Fifth Sense
Breathe in the work of Ayumi Morita
By Arthur Wise
Ayumi Morita is inescapable right now. But you won’t see her work—at least, not the part that matters. Morita is a "scent artist," a designation that often confuses the uninitiated. She is not a perfumer. She isn't trying to make you smell nice for a dinner party. She is trying to make you feel something visceral, using the most primal and neglected pathway to the brain: the olfactory bulb.
The Conversation
Arthur Wise: Ayumi, thank you for having me. I have to admit, when I walked in, I braced myself for an overwhelming cloud of perfume. But the air here is... incredibly neutral.
Ayumi Morita: [Laughs] Thank you. That is actually high praise. My workspace must be a blank canvas. If the room smells like lavender or cedar, I can’t hear the notes I’m trying to compose. Silence is necessary for music; neutrality is necessary for scent.
AW: Let’s start at the beginning. How does one become a scent artist? It’s not exactly a standard major in art school.
AM: No, it isn't. I actually started in chemistry. I was fascinated by the molecular structure of volatile compounds. But I found myself less interested in the reactions and more interested in the emotional response to the fumes—which, safety-wise, is not great for a chemist! I wanted to create scents that had no object. Scents that were just... emotions suspended in alcohol.
Ayumi Morita.
AW: Your scents are famous for being... unexpected. Some are lovely, but others are challenging.
AM: Exactly. A commercial perfume wants to seduce you. I want to interrupt you. My piece “C Train” smells of metal, electricity, and distant friction. It’s not "nice," but it is true. Some of my work is terrible at first sniff—sharp, acrid, confusing. But if you sit with it, it resolves into something warm and treasured. It’s an acquired taste, literally.
AW: I noticed something striking about the presentation. Almost every liquid is a variation of this stunning, translucent teal or sea-glass green. Why the uniformity?
AM: That is a very deliberate choice. I detest arbitrary colors, but I also detest spoilers. This particular exhibition tells a story. If I color-coded the scents—red for danger, gold for luxury—it would be like color-coding the pages of a book based on the emotion of the scene. You would know the tragedy was coming before you read a word! It ruins the suspense. By keeping them all shades of teal, I force you to read the text. You have to inhale to find the plot.
AW: Let's talk about the vessels. They are architectural, glass sculptures in their own right. Why put so much effort into the container if the art is invisible?
AM: Because the scent is ephemeral. It dies the moment you experience it. The vessel is the altar. It says, "Pay attention. What is inside here is precious." If I put these scents in a plastic cup, you would treat them like a drink. The glass vessel demands respect. It forces you to slow down your movements. You have to handle it with care to get to the ghost inside.
AW: Speaking of handling things with care... we have to discuss the centerpiece image of this article. What's happening with the vessel spilling amber liquid in the background? Is there a story there?
AM: [Covering her face] Yes, the "Amber Incident." It is a monument to my greatest professional embarrassment. It happened at my first major solo show in Tokyo. I stumbled and knocked over the container for a scent called “Anxiety.”
AW: Oh no.
AM: The gallery was flooded with "Anxiety." People were literally running for the exits because their fight-or-flight responses were being chemically triggered. It was a disaster, but looking back... it was probably the most effective performance art I’ve ever done.
AW: So the photo is a reenactment?
AM: A reenactment of sorts. The photographer used apple juice, not anxiety. But it’s a tribute to the chaos, and a reminder that scent cannot be tamed. We can bottle it, we can label it, but the moment it spills? It owns the room.
Exhibition Info
Ayumi Morita's exhibition "Inhalation" opens next Thursday at the Institute of Contemporary Arts.