Known for his ethereal kite-based installations and layered compositions, Jacob Hashimoto returns to London with Analog Death, etc., his new solo exhibition at Ronchini Gallery. Drawing on over 30 years of experimentation, Hashimoto’s work merges digital techniques with analogue intuition, crafting visual landscapes that exist somewhere between structure and improvisation. At once chaotic and precise, his artworks are immersive environments that invite contemplation and wonder. We caught up with Jacob Hashimoto to discuss ambiguity, handmade imperfections, and the meditative power of repetition.
What drew you to kites as a foundational medium—and how have they evolved in meaning across your career?
When I was in art school, I was studying painting and had a studio across the street from Grant Park in Chicago. I spent a lot of my free time building kites and flying them in the park, then returning to the studio to work. At the time, I didn’t really know how to make them properly, even though my father and grandfather had been good at it. So I taught myself—one kite would crash, I’d figure out why, and build another. Eventually, I had about 50 variations pinned to the wall of my studio. Looking at them I realized there was real potential in these objects. I began thinking about how I could take what I was doing with painting and move it into three-dimensional space. That moment marked the beginning of a body of work that’s continued now for over 30 years.
Kites are fascinating to me not only as objects of personal exploration and craft, but also because they’re pan-cultural and exist in many traditions around the world. There’s something inherently inviting about them as viewers instinctively recognize the form. In the early years, my focus was more on the kite itself as a symbolic object and I’d build skies out of tens of thousands of individual kites. Now, I treat them more like pixels—building blocks I can use to construct complex, layered images. The narrative has become less literal and more visual, more structural.
“Analog Death, etc.” reflects on everything from scorched landscapes to satellite arrays. How do these disparate sources converge in your latest work?
I wouldn’t say they converge, they juxtapose. That’s really the nature of this work: placing disparate patterns, images, and systems in conversation with one another. Some pieces might combine elements from mathematics with organic forms like patterns derived from plant structures, tree rings, or even pathogen diagrams I’ve worked with over the years. One piece, Whatever Might Remain, 2025, for example, features star motifs I adapted from a Renaissance-era religious book. I redrew this specific star shape and created two versions that collide visually on the surface. Layered on top of that are vector drawings mapping the real-world locations of radio telescopes in the American Southwest. It’s about layering meaning, not resolving it.
You’ve introduced laser-cutting into your process for this exhibition. How has this shift in precision changed the way you create and interpret your compositions?
Laser-cutting has opened up some exciting possibilities especially in revisiting old patterns from the last 15 – 20 years. Some of those drawings were simply too detailed to cut by hand, so being able to finally realize them is incredibly rewarding.
But laser cutting also presents new problems. It can be too precise. That perfection strips away some of the organic feel of the work. Pieces can start to feel static, almost like stickers. So we’ve had to adapt by sometimes intentionally manipulating the machine or tearing pieces by hand after cutting. We’re always looking for ways to reintroduce imperfection and unpredictability. Before lasers, we used clunky mechanical cutters, slicing one sheet at a time. They were slow and inconsistent but those flaws became integral to the work. So now, even with the efficiency of lasers, we’re careful not to lose that handmade language.
Your works are often described as both poetic and chaotic. How do you navigate that tension between control and unpredictability?
When I’m assembling the pieces I don’t follow a strict drawing. It’s a loose, intuitive process, much like painting. I compose in real time, responding to colour, rhythm, and form. Even though the final pieces can look very structured or architectural, especially in this show at Ronchini, the process is actually quite organic. There’s always a tension between structure and accident, between intention and improvisation. That’s where the magic happens.
You speak about rekindling childlike wonder in an era obsessed with resolution and certainty. How does ambiguity function in your work?
Ambiguity is essential. Unless I explicitly told you what each element in a piece represents in terms of the source material and the reference points it would be nearly impossible to deconstruct. And that’s intentional. The work invites viewers in with familiar forms but doesn’t dictate meaning. It opens a space for personal interpretation, for curiosity and discovery. I think that’s especially important now, when so much of our world is geared toward immediate legibility and resolution.
The show’s title, Analog Death, etc., feels ominous yet expansive. What does that phrase represent for you artistically and personally?
In many ways, it captures the central tension in my practice, the space between analogue and digital worlds.
I’m part of a generation that grew up with cassette tapes and vinyl, with handmade things that were tactile and imperfect. I still feel connected to those systems. Even as my work incorporates digital tools every piece is still physically touched and assembled by hand. That human presence remains at the core. It’s also about transformation, about evolving while holding onto something essential.
As your visual language becomes more complex, do you see your works as maps of memory—or more like meditative portals for viewers to bring their own meaning?
Probably both. For me, the works often function like abstract maps of thoughts, influences, obsessions, memories. But I never want them to be closed systems. They’re built to remain open, to invite interpretation. Each viewer brings their own experience, and I hope the work can be a space for meditation and to see something unexpected.
