At Art Dubai this year, you will find a dog assembled from keyboard keys, and paintings of figures swallowed up in oversized black puffer jackets. All are the work of Yutaro Inagaki, a Japanese artist based in London.

Inagaki started from graffiti in Tokyo — tagging walls in a city where holding a spray can was enough to make people treat you like a criminal. He eventually made his way to London, accumulating a worldview that is equal parts street culture, Yohji Yamamoto, and stray dog. The figures in his work are blurred, blacked out, or hidden behind animal masks — anonymous entities stripped of any clear identity, existing somewhere between human and animal, instinct and city.

The puffer jacket, in Inagaki’s hands, becomes a form of armour. The keyboard dog is not a quirky sculpture — it is a creature that has found a way to persist. Survival, he says, is the central theme of both his art and his life right now. But why? We spoke with him about that, and about the roots from which his work emerged.

— Yutaro, let’s go back to the beginning for a moment. You started making graffiti with your friends in Tokyo, right?

— Yes, graffiti is my background. When I was a teenager in Japan, I started tagging and creating my own tag names. At that time, it was definitely about vandalism.

I was also trying to find my identity, as most teenagers do. That is how I got into graffiti, but I was equally interested in urban exploration. For me, it was about seeing places you are not supposed to see — climbing high buildings you are not allowed to access, sneaking into the hidden gaps between cities. There was a pure excitement in discovering a world beyond the one I already knew. That is really how it all started.

Then, I started to realise there could be more to it than vandalism. It may sound cliché, but discovering Banksy had a big impact on me. When I first saw his work, I was really impressed by the idea that there was another possibility — something more creative and artistic than simply vandalising spaces.

Slowly, I became more interested in street art and large-scale murals: painting on a monumental scale while still working within public space.

The thing is that in Japan, graffiti is treated very strictly. The moment you hold a spray can, people already look at you like a criminal. People genuinely dislike graffiti there.

That is why I was shocked when I came to Europe. It feels much freer here. In some places, graffiti is almost accepted — maybe not completely legal, but somewhere in between. It is treated more as a culture.

— And how did it all start? Today we see a lot of black tones and puffer jackets in your work — was it always like this?

— I went through many different styles and phases of experimentation. Before what I now call my “black phase,” I had a period where I was heavily influenced by medieval and Victorian-style drawing.

At the time, I was painting on beige backgrounds using spray paint, but approaching it almost like a detailed illustration. I focused on fine lines, cross-hatching, and techniques that resembled vintage drawings from the past.

Even then, there was still a sense of consistency in the work. I have always been drawn to subtlety and to a nearly monochromatic aesthetic — though not strictly black and white.

What interested me was bringing that subtle, restrained quality into street art. I had grown tired of the typical colourful, flower-driven street art aesthetic and wanted to introduce something different.

That vintage drawing style felt new and exciting to me, and it became the foundation of my early work.

— When did your “black phase” begin?

— I think it was also a gradual process over time. I felt I had completed the previous series and wanted to begin something new.

I had grown tired of bright, vibrant colours, so I wanted to create something more minimal and contemporary. Black naturally became the direction I chose.

I am also very influenced by the fashion world — especially designers like Yohji Yamamoto and Rei Kawakubo. I admired the way they entered and disrupted the Western fashion world through the use of black, which at the time felt almost taboo in Western fashion culture.

That had a strong impact on me. I wanted to approach the art world in a similar way — using something radical and minimal to break through established expectations.

So one day, I decided to start a completely new series based around black objects and black forms. I painted black mannequin-like bodies, black rubbish bags, black puffer jackets, and similar subjects.

— What do the numbers and letters in your artworks represent?

— At first, I approached it quite randomly, using different alphabets, numbers, letters, and symbols. Since my murals were influenced by Victorian-style drawing, I was also very interested in the visual language of old anatomical books and scientific illustrations.

I loved the way those books used numbers, arrows, and letter markings to label different parts of the body or diagram. There was something visually compelling about those small details — the combinations of letters and numbers placed throughout the page.

— One of the new chapters in your practice was moving into sculpture. When and why did you decide to explore that medium?

— That was at the beginning of last year. At the time, I was going through a major slump with painting. I felt unable to achieve the effect I really wanted, and I wasn’t satisfied with any of the works I was making.

Because of that, I thought I should try a completely new medium. Sculpture was something I had wanted to explore for a long time.

Since I was already painting black artificial forms — anonymous figures and objects like rubbish bags — I started thinking: why not use the real objects themselves? Things like plastic bags, keyboards, and puffer jackets.

So I began with the “keyboard dog” sculpture, and after that, I started experimenting with the puffer pieces.

— Dogs appear throughout your work, so I have to ask: where does this fascination come from? Is it simply a personal love for dogs, or is there a story behind it?

— That is actually difficult for me to answer precisely. I have simply always been deeply fascinated by dogs, and by animals in general. I am interested in the way they can comfort and heal us through touch or interaction.

That feeling is something I wanted to bring into my work as a contrast to the cold urban environments I often depict. I didn’t want the work to express only the harshness or emptiness of the city — I also wanted to introduce a sense of life and emotional presence.

One of the biggest inspirations came from seeing stray dogs in Russia while I was living there for a year. That experience honestly shocked me because in Japan, we don’t really have stray dogs the same way. For me, dogs had always been associated with kindness, domestication, and life within the city as pets.

But seeing stray dogs in Russia gave me a completely different impression. They could seem calm and gentle, but at the same time, there was also a sense of unpredictability and aggression. That contrast had a strong impact on me and became an important source of inspiration.

And one more thing about the dogs: what fascinates me is that, even though they can appear aggressive, they ultimately survive in the city. Conceptually, that idea became very important to me.

Survival is now one of the central themes in my work. For example, I paint puffer jackets as soft and inflated objects, but at the same time, I see them as a form of survival gear. That is why I call them “urban armours” — protective equipment for surviving within a cold urban environment.

The idea of surviving in the city feels especially relevant today. We constantly hear people talking about how difficult life has become: everything is more expensive, the world feels increasingly chaotic, and people are trying to endure that reality.

— Has that theme come from personal experience?

— For me, the main theme of my life right now is survival. Living in London is extremely expensive, and life there can feel uncomfortable at times. I live in shared flats with several other people, sharing kitchens and bathrooms — something that would feel almost unimaginable in Japan. Even with those conditions, the rent is still incredibly high.

In a way, the work has also become a personal diary. It reflects my current situation and state of mind.

And when I talk about survival, I don’t mean life-threatening survival. I mean the everyday experience of surviving within the city.

— This year, you are taking part in Art Dubai. What works are you showing there?

— I am showing two paintings, along with a small “keyboard dog” sculpture.

I titled the biggest painting Soft Landing. The dogs in the painting look young, almost like curious puppies, as if they are trying to understand what the central figure is doing. Meanwhile, the figure itself appears more cautious and suspicious. I wanted to create a tension between the innocent curiosity of the puppies and the guarded attitude of this half-human figure. In some ways, it even feels like the dogs have the advantage.

There is also the idea that the figure wearing the fur mask is trying to blend in with the dogs — almost pretending to be one of them. The concept of blending in is very important to me.

In Japan, harmony and fitting into the group are deeply valued, while standing out or being too individual can sometimes be seen negatively. Society is very collective in that sense, and I have always had complicated feelings about that.

In fact, one of the reasons I started doing graffiti was because I felt unable to blend in with other people. Yet in Japan, blending in is considered extremely important.

I think that is why I often paint anonymous black figures or collective forms. In a way, they reflect the tension I feel within Japanese society.