I have started a project in which my works are installed and stored in people’s homes in the Tohoku region while simultaneously being exhibited. Two years ago, when it was decided that I would hold a solo exhibition at the Aomori Museum of Art (commonly known as Aomori Kenbi), I immediately thought that instead of exhibiting my works in the museum, I had to place them somewhere in the vast land of Tohoku that lies between my home in Tokyo and Aomori Kenbi. For some reason, connecting myself and my destination in a straight line felt very strange. It made me realize that it was essential to exhibit my works along the way, thoroughly and deliberately.
The straight-line distance between my studio in Kanto and Aomori Kenbi, where my exhibition will be held next year, is approximately 700 km. In the Tohoku region, which spans this distance, I intend to install and store past works in places I have been connected to until the next exhibition. This way, I will gradually make my way north, taking detours as I go. The installation sites are not tourist attractions or museums but everyday landscapes and living spaces—workplaces, shops, gardens, backyards, groves, schools, cemeteries, and anywhere else. If I meet interested people, I hope they will choose works from my collection, which includes paintings, sculptures, videos, picture books, animations, and earthworks, and temporarily store them as “repositories” until the next exhibition.
Of course, museums have large storage facilities where many works, collected over the years, are carefully preserved. While the preservation of valuable objects is an essential part of cultural and historical inheritance, my approach is a little different. I believe that valuable things should not be locked away; instead, they should be taken outside and touched. This may seem contradictory, but it is an honest feeling that has developed through my work. Before I started working in the art world, I did not treat objects with a sense of burden; I kept precious things close to me, living with them, touching them, and stroking them as a natural part of daily life. The value of something does not reside in the object itself but in the dynamic flow of time, phenomena, and everything surrounding it, which are always in flux. Neither valuable objects, homes, storage facilities, nor the space of the Earth itself are eternal. Furthermore, the privilege of owning these objects is not exclusive to museums or collectors. Each valuable thing is unique in its way. Such dynamic things cannot be captured and preserved. So, what exactly are we trying to preserve and pass on? I have pondered this question many times, yet I still do not fully understand it. That is why I arrived at the idea of asking ordinary people to live with my works, using their homes as temporary storage spaces.
A work of art is a tangible object—it exists, is visible, and can be touched. If it is placed somewhere, something will inevitably happen as people interact with it. I want to explore this simple, organic interaction between people and art. From the artwork’s perspective, the security conditions in private homes are less stringent than in museums, and exposure to sunlight, drafts, and humidity creates more friction with the outside world. However, I believe that by placing my works in such environments, both the creators and viewers, as well as the works themselves, can be strengthened and refined.
Just as a hunter envisions the animals that will eventually arrive and carefully sets traps at their feet, I hope to quietly and diligently set “traps” of art in places where I have formed connections.
Traditionally, audiences have traveled to museums—specific destinations—using infrastructure that connects points in a straight line, such as highways, bullet trains, and airplanes. However, in this project, they will take local trains or buses or walk, creating their winding paths northward. These locations are not scenic spots or remote areas. Instead, the journey involves the monotonous views from a train window, unpredictable events along the way, and the sensory experiences that can only be felt through one’s perception. Each traveler is always hungry, stopping for warm meals, listening to stories, and spending the night in different places before eventually reaching Aomori Kenbi—or perhaps never arriving at all, lingering somewhere along the way. And that is fine, too. This project will continue even after the exhibition at Aomori Kenbi concludes.
Currently, installations are quietly progressing in Ibaraki, Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, and Hokkaido. As the project unfolds, it seems that footprints are extending beyond national and prefectural borders, connecting even to Eurasia and North America. In this context, museums serve merely as large landmarks along the journey—a place where one can finally take a break.
I wondered where this idea originated.
For about twenty years, I have created works, installed them in museums, and traveled like a wandering performer, holding exhibitions in various locations. Since every country has museums, it was a natural course of work. However, over the years, my pace of movement has accelerated. Moreover, urban designs surrounding museums are similar worldwide, and once inside, the exhibition spaces are nearly identical. While some venues, such as 14th-century monasteries, remote wineries, or ruins, added a grand historical frame to my works, they still felt theatrical. Despite enjoying what I do, I found myself suffocating, seeking places where I could breathe. I began escaping museums to spend time in the forests of the suburbs. Eventually, I stopped using recommended travel routes and instead took my own time-consuming, meaningful detours. Many of my works have been created during these journeys. Yet, I found myself rarely returning home, perpetually experiencing a sense of homesickness, as if I were always searching for a place to belong.
One day in Kagoshima, a journalist insisted on introducing me to someone. He spoke in a Kagoshima accent and took me to the house of an elderly hunter in the mountains of Shibi-san. The hunter lived by catching deer and wild boars in the mountains and eels in the river, beekeeping in his garden, and occasionally working as a private detective. He also prepared medicinal ointments from plants, which he applied when I was bitten by a mountain leech. We got along well (I have always had an affinity for the elderly), and I started visiting him whenever I had free time. I accompanied him on trap inspections, and when he butchered a deer, I warmed my frozen hands inside its organs before carrying the meat to the village, where we cooked and ate it with great appreciation. As I swallowed the venison, the lump of homesickness in my chest momentarily softened and melted away.
Over time, I realized that hunting—setting traps and capturing prey—bore a resemblance to the process of making and exhibiting art. The moment a deer steps into a trap, it activates, and a distant human and animal are suddenly brought together. Hunting connects life and death through traps. Similarly, exhibitions attract and connect unrelated people through works of art. However, there was one crucial difference: the audience that encounters an artwork is not “eaten.” This was a decisive contrast. Unlike hunting, art does not involve killing, chewing, or swallowing. When creating art, I sometimes feel an ecstatic rush as if I could survive without food, yet my stomach remains empty. This realization led me to consider whether my persistent homesickness stemmed from the fundamental hunger of not being able to consume what I create.
Nostalgia is said to be the ultimate form of homesickness—a longing for home so intense it can drive one mad. Perhaps “home” is an incantation that recurs because I have spent my life making works rather than capturing, touching, killing, or consuming them. Something must be done about this.
And so, from this deeply personal sense of longing, this project was born.
Tomoko Konoike, September 2023