Looking for the Soul
This is a journey in search of the answer “Who am I?” and “What is a soul?”, and a story that is at the same time a fantasy.
One day in the small Belgian town of Hasselt, Holland "the glove," was feeling alone and adrift, when he met Elle, a talking dog. Through talking with Elle, he started to wonder about a soul. And heard of Shiro, a cat in Antwerp who might hold a clue to the nature of the soul. I decided to set out on a journey to discover whether I, too, possessed a soul.
In Antwerp, Holland, a half pair of glove—searched for Shiro, the cat Elle had told me about. After he arrived at a quiet park, where he met a cat matching Shiro’s description. Shiro led him to her home, where he met Donatello, a wise tortoise. Surprised that he could speak, Shiro introduced him as a possible tsukumogami—a Japanese spirit that inhabits objects. This sparked a conversation about the soul: comparing Japanese and Western concepts, touching on Greek philosophy—Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. he listened, overwhelmed but intrigued.
That encounter made Holland reflect on the differences between cultural ideas of the soul and the possibility that even objects might have one. He began to question his own identity and purpose. This reflection inspired an artwork titled Looking for a Soul, a piece that is repeatedly broken and repaired—symbolizing the search for meaning in imperfection. As he delved deeper, he became curious about disembodiment and quantum mechanics. he reached out via video call to Paul, an octopus he had seen in scientific footage. Paul spoke of the soul as a quantum function and the possibility of existence in higher dimensions. His words gave Holland a flicker of hope.
As part of his journey to understand the “shape of the soul,” Holland joined a glassblowing workshop in rural Germany. His first attempt was clumsy: he tried shaping a piece using a broken flowerpot and a piece of leather glove as a mold. Through repeated trial and error, he began to see a reflection of his own soul in the transparent, ever-changing nature of glass. He quietly confronted himself.
Inspired by Shiro, Holland also pursued kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. He traveled to Japan, searching for a school that would take him in. Eventually, he was accepted under certain conditions. He studied under Toki in Shibuya and, though the process was slow and painstaking, he committed himself to learning. Over the New Year holidays, he visited Aomori and found unexpected inspiration in the work of a Belgian artist. As he prepares to return, he quietly enjoys the winter in Japan, putting the final touches on his kintsugi.
Eventually, his glass piece, completed after many failures and repairs, broke once more. Though he felt a deep sense of loss, he refused to abandon it. He's come to believe that the soul reveals itself in the act of repair—that meaning lies not in flawlessness, but in the willingness to mend. Just like humans, objects live with their wounds. Through the lens of kintsugi, we see that damage can deepen the bond between people and things. We honor the breaks not by hiding them, but by making them beautiful.
In today’s throwaway culture, we discard things at the first sign of damage. But every object carries the imprint of someone’s hands and thoughts. By restoring broken objects and turning them into art—scars and all—we give form to the idea that even objects have souls. Still, not everything can be fixed. Choosing what to keep and what to let go of is never easy. Yet every broken thing we encounter carries meaning. Holland believes he met them not by accident, but by fate. In their fragments, he senses their feelings—and through his work, he restores their souls.
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