While traveling the inner reaches of the Himalayas in a region called Ladakh, I met a girl in a small mountain village who spoke Japanese oddly. It turned out, because I asked, that her mother was Japanese.
To be honest, I wasn’t good with kids, but seeing her walking about the rough terrain on not-so-sure footing, I uneasily led her by the hand.

Back in Japan, something kept itching at me when, before I knew it, I was back visiting that village again. This happened time and time again, till eventually things got to be like family. Seven years. I watched that little girl become a tender-loving sister who cared for her two younger siblings. I was like their brother, though a lot older.
One day, watching me clown around with the kids, their mother said, “You, too, have grown.” When I asked what she meant, she added, “A long time ago, you seemed frustrated and rushed by something. You were always gazing in the distance, standing still in the same spot blown by the wind. You didn’t play so happily with the kids.”

Fame, glory and money. Driven by ambition and always fretting about time. That was me before. I can’t imagine what the old me might think if he saw me and my work now.
This seven-year photography journey taught me that living alone and away from people has no true meaning. And there were moments that helped me uncover my soft side, which I have tried to express through my work.

The background music to this exhibition was composed by Miyata himself. It shows influences from the ancient folk songs and religious music of the Ladakh region that lay behind his work.