The Place That Knows Me

A New York–based model and artist, Kentaro exists between worlds. Much of his work places him in highly curated environments, framed through the polished lens of fashion. Away from the camera, however, his creativity is rooted in something far less refined—the textures of his surroundings, the marks left behind by people and time, and the feeling of being present rather than performing. Here, identity isn’t something constructed; it’s something gently lived.

Photographed throughout his neighbourhood in New York City, this shoot traces the emotional geography of Kentaro’s life. Past and present fold into one another, revealing how place continues to ground him as he grows. These are the spaces that have watched him change, and in returning to them, he pauses, reflects, and takes stock of who he is becoming.

After spending most of his life here, Kentaro describes his relationship with the neighbourhood as slow-growing. Raised in a Japanese household, with Japanese as his first language, belonging didn’t come easily. “My default was to feel a little alien,” he says. It took time for that feeling to soften. Skateboarding, wandering, meeting people, and existing outside of structure gradually stitched a sense of belonging together. Today, the area feels like a place that quietly recognises him rather than a place in which to return. “It’s home,” he explains, “not in the way you come back to something, but in the familiarity.”

Much of Kentaro’s creative life takes place at home, though he admits the relationship is complicated. Surrounded by his work, inspirations, and personal history, the space can feel both motivating and distracting — a constant reminder of what he’s working towards, while not always being the most productive environment. While he prefers the clarity of a dedicated studio, home remains where ideas gather, and where ambition and familiarity quietly coexist. Preparing for the shoot prompted him to see the space differently. Knowing his apartment would be photographed encouraged a more intentional engagement with his surroundings, not to curate them, but to acknowledge them. When the crew arrived, the intimacy of sharing his home felt unexpected, but deeply affirming. “It didn’t really feel like a shoot,” he says. “It felt like a hangout, like being in a mitten”— an unusual but fitting way to describe the warmth that came with opening his home to a group of young creatives, moving through a similar moment in their lives.

The surrounding church carries personal history for Kentaro, though not in a religious sense. As a teenager skipping school, it became a place to hide, to wait, to draw quietly in a sketchbook. Returning now, the scale feels different: once towering, now familiar. “Everything looks a lot smaller than it used to,” he reflects. What remains unchanged is its presence. “It has nothing to do with religion for me,” he says. “It’s more like a landmark.” In a neighbourhood that’s shifted in countless ways, the church has become a constant, as though a marker that quietly signals home.

Above it all is the rooftop, a place he speaks about with particular affection. With limited space at home growing up, it became a refuge. A place to work with messy materials, to spend time with friends, and to feel a sense of privacy he didn’t always have. “That roof felt more like part of my house than an apartment,” he explains. From watching fireworks on the Fourth of July to hosting chaotic teenage gatherings, it offered him room to exist freely. Though access to it was lost for a time, recently reclaiming the key felt significant—a return to something foundational.

Walking through the neighbourhood, he’s drawn to what often goes unnoticed: scaffolding, cracked paint, sun-bleached awnings, peeling signage. “Those are the artefacts people leave behind,” he says. The contrast becomes especially apparent when returning from Japan, where infrastructure is meticulously maintained. Back in New York, the grime hits immediately, and the city feels louder and more lived in. It’s this visual noise, this weathered honesty, that continues to inform his work.

“We’re always moving forward, trying to be better,” he says. “But it’s important to look back and congratulate yourself a little.” These spaces, messy, familiar, unchanged, serve as reminders that becoming doesn’t require erasure. Walking through the neighbourhood now, Kentaro describes it as chaotic but freeing. A place where no one is watching, where self-consciousness slowly dissolves. “You realise no one cares,” he says, smiling. “And that’s kind of the beauty of it.” In that anonymity, there’s space to exist without performance, to grow without being watched. His surroundings hold him, as they always have, while he continues to become.