Mira Tanaka, a former architectural conservator turned wabi-sabi painter, brings the same tactile intelligence that defined her fifteen years restoring weathered church walls across southern Europe into the way she builds paint on canvas. Born with partial hearing, Tanaka learned early to read the world through her hands — the weave of a fabric, the grain of aged wood, the viscosity of wet plaster — an instinct that now shapes every ridge and groove of her impasto. Known for her ability to sense what a surface needs before her eyes confirm it, she carries that physical authority into work that feels lived-in rather than composed, where thick sculptural paint records the pressure of a palm, the drag of a blade, the weight of a quiet moment. Her studio — a spare, concrete-floored space where natural light shifts across canvases and pigment stains trace the hours — reflects this sensibility, balancing restraint with depth. For Tanaka, painting is a conversation held in the language of touch: each textured surface an invitation to be felt, not just seen.