Yuriko Shibata of Manhattan on Life, Lessons & Legacy

Yuriko Shibata shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.

Hi Yuriko, thank you for taking the time to reflect back on your journey with us. I think our readers are in for a real treat. There is so much we can all learn from each other and so thank you again for opening up with us. Let’s get into it: When was the last time you felt true joy?
The last time I felt true joy was during the first table read of The KUSAMA Project (working title), the musical I’m co-writing with Andrew Strano. It was the first time I heard our music and words come alive through other people’s voices — a room full of artists breathing together, discovering what the piece meant beyond the page. As the story unfolded, I felt something shift inside me. After months of working in isolation, I could finally feel the heartbeat of what we had created.

The KUSAMA Project is a song cycle inspired by the life and art of Yayoi Kusama. Kusama’s polka dots aren’t decoration — they’re philosophy. Each dot is a self, a soul, a moment of existence. Alone, they’re small. Together, they become infinity. That’s what our musical explores: how two immigrant artists — a Japanese composer and a queer Australian writer — navigate isolation, identity, and the terrifying, beautiful feeling of being microscopic in an endless universe.

What made that table read so powerful wasn’t perfection. It was witnessing the moment my private obsession became a shared language. Theatre can’t exist in isolation — it needs breath, bodies, voices colliding in a room. That day, surrounded by Theatre Now New York’s team and extraordinary actors, I watched something I’d been composing alone transform into a conversation.

That’s what joy feels like to me: not completion, but connection — the moment your solitude becomes someone else’s recognition.

Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I write music for the spaces between people — the invisible distances where words can’t reach.
I’m a Japanese composer and musical director based in New York City, and I believe that theatre is one of the few places left where strangers can sit together in the dark and feel their hearts beat in unison. That moment — when a melody, a silence, or a single lyric makes someone realize they’re not alone — is what I live for.

My goal as a composer isn’t to invent new genres, but to dissolve boundaries between them. I pull from classical Japanese composition, Western musical theatre, electronic soundscapes, and everything in between — not to show range, but because human emotion doesn’t fit neatly into categories. I want to create music that stays in the body long after the theatre goes dark.

As an Asian woman and immigrant artist, I’m constantly translating between worlds: Japanese and American, delicate and bold, structured and improvised. That tension lives in every melody I write. Growing up in Tokyo taught me precision and emotional restraint; building my career in New York since 2021 taught me to take up space and speak loudly when it matters. My music is where those two voices meet — not compromised, but amplified.

What makes my work distinct is that I compose the way Kusama paints: by repeating and layering until a pattern becomes infinite. Each note is a dot, each melody a thread, and together they create something bigger than any single moment — a reflection of how small and interconnected we all are.

Great, so let’s dive into your journey a bit more. What’s a moment that really shaped how you see the world?
Moving to New York didn’t just change my perspective — it shattered my understanding of what music could say.

Growing up and studying in Japan, I was surrounded almost entirely by Japanese people. Because Japan is a small island nation with few immigrants or international students, I rarely encountered different cultures or perspectives. That was simply the world I knew.

When I came to New York to study at NYU, everything shifted. Suddenly, I was working with people from so many backgrounds — different races, religions, sexualities, and artistic traditions. Every collaboration brought a new way of thinking and creating. I realized that the more diverse the room is, the richer the art becomes.

That experience expanded not only how I see the world but also how I see myself as an artist. I learned to wear many hats — composer, storyteller, collaborator — and to embrace the idea that creativity has no borders.

The scale and ambition of New York’s theatre community also changed my mindset. I saw that here, art isn’t treated as a side project — it’s something people build their lives around. That inspired me to do the same.

Moving to New York opened my eyes to a bigger world — one where difference sparks creativity, collaboration deepens identity, and dreams are worth pursuing with everything you have.

Was there ever a time you almost gave up?
A few years ago, I was diagnosed with a chronic autoimmune condition. When it flares up, something terrible happens: my art stops. Not just in my work — inside my head.

At the time, I was making my Off-Broadway debut with SKIN at Rattlestick Theater. Everyone around me was excited and celebrating, but I was distracted by worry and physical discomfort. I remember thinking, “Why now? Why is my body giving out just when things are going well?”

For a while, I felt embarrassed and frustrated. I thought maybe I wasn’t built for the demands of this career — that the stress, the pressure, and New York itself were too much for me.

Then my best friend Maggie reminded me, “You moved across the world for your dream, and you’re still doing it while dealing with this. That’s strength.” That stuck with me. I realized that resilience doesn’t mean feeling great all the time — it means showing up even when things aren’t perfect.

Since then, I’ve learned to pace myself. I take breaks when I need to and try to listen to my body instead of fighting it.

My illness is still a part of my life, but it no longer defines what I can or can’t do. It’s taught me to be patient, realistic, and kind to myself — and to keep moving forward, one step (or one song) at a time.

Alright, so if you are open to it, let’s explore some philosophical questions that touch on your values and worldview. What’s a belief or project you’re committed to, no matter how long it takes?
I believe musical theatre can make the invisible visible — that a melody can say what words alone cannot, and that strangers sitting in the dark can feel each other’s humanity across impossible distances.

That belief drives everything I create, no matter how long it takes.

Right now I’m developing three musicals that couldn’t be more different on the surface, but all ask the same question: How do we stay human when the world makes us feel small?

The KUSAMA Project, which I’m co-writing with Andrew Strano, explores that question through the life of Yayoi Kusama — an artist who turned her mental illness and obsessive thoughts into infinite beauty. We just completed our first table read with Theatre Now New York, and we’re bringing in a director and choreographer next to explore how Kusama’s visual language can become physical, musical, embodied.
SKIN, my first musical, which premiered Off-Broadway at Rattlestick Theater, asks it through the lens of a young woman trapped between two cultures, two identities, never quite belonging to either. That story isn’t finished — I know there are audiences who need to hear it.

And Choke: A Women’s Wrestling Musical (working title), which I’m writing with Jessica Wu for Theatrical Rights Worldwide, asks it through women’s bodies, strength, and the radical act of taking up space.

Each of these projects will take years. I’m fine with that. Because the question underneath all of them — how do we find connection when we feel invisible? — is the question I’ll spend my whole life answering. One musical at a time.

Okay, so let’s keep going with one more question that means a lot to us: What will you regret not doing? 
I think I would regret playing it safe — choosing comfort over challenge.

New York taught me that survival here requires risk. This city doesn’t promise success — it promises possibility, and only if you’re willing to bet everything on it. As an immigrant artist living far from family, navigating visa uncertainty, and building a career in my second language, I’ve already taken enormous risks just to be here. Walking away now would mean all of that was for nothing.

But the risk I care about most isn’t just about staying in New York — it’s about staying open. It’s about continuing to write music that’s honest and emotionally vulnerable, even when it feels uncertain. My work often balances Japanese precision with Western boldness — restraint meeting energy — and I’ve learned that this mix is my voice, not something to hide.

I would regret holding back that voice. So I’ll keep creating, taking new risks, and writing the kind of music that connects people — even when it’s hard. Because every time someone tells me my music moved them, I’m reminded that the risk is worth it.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.yuriko-shibata.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/yulilymusic/
• Soundcloud: https://on.soundcloud.com/GMl0Ywzsy3Fni20q9W

Image Credits
Miri Decouto
Kayleen Bertrand