Gallery of Human Migration Literary Award
2025 Honourable Mention
Awarded to the story
An Art Enthusiast Became an Artist Herself
Keiko Honda
Total Reading Time: 7 minutes
Like a dragonfly shedding its skin, my family’s move to Vancouver, Canada, in the summer of 2009 was a profound metamorphosis. My husband, our four-year-old Maya, and I arrived, unaware that this journey would transform me from a spectator of art into a creator—a destiny I had never envisioned for myself. At a fragile crossroads, I was leaving behind a Manhattan life that had given me a PhD in public health and a fulfilling career in cancer epidemiology at Columbia University. A sudden spinal cord inflammation at 39 had left me a wheelchair user for life, abruptly severing my professional path and altering my future. Seeking refuge, my husband’s hometown felt like a gentle place to navigate the immense changes to my identity and body.
The quiet solace of Kerrisdale, a Vancouver neighbourhood we moved to, offered a stark contrast to Manhattan’s relentless energy. But even in this newfound silence, I was unmoored. The structures of my marriage and career, once seemingly immutable, were dissolving unexpectedly, leaving a void that echoed in my new environment. Letting go felt like the painful shedding of my old life’s hard exoskeleton. In this period of immense loss, navigating Vancouver in a wheelchair became a constant, physical parallel to the internal struggle—a visible reminder of changes I had to embrace, whether I was ready or not.
Away from my struggles, I discovered a new kind of “writer’s retreat.” It wasn’t a secluded cabin or a designated studio, but the simple act of joining the Kerrisdale Community Centre board in February 2010. This was my first spontaneous and bold attempt to unfurl a new, softer self.
Eagerly, I became the editor for our newly established monthly e-zine, the Kerrisdale Playbook, aiming to foster dialogue on arts, culture, and community life. Though this initiative seemed far from my expertise in epidemiology, I was compelled to observe and collect “information” from this new environment. Through this work, I met people from all walks of life—folks with a gentler rhythm compared to the ambitious, fast-paced Manhattanites I’d known. As the high- octane energy of New York City faded, I began to see a new kind of artistry in the people around me—not in grand galleries, but in everyday moments of creativity. I saw it in the way someone turned plastic recycling into a kid’s toy, or how they opened their front yard to grow food and share the harvest with neighbours. This was a profound contrast to my former fascination with celebrated artists, and it began to dismantle my belief that art was reserved only for the exceptionally talented. The adage, “We are all artists,” which I had always dismissed, suddenly resonated. I saw the passion and creativity in everyone, yet I still struggled to extend that notion to myself. As I chronicled the lives of others, I remained an observer, still protected by the identity of an “occasional researcher”.
Something was slowly shifting. In the fall of 2010, driven by a desire to create a vibrant and inclusive space for lifelong learning, I embarked on a personal project right at home. This was a bold move for me as a newcomer. I began hosting gatherings, inviting neighbours and people I met on the street, and these gatherings eventually evolved into the long-running “Artists-in- Residence” (AIR) salon.
“Perhaps the very act of bringing something new into the world, shaped by one’s unique perspective, is the essence of being an artist.”
Despite the significant challenges of my physical disability, I was determined to create an intergenerational and accessible space, drawing inspiration from my lived experiences in Manhattan. Without a rigid, long-term vision, the AIR salon organically emerged as an incubator for new ideas and connections among a cross-generational group of friends and neighbors. Meeting roughly twice a month, the salon became a dynamic hub for community and creativity.
Even after making Vancouver my home, I struggled to embrace the “Issei” immigrant label, preferring to see myself as a Japanese national living abroad. This resistance stemmed from a complex place. I was navigating a mix of longing for Japan and detachment from it, while also quietly grieving that my disability limited my options for living elsewhere. I was unsure where I should belong. There was a significant part of me that felt tethered to the life I had built, a life I couldn’t easily return to. In a way, identifying as a national living abroad was a form of self-preservation—a temporary identity I held onto until I could find where I truly belonged in this new city.
The most pivotal moment came in the spring of 2011, when an inviting email arrived from Lisa Nielsen, an artist-in-residence at the community center. As part of the City’s 125th birthday celebrations, she was documenting local residents’ oral histories and stories. Her email asked me to share my experience of moving from New York and becoming involved in the Kerrisdale community, concluding with the unexpected declaration: “I think YOU are an artist!” This was the first time anyone had ever called me an artist, a notion entirely foreign to my own self- perception. Initially reluctant and ambivalent, I reasoned that as a relative newcomer, having
lived here for only about a year and a half, I lacked significant history or noteworthy stories for public consumption. Moreover, I was a deeply private person and perhaps felt shy due to my undeniably self-conscious disability. Yet, like the dragonfly shedding its skin, Lisa’s words were the catalyst for my true emergence, suggesting a transformation I had never imagined – from observer to participant, from simply meeting artists to, perhaps, becoming one myself one day.
Moved by Lisa’s warm encouragement, I decided to participate in her visual storytelling project. Seated together at my dining table, Lisa skillfully guided me through the process of transforming my writing into a concise, three-minute video. This involved editing my words, selecting images (photos) that resonated with my story, and finally, recording my narration. It was a revelation – not only my first opportunity to reflect on lived experiences and insights I wished to share with the community, but also my inaugural foray into creating art, moving from the role of observer to active co-creator with an artist. As I listened to my own voice narrating my story, accompanied by carefully chosen images, a profound shift occurred within me. The act of weaving together words and visuals felt surprisingly natural, a form of expression I hadn’t realized I possessed. A sense of quiet satisfaction settled in, a feeling distinct from the intellectual fulfillment I had experienced in my academic career. This was something different, more personal, more visceral. The label “artist,” once so foreign, began to feel less like an unattainable title and more like a potential aspect of my evolving identity.
Titled “It’s All About People,” the completed video felt like a tangible expression of my inner world, a bridge to connect with others on a deeper level. My intention was to convey how spontaneous encounters with individuals had opened unexpected doors in my life, and I hoped to be that person for others. Sharing this personal narrative with the community through Lisa’s project was both a vulnerable and liberating act, as if a long-dormant part of me was finally awakening, finding its voice through this surprising medium. This initial foray into creation began to dismantle my long-held belief that art was solely the domain of the exceptionally gifted. Perhaps, I mused, the very act of bringing something new into the world, shaped by one’s unique perspective, was the essence of being an artist. It was perhaps the first moment I shed my hard exoskeleton, a shell that had guarded my ego – that relentless drive to prove myself through tangible achievements, a pursuit that had left me perpetually striving, with never a moment to simply be. This shedding felt like releasing the foolish notion that life was meant to be a constant toil.
This newfound perspective subtly influenced how I viewed the world. I began noticing the artistry in everyday moments, from the stories etched on people’s faces to the beauty of Vancouver’s natural landscapes. My senses seemed heightened, as if I were now looking through the lens of a creator. The initial seed from Lisa’s simple declaration had begun to sprout, promising a process of artistic exploration I could never have predicted during those first challenging months after arriving in Vancouver. The quiet crisis of my altered mobility and identity was slowly giving way to the exciting, and slightly daunting, prospect of embracing a new self—an artist in the making.
Now, a decade and a half into my Canadian chapter, I reflect on the many Lisas I’ve met – those pivotal individuals who challenged my boundaries and ushered me into the collaborative space of co-creation, the very essence of finding one’s place. This ongoing dance between inner transformation and outward experience, this surprising voyage of becoming, is the story I long to share. Looking back over these fifteen years, the AIR salons have blossomed, a hub of creativity hosting 179 events and welcoming over 3,500 participants. Together, we’ve explored the diverse landscapes of poetry, film, dance, music, painting, and photography, always encouraging interactive and spontaneous audience participation. This deep engagement of the audience in shaping meaning, their active role as co-creators, stands out as a truly remarkable and defining characteristic of the AIR salon.
For instance, Rudi Krause, a locally-based poet and one of our AIR salon presenters, offered a captivating example of this co-creation. At his first salon (the 118th of the series), he presented a poetry-reading session. After a brief introduction to the recurring themes in his work, he remarked, “I touched on some of the recurring themes and made [the audience] aware that these themes have been a part of my creative impulse throughout my life.” Echoing the core concept of the salon as a space for co-creation, he illuminated the often-mysterious domain of poetry, likening it to the “intertidal zone” between land and sea—a place of profound fertility where abundant life thrives. This stimulating territory, he suggested, exists in the liminal state between wakefulness and sleep, prompting the evocative question, “Did this happen or am I just dreaming?” The fluidity of this transitional state, Rudi explained, nurtures its imaginative power. His insight into this elusive in-between stage was the culmination of roughly 50 years’ worth of poems exploring the various nuances of life’s liminal spaces.
Upon reflection, Rudi’s unexpected and deeply receptive audience underscored his recurring theme of “in-between spaces.” The salon itself served as an intertidal zone where he could unite disparate elements like land and sea, or poet and audience, fostering a profound sense of mutual understanding. The vulnerability with which he engaged his newfound audience proved invaluable in promoting human connection within an environment of uncertainty – a phenomenon akin to the power of vulnerability itself to break down barriers and foster intimacy. Rudi mused about the salon-goers’ experience, stating, “It’s difficult to articulate. But I could sense their absorption, appreciation, and reflection back to me. There’s a delicate dance we engage in, particularly in settings like the salon, where there’s fluid exchange. It’s akin to navigating traffic on a bridge with lanes flowing in both directions. It doesn’t always occur, but we continually strive for it, creating environments conducive to such interaction. It might be in a salon, a garden, or even while picking up trash together — any place where people can gather and converse.” He preserves the integrity of his own creative bridges by frequently retreating to nature for rejuvenation, explaining, “There’s the wilderness, and then there’s the garden. As humans, we oscillate between both. For my well-being, I require both. I need to venture out of the city for a hike, then return to tend my garden, which reflects the nurturing needed in relationships and communities. If I desire the beauty of flowers or the nourishment of produce, effort is required—planting, watering, weeding.”
The AIR salon, nestled within Vancouver’sincreasingly isolating urban landscape, represents a refreshing return to genuine human connection in an age often dominated by digital distractions. While the term ‘old-fashioned’ might seem fitting to some, the fundamental human need for connection is timeless, a cornerstone of our shared humanity. Throughout history, innovation and progress have emerged from shared ideas and collaborative spaces, as exemplified by the 17th- century salons that fostered intellectual exchange and cultural dialogue. The AIR salon, in its own way, embodies this elusive ‘in-between’ realm, bridging the gap between technology and interpersonal connection, imagination and reality, and the inner and outer selves, offering a space for both personal transformation and collective growth within the Vancouver community.
As I continued to host the salon and deepen my roots in my new Vancouver community, a question that has long intrigued me is the delicate balance of belonging and differentiation within interconnected communities. While I’ve lived in North America for nearly 30 years, my sense of self has often leaned towards that of a global citizen rather than a typical Japanese individual. However, my involvement in the rich multicultural fabric of Kerrisdale and the intimate connections fostered through the AIR salon have illuminated a deeper truth: my Japanese heritage remains an undeniable core of my identity, subtly influencing my experiences as a mother, shaping my career choices, and even informing my approach to health challenges. Through the vibrant interactions fostered within the AIR salon, with both our guest speakers and engaged audience, I’ve developed a profound belief in the power of individual voices, amplified by our collective imagination, to navigate the intricate journey of creating a sense of home as an immigrant in a new land like Vancouver.
For instance, Chris Son, a Korean-Canadian immigrant and architecture student at UBC, was also a passionate breakdancer and gardener. He was a key member of Roots on the Roof, a student organization based in the UBC Nest, dedicated to creating a communal space that celebrates sustainable and just food systems. His salon presentation (the 117th of the series) was a personal story about envisioning the future and overcoming feelings of cultural displacement through art and community engagement. For a long time, he struggled to find a sense of belonging in his new home. However, he eventually found community and wellness through his involvement in Roots on the Roof and the street dance community, both of which nurtured his personal interests and allowed him to connect with others who shared his passions.
During the post-salon interview, Chris mentioned, “…Oftentimes when I present, it’s in an academic environment. It feels bourgeoisie, and my age and ethnicity usually stand out amongst the crowd. At Keiko’s home, it was different. It was in an affluent neighbourhood in a nice modernist house; yet, her place really felt like a home. There were lots of folksy artifacts and furniture, not the kind you’d pick up as souvenirs to show all the places you travelled… but rather, handed down through relationships. Each piece had a story. Just observing the people present was also interesting. It was a multi-generational and intercultural kind of crowd. The food at the potluck proved it. I thought this kind of environment was uniquely East Van in a grungy community home, I’m happy to see a space like this somewhere in Dunbar-Southlands…” He continued, “I thought to myself: the presentation was too long, my stories weren’t cohesive enough…but it turns out that it was great. Afterwards I’ve been approached by all kinds of people, including kids emerging with potential and adults involved in what I admired. After they heard my story, I appreciated that they shared with me theirs…After this, I’m motivated to become a better listener, but also to be a better speaker capable of crafting my story. How else would we attain the most vulnerability?”
Chris’s reflection deeply resonated with Rudi’s insights into the ‘in-between’ ground or ‘intertidal’ zone. It was no coincidence that I learned from young people like Chris who were navigating the challenges of immigration and identity formation, fueled by both uncertainty and boundless possibilities.
The 100th salon in 2016 held a special significance, for it was then that I, in turn, shared my own journey with the audience for the first time, a heartfelt expression of gratitude to those who had so generously supported the AIR salon. It was during this moment of shared vulnerability that I truly began to see myself as an emerging artist, finally shedding the confines of my previous professional identity and the self-imposed limitations that had long held me back. Reflecting on that milestone, I realize that without the consistent interactions and unwavering support of the AIR salon community, I would not have found the courage to reach that level of self-expression. It became profoundly clear that the AIR salon was a deeply collaborative endeavor, co-created and guided by the collective spirit of all involved. The realization dawned on me that a rigid, long-term vision driven by a single individual wasn’t necessary; the organic energy and shared passion of the community would naturally steer its future.
The year 2023 marked a significant milestone: the publication of my debut memoir, Accidental Blooms. Writing it was a deeply personal journey—a way to express my observations and profound appreciation for the people who had shaped my life, creating a “mental home” within its pages. Engaging with readers became a community-building experience unlike any I had known before. That same year, my daughter, Maya, my steadfast emotional anchor, turned 18 and left for university in Toronto. With bittersweet emotions, I embraced the start of her own migration, hoping she, too, would discover her inner artistry and voice on her path to finding her place.
Fifteen years ago, when I landed in Vancouver, I couldn’t have imagined the profound connections I would forge—not just with readers, but with myself. Now in 2025, as my second memoir, Hidden Flowers, comes to fruition, I eagerly anticipate those moments. My new city has become a unique and welcoming “writer’s retreat”, not a place of refuge once I sought, but one that has taught me a deeper way of seeing and interacting with the world. I now understand that we perceive the moon, cherry blossoms, and the people around us through layers of senses, memory, emotion, and cultural understanding. It is through this same lens of deep reflection and expression that a true sense of belonging emerges—a moment of stillness in our often-hectic lives.
I believe it is in embracing our identity as artists that we ultimately find this sense of belonging. What began with a hesitant newcomer observing Vancouver’s vibrant tapestry has blossomed into this: I have emerged, my voice finding its ink, ready to script my own indelible chapters onto its ever-evolving narrative. The dragonfly’s metamorphosis was a prelude; now, it ascends, its iridescent wings imbued with the stories of countless others, soaring through the Vancouver sky.