How we built it.

Shirokuro began with a music video. Founder James Eunsuk Lim had carried the image for years — the rotoscoped pencil-line world of A-ha’s Take On Me, and a 2D café he’d visited in Korea about a decade ago. He wanted to step inside that flatness, but make it feel like dinner instead of a photo op.

The space he was looking for found us during the pandemic. Mirim Yoo, our artist and art director, had moved into real estate work, and through that part of her life, she walked into the room that would become Shirokuro — a quiet East Village storefront with high walls and good bones. When James told her about the 2D omakase idea, she didn’t hesitate.

The vision was to bring together art, storytelling, and dining in one immersive space. None of us had done anything quite like it before. That was the appeal.

Every surface — floors, walls, ceilings, even the furniture — was painted white first. Then, over the months that followed, every line went on by hand. Black acrylic markers, black acrylic paint, the occasional ruler or cardboard cutout when a perspective needed help, and a sketchbook that filled up faster than expected.

Some pieces were drawn freehand and fast: the cherry blossoms, the bonsai, the stems with their tiny leaves. Others were mapped in pencil first — a hint of geometry under the ink — before they were committed. Mirim worked nine to twelve hours a day, often losing track of time, repeating the same rooms long enough that they started to feel like rooms in a house.

It was physically demanding, and it was meditative. A daily ritual, quiet and grounding. Three months from blank white paint to a room you can sit inside.

We could have ordered wallpaper. The result would have been crisper, faster, easier to repair. We chose not to. Hand-painted work carries warmth that printed graphics simply can’t replicate — there’s a human rhythm in every brushstroke.

You can feel the pressure of the hand, the subtle tremble of a moment, the raw presence of the artist. The slight imperfections are the point. A line that wobbles a little is a line someone drew — not a line a machine printed. That’s the difference.

In an age where so much of our daily lives is filtered through screens, we wanted to offer something tactile, intentional, and human. A room you slow down inside. A room that feels less like a stage and more like a sketchbook somebody is still working in.

Shirokuro — 白黒 — means black and white. A color, and a way of thinking. We hope you’ll come and sit inside it.