Ever felt like you’re just another cog in the machine? Like your desk job is slowly turning you into the desk? Or maybe your smartphone feels less like a tool and more like an extension of your very being, demanding constant attention?
Today, I want to introduce you to an artist who captured this unsettling feeling long before our screens became truly inseparable from our lives: Tetsuya Ishida (1973–2005).
This brilliant Japanese painter, whose life was tragically cut short, left behind a body of work that’s as haunting as it is thought-provoking. Imagine boys and men, not just using machines or living in urban spaces, but literally fused with them. We’re talking people with conveyor belts for torsos, students embedded in school desks, or businessmen morphing into office buildings. No, he wasn’t predicting literal human-printer hybrids (thank goodness, paper jams would be agonizing).
His canvases are a stark, surreal mirror reflecting the anxieties of modern city living: the crushing weight of isolation, the relentless grip of consumerism, the soul-sucking stress of work, and the sheer monotony that can drain the color from our days.
What’s truly wild is how relevant his work feels today. We’re more connected than ever, yet often feel profoundly alone. Our lives are dictated by algorithms and endless to-do lists. Ishida saw this coming, translating our hidden fears into stunning, unsettling visuals. He was brilliantly illustrating the psychological toll of a society where our identities often get tangled up with our jobs, our possessions, and the concrete jungles we inhabit.
So, next time you feel like your laptop is growing roots into your lap, or your commute is slowly turning you into a bus seat, spare a thought for Tetsuya Ishida. He saw it, he painted it, and he left us with a powerful reminder to check in with our human selves, before we fully become part of the urban machinery.