboard graphics of designers like Jim Phillips, the artist behind the iconic dismembered “screaming hand” graphic of Santa Cruz Skateboards. Though Japan is a ways away from California, where the sport was bred, Haroshi was no exception.
“Skate-inspired art is always meant to think outside the box and question what society accepts, creatively reading between the lines and finding new ideas to expand upon. [It’s about] pushing the boundaries, making jokes, commentaries, or just creating a badass piece of art,” said Jimbo Phillips, Jim Phillips’ son who continues his father’s counter-cultural legacy through his own skate graphic design career. “Skate graphics mean a lot to people beyond the ink on the board. They represent a way of life that you can’t put into words.”
Isn’t it amazing that a skateboard is just ‘board’ and ‘wheels,’ but it becomes such a great thing?”
This elusive spirit of skateboarding—the essence of the lifestyle Phillips alluded to in our email exchange—comes down to a desire to be unregulated. In skateboarding, every surface becomes a plaything. The boundaries that separate where one can and can’t walk, the railways and curbs that designate areas sanctioned for us to occupy are converted into opportunities for free movement.
“Skateboarders see the world the same as graffiti writers: Everything in the public landscapes has untapped creative potential. Originality and personal style are both important to artists and skateboarders, as well,” commented Mike Giant when asked his thoughts on why skating and creativity often go hand-in-hand.
A product of a rebellious subculture, Haroshi’s work can be read as a tribute to the kinetic nature of skateboarding. Rather than touting an overtly political message, skaters rebel against the norms of society through a seemingly meaningless physical act. Haroshi’s recent work, “Cat Plant”—a sculpture of a cartoonish cat balanced on one hand while flipping 180 degrees on his skateboard—is an exaltation of spontaneity. The piece personifies the spark of doing something for fun, without a set goal—to live with the sort of present-ness practiced in meditation.
Haroshi’s works seamlessly fuse multitudes of skate decks—almost as if the wood were a pliable substance
one could melt and sculpt—with a stunning level of craftsmanship. Under the polished, glossy veneer, it is possible to make out the individual layers of boards that make up each piece. Surprisingly, Haroshi does not have a formal art education. Inspired by his creative grandfather, Haroshi picked up woodworking techniques when he built his first deck by hand. “It was very difficult to curve, but now I know that thinking of the process by myself was a very important thing,” said Haroshi of making his first skateboard. “My works are different from others because I am self-taught.”
After learning to sew in high school, Haroshi’s main occupation, for a while, was handcrafting wallets with metal engravings. He even dabbled in jewelry design and glass blowing. By the early aughts, a bored Haroshi was in need of a challenge. One day, when contemplating where he should take his creative endeavors, Haroshi’s friend pointed to a pile of old skate decks in his room and suggested he use them. Reluctant at first, Haroshi put this idea into practice and before long was perfecting his three-dimensional carving skills for his voluminous sculptures.
My art pieces need something invisible or not understandable.
(That) becomes the soul, I think.”
A master of his medium, Haroshi has an encyclopedic knowledge of different types of skate decks, which skaters
use them and, most importantly, how they fit together. The myriad of skate decks Haroshi needs for his work is sourced from his childhood friend’s skate shop, where customers trade in old decks when they purchase new ones. Haroshi stopped counting at around 2,000 and is unsure how many skate decks have actually gone into his work.
“Recently, I choose decks which suit for each artwork. For example, I made the trophy of The Berrics [using] decks from The Berrics. If the theme of the work is one skateboarder, I use the decks that were used by the skateboarder. Those works become good naturally,” Haroshi remarked.
The decks are cut, sanded, and amassed into wood blocks from which Haroshi carves. The stripes that line the sides of the decks add a kaleidoscopic range of color to the work. But this horizontal stacking method constrains the size of the sculpture to the length and width of the original skate decks. To bypass this limitation, Haroshi often works with a much more detailed mosaic method where strips of wood become cube-like units that compose the surface off the work. Some of his largest works, like the impressive eagle installation for his October 2013 solo show, Pain, at StolenSpace Gallery in London, were made using this technique. The eagle loomed territorially over one of the gallery’s walls, its five-meter wingspan made up of unprocessed (though thoroughly beat up) skate decks that appear strangely feather-like in this formation.
In the same show, there was an emoticon-like smiley face built from individually carved wooden bullets, each one glossy with a marble-like finish. A highly polished heart—its shape half-way between cartoonish and anatomical—appeared torn through the middle, the ends
of the broken skate decks exposed. But the most telling piece of the show was Haroshi’s self-portrait, a bust of him looking up to the heavens with an agonized grimace that seemed at once farcical and sincere. Haroshi never lets his viewers take him too seriously, however, always adding a sneakily tongue-in-cheek detail.
Pain was as much about facing mortality as it was a high-five to other skaters with broken wrists and bruised tail bones. Haroshi described the process of channeling his personal struggles as he was coming up with the work in the show. But in our conversation, Haroshi avoided getting too personal. He has often said that he likes to include elements in his work (whether they are details about his concept or his carving process) that are hidden from view. Sensitive moments in the exhibition were offset by jokes—even the large eagle’s eyes look sarcastic as it watched over StolenSpace Gallery.
“My art pieces need something invisible or not understandable. [That] becomes the soul, I think,” Haroshi remarked.
It’s quite exciting for me to see how unskilled skaters could make tricks, somehow much more [exciting] than to see skilled skaters make tricks easily.
Haroshi attributes much of his success to the lessons learned through the DIY ethos of skateboarding. He recalls attempting to master his first ollie. At first, the idea of jumping over a fire hydrant (another object that has appeared in his work) seemed impossible, but after many attempts, falls and injuries, he was gratified by the thought of attaining his goal through sheer willpower. His approach to his artwork is marked by a similar stubbornness. His rise to art-world prominence was a hard-fought one. Haroshi’s intention was never mass
appeal: He says he would have continued doing what he does, even if no one paid attention. Skating taught Haroshi resilience, but it also taught him to never stop having fun.
“Overall, if people can keep doing anything for ten years, [that] makes it real, don’t you think so? Even if you can keep skateboarding for ten years, getting good,” he reflected on the persistence that enabled his success.
When asked about the art or skateboarding scenes in Tokyo, Haroshi had few positive things to say. He has found a much larger audience abroad than at home. Before the October show at StolenSpace there was a solo show at the prestigious Jonathan LeVine Gallery in New York in early 2013 and commissions from HUF and Nike in his recent past.
“I think we lost the originality after Japan lost World War II. It can’t be helped,” said Haroshi with a cynicism he rarely shows. “Our generation won’t wear t-shirts with Japanese letters because it’s frumpy, but we like t-shirts with English letters because it looks cool even if we don’t understand English. ‘Made in USA’ is kind of the brand for our generation. But I think we had better to stop following them anymore, in especially skate culture in Japan. Because if we keep following American [culture], we can never be original.”
Despite Haroshi’s resistance to the worldwide influence of American pop culture, his work has an international appeal that transcends cultural identity—perhaps a product of the same commercialized globalization he dislikes. Whether raised in the U.S., Europe or Japan, most skaters young and old are well versed in the universal lexicon of cartoons, comics, and skateboard graphics. Haroshi’s kinetic and bright (and often goofy) sculptures operate on that collective consciousness. The skate decks
Haroshi and his friends used as kids were emblematic of the DIY culture of his generation, many of whom grew up to be some of the most well-respected artists of today, from Harmony Korine to Shepard Fairey.
“I didn’t even know the name of [the artists] who designed decks when I was child. Now I know those artists. I envy that kind of feel. People don’t know the name but know the artwork well. I’ve been loving old graphics which were produced before I started to make things—like Santa Cruz, Powell, Dogtown, and Zorlac were sick! And the art by Pushead is always cool and a true original,” he said. “I want to be an artist who can satisfy fans for a long time.”
But though Haroshi’s work is emblematic of a cultural moment, it is also a way of connecting with his past. He finds inspiration in the twelfth-century Japanese Buddhist sculptor Unkei, who used a mosaic-style wood sculpting method that Haroshi emulates in his crosshatched sculptures. Like Unkei, who embedded crystal balls into the heart-cavities of his Buddha sculptures to represent the soul, Haroshi hides a broken, metal skateboard part inside each of his works as a sort of spiritual blessing. The broken skateboard parts are a nod to his cultural ancestry, but they are also the relics of ill-fated skate tricks that shatter the boards that end up reborn in Haroshi’s work.
“It’s quite exciting for me to see how unskilled skaters could make tricks, somehow much more [exciting] than to see skilled skaters make tricks easily. It is because there are no rules… I think the most creative thing is skateboarding,” he said. “Isn’t it amazing that a skateboard is just ‘board’ and ‘wheels,’ but it becomes such a great thing?”*
This article first appeared in Hi-Fructose Issue 30, which is sold out. Subscribe to Hi-Fructose today and get our latest issue as part of your subscription here.
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