Yesterday’s dreams, today’s reality

In yesterday I was a tiny tube of toothpaste, Maysha Mohamedi reflects on her time spent in Japan two decades ago, revisiting personal diary entries to create a deeply introspective body of work. Her exhibition at Pace Gallery Tokyo features abstract paintings that blend emotions from her past with her current self. Through this process, Mohamedi explores themes of growth, connection, and the fluidity of time, offering viewers a glimpse into her journey of self-discovery through art.

hube: Your recent exhibition yesterday I was a tiny tube of toothpaste at Pace Gallery Tokyo features new works inspired by your personal diary from your time in Japan two decades ago. What encouraged you to revisit these diary entries and how were they transformed into visual art? Are there particular entries that stood out and significantly influenced the pieces?
Maysha Mohamedi: When I found out about the Tokyo show a year ago, I immediately thought back to my time living there in 2004. I was 24, in a PhD program for neuroscience, working in a lab, and all I wanted was to be an artist. I started reading my old diaries and re-entered that part of my life – being a young woman trying to figure out what I wanted and how to get there. At the time, everything felt so far away. I was surrounded by brilliant minds, and I badly wanted to have an impact like them.

Reading those diaries now was honestly shocking. I didn’t recognise that girl at first – she seemed so naive, even silly. But over time, I developed a lot of empathy for her. I realised that despite the time gap, we wanted the same things, and that really shaped the paintings. I started pulling out themes, concepts, and people from that period and translating them into visual forms for the exhibition.

h: The new Pace Tokyo gallery, designed by Sou Fujimoto, has a minimalist and ethereal design. How did the unique architectural features and atmosphere of the gallery space influence the presentation and arrangement of your works? Did the gallery’s design inspire any specific aspects of your exhibition?

MM: When I was creating the paintings, I wasn’t actively thinking about the architecture. But something interesting happened toward the end. About a month ago, I was looking at a rendering of the layout, with all my paintings placed where I imagined they would be. We realised one wall was missing a painting – it felt incomplete.

I had ordered a circular canvas, something I’d never worked with before, just to experiment. It was a small one, only 15 inches in diameter, but it hit me: this is the missing painting. It felt like a period at the end of a sentence, especially with its placement at the end of a line of paintings. That painting became the Full Stop. Later, I read an article about the gallery’s architect, who said curved edges were a key feature of the space. It was almost like the universe was telling me this circular painting belonged here.

h: The number 13 seems to be significant in your exhibition. Why did you choose to showcase exactly 13 paintings?

MM: I didn’t deliberately choose 13. It just happened naturally. I always start by creating a list of what I want the titles for the show to be, and that usually forms a narrative – like a beginning, middle, and end. The titles give the show a certain rhythm, and 13 was the point where it felt right. Any more would have disrupted that flow.

h: Are all the paintings equally significant to you, or are there some that stand out more than others?

MM: The first painting I make for a show always has special significance. It sets the tone for everything that follows. In this exhibition, the first painting is called Baby’s Breath. It’s named after one of my favourite flowers – simple and unassuming, which is exactly the feeling I wanted to convey. That blank slate, where anything is possible. But honestly, all of the paintings hold meaning for me in different ways.

h: Many of your new works are named after people and places you encountered in Japan. How do these titles and their associated memories shape the thematic and visual elements of each piece?

MM: About half of the paintings are directly pulled from my diary entries. If you see a title that’s not capitalised, that’s a direct fragment from the diary. The other half is more current – present-day elements of my life that are typical of my usual work. For me, titles are crucial. They give the painting a certain energy. Once I know the title and the colours, it’s like everything clicks into place, and I can paint without overthinking.

h: Some artists say titles don’t matter, but for you, it seems like they’re an essential part of the process. Could you explain that a bit more?MM: I can’t relate to the idea that titles don’t matter. They’re fundamental to my process. The titles guide me – they act as a starting point for the emotion I’m trying to capture. That said, I wouldn’t say my work is rooted in memory. Even though I’m pulling from my diary, I’m not interested in mining the past. It’s more about accessing emotions and experiences that are still very much present. These moments from the past live with us now.

h: Alongside your exhibition, Pace Publishing is producing a facsimile of your studio notebook with a new text by writer Brian Dillon. How did this collaboration come about, and what insights or narratives do you hope the publication will provide to complement your visual works?

MM: It’s my first book, and it’s pretty unconventional for an exhibition catalogue. It’s a facsimile of my studio sketchbook, where you can see how I choose colours, titles, and my thought process for each painting. Brian Dillon wrote a beautiful essay for it, which really ties everything together. Initially, I considered publishing part of my diary alongside it. I worked with the poet Miles Champion, who wrote a series of haikus based on my diary entries. But in the end, I decided not to publish the diary. There’s something powerful about the idea that people know it exists without actually seeing it. That hidden depth is important in my work.

h: Your work has been described as a blend of the scientific and the subconscious. With a background in cognitive science, how do you navigate these two realms in your art, and what do you aim to express through this combination?

MM: That’s something that gets applied to my work after the fact. I’m not thinking about it while I paint. When I’m working, it feels more like a meditation. I have my own rituals that get me into that headspace. It’s a graceful back and forth. The beginning of a painting is intuitive; I try not to overthink it. But as the painting progresses, I start making more deliberate decisions based on my experience as a painter.

h: Do you find a certain calmness or tranquillity in balancing those two modes – intuitive and deliberate?

MM: I think it’s less about calmness and more about finding a sense of rightness. It’s like when your body moves in the right way during physical activity. Painting is the same for me – it’s about moving toward what feels good and what feels right.

h: Colour and form are central to your paintings. How do you choose your colour palettes and shapes, and what do they signify in your abstract compositions?

MM: There’s a mix of conscious decision-making and intuition when it comes to colour and form. Initially, it’s very intuitive – I start painting without overthinking it. The first 30% of the painting is really about letting go and seeing where things go. After that, it becomes more deliberate. I start to make decisions based on years of experience – composition, colour harmony, balance, all of that comes into play.

I don’t always start with a specific meaning behind the colours or shapes, but as I work, they take on their own significance. It’s almost like I’m responding to the painting as it evolves, shaping it as it takes on a life of its own. The balance between intuition and knowledge is key in creating the final piece.