- Growing up in a traditional Japanese household, Hiromi Tango struggled to communicate with her words
- Instead, Hiromi turned to art to express her thoughts and feelings
- Now Hiromi is helping others to heal
Here Hiromi tells her story in her own words
Creeping into my room, my mum nudged me awake, pressing her finger to her lips.
Aged seven, I silently got out of bed and followed her into the lounge room.
With the lights low, she pushed some soft fabric towards me and handed me a needle and thread.
Without saying a word, in the dead of night, we started snipping, stitching and sewing.
‘That’s not art, that’s trash.’
It was 1983, and growing up in regional Japan, both my grandmothers were kimono makers and my mum, Reiko, a graduate of a fashion college in Tokyo.
But in a very traditional society, women didn’t have a voice, and seeing my dad be cruel to my mother, I carried a heavy, silent weight on my shoulders.
As I got older my stress and anxiety manifested as a speech disorder, as I watched the women in my family maintain a positive public face while their spirits were in tatters.
The only way I could communicate openly and freely was through art. As soon as my father fell asleep, in secret, Mum and I would make garments, little puppets and other objects.
‘That’s not art, that’s trash,’ my father would spit at Mum, who’d bow her head in fear as I’d cower in the corner.
Art became my escape. In my unpredictable world, winding and organising colours gave me a sense of order.
The repetitive, meditative movements helped me regulate the negative emotion thundering inside me.
Aged 18, I made a brave announcement. ‘I’m going to move to Tokyo to study,’ I told my parents.
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While Dad’s eyes filled with rage, Mum’s danced.
It broke my heart to leave my beloved mother, but in 1994 I went to study a Bachelor of Arts, Humanity and Culture of Arts, at Japan Women’s University.
Aged 21, I met a guy called Craig Walsh, an Australian artist on residency in Tokyo.
Connecting, we quickly fell head over heels in love.
‘Come to Australia,’ he urged me. ‘Become an artist there.’
‘Why not,’ I agreed.
‘Finally, I feel free.’
Moving to Tweed Heads, NSW, in 1998, my eyes widened seeing a land of happiness, hope and opportunity.
‘Finally, I feel free,’ I said to Craig.
No longer inhibited through speech or creativity, my love for art knew no bounds.
Wrapping vibrant materials around every day objects, the meditative techniques of binding and making things using repeated small movements had a calming impact on me.
‘Art is so grounding and therapeutic,’ I said to Craig one day after spending hours delicately assembling a flower with pieces of reclaimed fabric.
I began to realise my signature style could be more than just personal therapy.
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‘I can make the world a better place,’ I told my mum over a long-distance call. ‘Mum, just as art helped us, I can make people feel seen and heard.’
In a culture of constant social pressure, we’re expected to always be ‘on,’ and be forever busy.
I knew I could help lighten that load by sharing making art for reflection, connection, and the quiet processing of the rush of modern life.
‘My darling, it’s a beautiful quest,’ Mum, said, full of pride and praise.
Now married to Craig, we collaborated on projects, filling public spaces with my colourful installations.
The feedback from passers-by was so warm
‘This makes me feel so much joy,’ someone said when they stepped into a giant brightly coloured rainbow wheel I’d made that was displayed at Melbourne Science Gallery.
Since 2009, for the Hiromi Hotel project, I’ve transformed various spaces, such as at Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art and the Brisbane Festival, using recycled textiles and vibrant colours to coax strangers to unburden and simply be in an immersive artwork.
The more art I made – and after welcoming our two daughters, Kimiyo and Mikiyo born in 2009 and 2011 – the more I became obsessed with the why.
Reading Dr Norman Doidge’s, The Brain That Changes Itself and collaborating with neurobiologists like Dr Emma Burrows at the Florey Institute, I wanted to prove what I’d felt as a silent child – that art actually changes us.
‘It’s not just pretty,’ I said to Craig. ‘It’s is a neurological tool for survival.’
Working with scientists and health professionals, I learned how specific colours and tactile engagements lower cortisol levels and foster positive brain development.
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That knowledge has shaped my work and it’s all a dynamic tapestry of everything I once had to hide.
I create to ensure that even the marginalised are seen and heard in ways I never was.
The Garden | Healing Together, at Tweed Valley Hospital, NSW, is inspired by the lilly pilly berry.
A massive sculpture hanging in the hospital foyer woven in blues and greens, it brings the calm of the hinterland and coast inside.
I didn’t want the hospital to feel like a scary place, but a healing space full of warm energy.
‘It’s a neurological tool for survival.’
Over three years, more than 500 community members stitched their stories into the ‘seedlings’ and ‘berries’ of the piece.
Craig, now 60, and my daughters adore my creations, and the girls, now teenagers, are often in my studio dabbling.
My passion has enabled me to bring moments of peace and create safe spaces to help people to feel heard and seen, and to open conversations about what it means to be human.
I hope everyone can take time to connect with art.
It works wonders for your creative wellbeing, and is a form of essential self-care.
I create because I know what it’s like to live in chaos, and I know that a single stitch, or stroke of colour can heal a broken soul.
