Welcome to the blog of the research project “Urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in Japan”. This project is funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG) and started in October 2020. Professor Cornelia Reiher (PI) and her team from the Institute of Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin investigate the impacts of urban-rural migration on rural revitalization in Kyūshū, Japan’s most southern main island. In this blog, our group will give insights into the research process and progress, present first results, share information about our field sites and on related projects and publications. It also features guest contributions by students, PhD students, colleagues and practitioners from Freie Universität Berlin, Japan and universities around the world who work on related projects focusing on urban to rural migration and rural Japan. The editor of this blog is Professor Cornelia Reiher.
I arrive in Monbetsu on the evening of the town’s annual obon odori. Dusk lingers over the Sea of Okhotsk late in August, and the parking lot at Okhotsk Hyōmon no Eki is packed with attendees for the festivities downtown. The roadside station occupies the town’s old train station, which served its last passengers in 1989 when the Nayoro line became one of the earliest victims of Japan’s National Rail privatizations. Today, the building’s central location ensures that even without trains, it still functions as a center of local life, hosting a sentō bath and a supermarket.
Monbetsu, located on Hokkaido’s northeastern coast, is home to 19,369 residents as of January 2026, down from a peak of over 35,000 in 1970. Although Monbetsu remains a sub-prefectural administrative center and holds on to its airport – with a single daily ANA flight to Tokyo-Haneda – it faces the same structural headwinds affecting rural Japan: labor shortages, school closures, and an ever-older population. Much of Japan’s rural revitalization playbook will be familiar to readers of this blog: relocation incentives, empty-house banks, and the chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (regional revitalization corps). Tourism also provides a vital lifeline for the town: it is famous for ryuuhyō, the majestic winter phenomenon of drift ice, and Monbetsu Marine Park, which hosts Japan’s only rescue center for seals. Thanks to these efforts, Monbetsu is faring better than many of its peers in Hokkaido.
However, the city has also made significant efforts of its own, distinguishing itself as a leader in recruiting and incorporating foreign labor migrants into local development strategies. The driving force of this is in the region’s seafood processing industry, another anchor of the local economy. Facing severe labor shortages, Monbetsu was an early adopter of the Technical Intern Training Program (TITP), a national scheme that allows employers to bring in foreign workers for limited periods under the banner of “skill transfer.” Local employers also eagerly accepted the SSW program, introduced in 2019. These schemes will soon be joined—and partially replaced—by the Employment by Skill Development visa, slated for introduction in 2027, which will gradually phase out TITP while attempting to address some of its well-documented problems (for a quick summary of existing programs in a regional context, see Chung and Tian 2025).
What differentiates Monbetsu is that national initiatives are implemented locally with significant support and input from local authorities. Two city-led programs have drawn praise from the Cabinet Office, national business federations, and the Hokkaido prefectural government: the establishment of a coordinator for promoting foreign talent employment (kaigai jinzai koyō suishinin) and an internship program that matches graduates of Japanese language schools in Yokohama with local employers (for example, see Nakazono 2020). Interestingly, Monbetsu’s multicultural coexistence policies are framed not merely as social inclusion measures but also regional revitalization strategies. In prefectural reports, the city’s initiatives, such as the creation of an “international exchange salon” and efforts to include foreign residents in local festivals and neighborhood associations, are listed alongside urban–rural migration and local development programs. In other words, integration policy is being reimagined as economic policy (Hokkaido Prefectural Government, 2021).
The story of the “international exchange salon” illustrates this well. Established in 2016 in a disused area of the Monbetsu Library, the salon emerged from both bottom-up and top-down observations. A Vietnamese interpreter suggested the need for a dedicated space, and the mayor noticed foreign workers gathering outside hotels and convenience stores—even during brutal winter days—to access internet that was not yet commonplace in their dormitories. Creating the salon not only offered internet access, language support, and a warm place to gather, but also assuaged local residents’ concerns that growing numbers of foreign workers could threaten public order. In 2022, the salon was replaced by the Monbetsu International Exchange Station “Smile,” located in a renovated three-story commercial building a few blocks away that was purchased by the city. Staffed by municipal officials and volunteers, the facility includes an open free space, language-learning materials, classrooms, and an auditorium. It hosts training sessions for foreign workers and their employers, as well as cultural exchange events for the wider community. Daily use by foreign residents has declined somewhat, which officials attribute to both the new location being slightly less convenient and also to expanded internet access in dormitories. Yet “Smile” continues to function as a symbolic and practical hub – a visible sign that foreign residents are part of the town’s future. Importantly, local support has remained high, in part because many of these internationalization efforts have been funded through Monbetsu’s furusato nōzei (hometown tax donation) program rather than through local tax increases: famous for its hotate scallops, Monbetsu consistently ranks in the top 10 largest recipients of furusato nōzei (Tian 2026). The results are striking for a city of under 20,000 people. As of August 2025, more than a thousand individuals, or five percent of Monbetsu’s population, now consists of foreign residents. For a town that has lost nearly half its peak population, this shift is not trivial.
Back at the obon odori, several dozen foreign residents, some dressed in yukata with the help of local volunteers at “Smile” and others in ethnic costume, join in the dance, following the rhythm of the drums. In the background, several groups of women wearing Indonesian tudong headscarves are gathering in the Indian restaurant on the corner, which serves halal dishes and has become a popular meeting spot for the city’s foreign residents.
Monbetsu’s challenges are far from solved. Labor migration programs remain temporary and tightly regulated, and policymakers have shied away from discussions of long-term settlement. Yet on this summer evening, the town feels less like a place in decline and more like a community in transition.
Hokkaido Prefectural Government. 2021. “Reiwa San Dōnai Niokeru Chiiki Sōsei No Torikumi Jirei Examples of Regional Revitalization Initiatives within the Prefecture, Reiwa Year 3.”https://www.pref.hokkaido.lg.jp/ss/csr/68850.html.
Nakazono, Kiryuu. 2020. “Chiiki No ‘ Ninaite’ Toshite Gaikokujin Ginōjisshusei Wo Ukeireru Jinkōgenshō Jichitai No Kokoromi [The Trial of Towns with Population Decline in Accepting Foreign Technical Intern Trainees as the ‘supporting Hands’ of the Region].” Shokokinyuu 2020 (2): 43–63.
Tian, Yunchen. 2026. “Multi-level Migration Governance Configurations in Japan’s Regions”, 8th Conference of the Asian Borderlands Research Network, National Taiwan University, Taipei, Taiwan.
Yunchen Tian (or just Tian for short) is Program-Specific Associate Professor at the Kyoto University Faculty of Law. Their primary research interests include local revitalization and governance in Japan, migration governance and politics, the political economy of migration, and theories of the state. They were recently awarded the 2023 ISS/OUP Prize in Modern Japanese Studies for their article“Workers, Neighbours, or Something Else? Local Policies and Policy Narratives of Technical Intern Training Program Participants”.
After spending five months in Japan, I returned to Europe. A recent, quite normal dinner with my partner sparked a grumbly pining for Japan. He came to visit for a few weeks, and unexpectedly, he burst out with nostalgia, saying, “I really miss Japan!” His outburst sparked a long conversation about our experiences living in Japan, our encounters with people, hurdles, food, health, and travel. The conversation kick-started my writing and brought back memories of my experiences living, working, and being in Japan. After some necessary distance between my experience-self and my researcher-self, I finally started writing. Between March and August, I had crisscrossed the country, sitting in coffee shops, staying in share houses, riding horses in the sea, while searching for foreign digital nomads in rural areas to understand how their views of Japan changed once they moved beyond familiar tourist areas. That was easier said than done. I imagined digital nomads as being at the forefront of travel, similar to how Paul Hansen (2024) describes dairy farms in Hokkaido as being at the forefront of technology. Surely, digital nomads, not wanting to be associated with tourists (Cook, 2022), are at the forefront, able to experience Japan beyond what other visitors, immigrants, and even Japanese people may experience.
Of all the things that strike me about Japan, the contrast between rural areas and urban centers stands out the most. Anyone who has exited Tokyo Station is confronted by an enormous edifice. While not necessarily tall, its immense size bulges out in all directions, defying any sense of what could possibly be inside or how it could host so many people. Given that Japan’s rural areas are losing population, one might ask why such large buildings are being constructed. This growth is nothing extraordinary in Tokyo or Sapporo. After returning from a short trip outside Sapporo, where I was based during my research stay in Japan, I noticed a new building that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. The growth of Japanese cities seems inevitable. However, I cannot stop viewing urban areas as “capitalist ruins,” to borrow an expression from Anna Tsing (2015). Urban centers grow endlessly as monocultures, absorbing people and leaving rural areas empty. Yet, behind this seemingly inevitable flow, there are movements pushing outwards. Susanne Klien (2020) has highlighted the experiences of many Japanese individuals who have moved away from the city in search of new livelihoods. Rural identities cannot be cultivated in laboratories; they are shaping a new wave of living elsewhere. I will present three stories from my research on brief encounters at crossroads where new identities are formed through ideas and experiments and show how rural Japan can become a frontier of new imaginaries.
One summer evening, Korey (a pseudonym) and I sat on the rooftop of a co-living space a few hours from Tokyo. As a digital nomad, I thought Korey could contribute something to this rural town, so I asked her what she thought she could teach this small place. But she countered, “Why should we save this place? Maybe they don’t want to be saved!” I was stunned. Why should digital nomads like her, researchers like me, or anyone else assume that we have something to teach? Korey is from Taiwan and has worked as a teacher with indigenous communities in mountain villages. She recognized that, perhaps they should teach us how to live as we only visit residents’ lives for a short while before moving on to the next place. We should be the ones learning how to live together with them. My conversation with Korey has stuck with me. Her thoughts influence how I envision rural areas. Korey and I were both at a crossroads, searching for something different: a rural livelihood and new experiences. Although we didn’t have many connections beyond those at the co-living space, digital nomads like her prefer to live life through brief encounters. Korey and I met, our paths briefly converged, and then diverged again. We haven’t stayed in touch since. Still, I imagine a kind of kinship remains between us. On her last day, we made onigiri, rice balls, from leftover rice to use as snacks. She saved one for me and left a note in the fridge, knowing our paths might never cross again. The note simply said, “Have a good life.”
I met Hibiki (a pseudonym) at the share house where I was staying in Hokkaido. I had been away for some time when she arrived. The people were always changing, and at first, we barely spoke. But after a trip to the center of the island, we realized that we were on similar life paths, both trying to forge new connections. Over the past few years, Hibiki had traveled through every prefecture in Japan. She realized that she was looking for a new home outside of large metropolitan areas. Now, in Hokkaido, she was spending a month or more looking around, supported by a state-funded program aimed at encouraging people to leave big cities. But what she mostly wanted to move away from was the heat. Hibiki detested the summer heat in Japan. Even Hokkaido was unusually hot that year. She was longing for winter! Hibiki also wanted to connect with people. While few people seemed willing to leave urban life behind, Hibiki was one of them. For her, the question was not ambition or status, but survival. The type of work didn’t matter much as long as it could be done remotely. We drove around Hokkaido together. Every so often, she would say, “Maybe I like it here,” or “Perhaps that would be nice,” pointing at houses along roads winding through national parks. We went on walking trails and spoke about everything and nothing. I felt like we had known each other for a long time, even though we had just met. However, we didn’t speak about everything. I sensed that I had crossed a boundary when I started asking about her family life and she hesitated to say anything about it. We are leaving our old selves behind. After parting ways, we exchanged LINE contacts and LinkedIn profiles. Maybe we will meet again somewhere, but that remains uncertain.
All my life, people have walked up to me and told me their life stories without much prompting, which has been both a curse and a blessing. One such encounter occurred in an onsen located just down a long, straight road from Higashikawa in central Hokkaido. This onsen sits on a small hill in a flat landscape overlooking fertile fields and the central mountain range. While sitting in the corridor waiting for my friends to finish and already feeling boiling hot, I made eye contact with the only other foreigner around. Richard, as I call him here, approached me and started telling his story almost immediately. He had moved from England, didn’t miss home at all, and was now a stay-at-home dad while his Japanese wife worked remotely for a Tokyo-based company. His Japanese seemed limited, but he had lived there for four years, if I recall correctly. He told me that he had never returned to England and had no desire to. We spoke a bit. Many people have told me that Hokkaido is not “really” Japan. I strongly disagree. Hokkaido is what Japan aspires to be. As Richard described it, the rules are more relaxed, life is calmer, and the people are more welcoming here. Winters are harsh but beautiful, and summers, which are painfully hot elsewhere in Japan, are mild. Living in Japan felt liberating for Richard. He had everything he needed around him, and he and his family seldom went to urban centers. I had heard similar stories from others I interviewed, too. Richard insisted that we exchange numbers. We exchanged numbers and left, thinking we would meet again, but we never did. Although our paths crossed briefly, this sense of liberation defines Japan—a place at the frontier. I hope we meet again someday!
Rural life in Japan is a frontier of new imaginaries, which are the simplified narratives that circulate and repeat as we share stories about cultures (Salazar, 2012). These narratives are set in motion through new encounters. Together, foreigners and Japanese people are part of the making of Japan by pushing the frontier forward, forming connections that merge and split apart. These connections offer crossroads where attempts at new livelihoods unfold. Several imaginaries emerge in parallel, intersecting and breaking apart. What remains is rural change. After enduring economic downturns, Japan leaves the capitalist ruins behind and shapes its future. In my search for digital nomads, I crossed paths with Korey, Hibiki, Richard, and many others who, in different ways, were searching for something different from home. These individuals were searching for places of belonging (ibasho) (Klien & Eriksson, 2025). Rural Japan teaches the world about living with new imaginaries—places of new encounters and ongoing searches through intersecting paths. Japan’s rural areas demonstrate what alternative futures could look like—not only for Japan, but also for those of us who could follow paths leading elsewhere.
References:
Tsing, A. L. (2015). The Mushroom at the End of the World. Princeton University Press.
Hansen, P. (2024). Hokkaido dairy farm: cosmopolitics of otherness and security on the frontiers of Japan. State University of New York Press.
Salazar, N. B. (2012). Tourism imaginaries: A conceptual approach. Annals of Tourism research 39(2), 863-882.
Klien, S. (2025). Post-pandemic developments in lifestyle migration in Japan: From back-to-the-land to urbanrural? Journal of Rural Studies 114, 103505.
Klien, S. & Eriksson, A. (2025) Ibasho tourism: Rural areas as pockets of resilience or risk? Wakayama Tourism Review, 7
Axel Eriksson is a postdoctoral researcher from Sweden who recently graduated at Mid Sweden University. He was rewarded a JSPS short–term postdoctoral scholarship to be in Hokkaido University in Sapporo conducting ethnographic research across Japan to understand how digital nomads connects to rural Japan. His research focuses on how groups meet and renegotiate their livelihoods, especially through tourism and new foreigner residents.
In October, my dear friend and geographer Yoko Iijima invited me on a trip to Hokuto in Yamanashi Prefecture. She often takes her students there on geography field trips (junken). We met in the morning at Shinjuku Bus Terminal and then took the bus to Kōfu, the capital of Yamanashi Prefecture. In Kōfu, we rented a car to get to Hokuto. Hokuto is a place that is very popular with city dwellers looking to escape the urban environment. I was excited about this trip because I had previously read an article about urban-rural migration to Hokuto (Takahashi et al. 2021). After lunch featuring the local specialty hōtō, a noodle soup and popular regional dish from Yamanashi, we drove on to discover what makes Hokuto so appealing for city dwellers.
On our way to Hokuto, we first stopped in Kiyosato, a formerly popular resort town with many fairytale-like buildings, many of which now stand empty. If the weather had been better, we might have been able to see Mount Fuji from Kiyosato, but unfortunately it was cloudy that day. At the station, we discovered displays of characters from the manga and anime “mono,” which is set in various locations in Yamanashi Prefecture. Therefore, the Yamanashi Prefecture Tourism Association has incorporated the anime into its tourism promotion campaign and organized tourism events centered around the characters, such as hikes, stamp rallies, and merchandising items in collaboration with the anime series.
Hokuto is located on the border with Nagano Prefecture, and as the weather cleared up, we crossed the prefectural border to visit the famous lettuce fields on the Nobeyama Plateau. The average altitude of 1,000 m on the Nobeyama Plateau allows for favorable conditions to grow vegetables. It increases the temperature difference between day and night, and plenty of sunlight falls on the open ground. The lettuce and celery grown in this environment have the highest market share in Japan and are also highly praised for their quality. Local farmers maintain traditional farming methods on the plateau, growing vegetables and maintaining pastures in this high-altitude environment. In addition to vegetables, sheep are also raised on the Nobeyama Plateau.
After visiting Nobeyama Plateau, we headed to our accommodation for the night in Hokuto. Passing second homes where city dwellers had arrived to spend their weekend outside the city and had already lit their campfires and barbecues, we drove through Hokuto. The accommodation we stayed in was a lodge for residents of Tokyo’s Shinjuku ward. Many of Tokyo’s 23 wards own hotels, lodges, or cabins in the countryside, often referred to as “residents’ health villages,” which can be rented at low cost by residents of the ward or city (Hoy 2018). We stayed in a large 1980s hotel with a swimming pool, onsen, and other amenities on a spacious site in the mountains. Together with the predominantly elderly guests, we enjoyed the delicious yet inexpensive meals, the peace and quiet.
On the second day of our excursion, we visited a sake brewery and a winery in Hokuto. The sake brewery is located on the Koshu Kaido, one of the famous five routes connecting Edo with the outer provinces. The brewery has been producing one of Japan’s finest sakes for 300 years. The high quality of the sake is due in particular to the clear water of Mount Kaikoma, one of the highest mountains in the Southern Japanese Alps. As Yamanashi is Japan’s most traditional and well-known wine region, we also visited a winemaker, where we were able to tour the winery and taste the wine. Before returning to Kōfu Station to catch our bus back to Tokyo, we visited Senga-taki, a waterfall in the north of Kōfu. This impressive waterfall surrounded by high mountains was a fitting end to our trip.
In summary, Yamanashi Prefecture, and Hokuto-shi in particular, are interesting places with countless points of reference for comparative studies on urban-rural migration and rural revitalization initiatives in the areas of tourism and agriculture. The scenic beauty and proximity to Tokyo are just two of many reasons why Hokuto in particular is popular with urban-rural migrants and second home owners. The good water quality and favorable weather also play an important role. The above makes Hokuto especially attractive for urban migrants in their 30s and 40s who value the city as a favorable child-rearing environment. (Takahashi et al. 2021). Thank you, Yoko Iijima, for taking me there!
References
Selena Hoy (2018),“Countryside Lodges in Japan: Holidays Subsidized by Your Ward Office,” November 15th, 2018 | in Tokyo Cheapo, https://tokyocheapo.com/travel/holidays/cheap-country-getaways-tokyo/
Takahashi, Yasuo, et al. (2021), “Diverse values of urban-to-rural migration: A case study of Hokuto City, Japan,” Journal of Rural Studies 87, 292-299.
Step into a world where everyday rituals, local dialects, and the untold stories of rural Japan are preserved, celebrated, and brought to life. Welcome to the Tohoku Digital Archives, a groundbreaking project designed to safeguard the rapidly disappearing folk culture of northeastern Japan, beginning in Akita Prefecture: Tohoku digital archive homepage
Akita Prefecture, nestled in the scenic Tohoku region, faces a profound demographic challenge: it has the lowest birth rate and the highest aging population in all of Japan, with 38.5% of its total population over 65 years old. As young people migrate to metropolitan areas like Tokyo and Sendai, local folk culture—the festivals, crafts, language, and rituals that define daily life—is increasingly at risk of being forgotten. Younger residents often comment that their hometown has “nothing (nani-mo-nai),” feeling disconnected from their heritage. While many existing digital archives in Japan prioritize “high culture” (like Noh, Kabuki, or Ukiyo-e), less attention is paid to the informal expressive culture experienced in small groups—the folk culture that is the backbone of communities like Akita. Our project specifically addresses this gap, focusing on the everyday practices and beliefs of local community. The Tohoku Digital Archives is not just a repository of images; it is a participatory platform built on a philosophy of direct voices and collaborative creation.
The archive prioritizes the direct voices of local residents—the informants—over external interpretation. This is crucial in a region where different generations and groups often hold diverse, even conflicting, interpretations of their own traditions. One example is the the Kanto Festival. While some older participants adhere to the traditional belief that women should not touch the Kanto pole, fearing misfortune, younger voices are questioning the practice in the face of dwindling participation. By presenting these divergent accounts side-by-side, the archive promotes a more balanced power dynamic between researcher and research participants or between older and younger generations. The archive is also a means of empowerment. Including first-hand narratives, often accompanied by the informant’s name and picture (with consent), is a practice designed to foster a sense of identity and pride in their culture, mirroring the successful approach of institutions like the National Ainu Museum in Hokkaido.
The archive is actively created by undergraduate students from courses on gender and Japanese society. This participatory process encourages students to conduct interviews and analysis, fostering a sense of community contribution and helping them discover the value in their “forgotten” hometown. The long-term goal is to develop an educational model for elementary and high school students that uses the digital archives to improve English language acquisition and promote well-being by fostering local pride and identity. The Tohoku Digital Archives is an evolving project that seeks to move beyond traditional, static preservation. By embracing diverse voices and participatory methods, we aim to build a dynamic, inclusive system that not only preserves the cultural past of Tohoku but also shapes its future. Please visit our website and explore Tohoku Culture!
Kaeko Chiba is an Associate Professor of International Liberal Arts at Akita International University and an anthropologist specializing in Japanese culture, with a focus on class, gender, and traditional arts like the Tea Ceremony and Ikebana. Her research currently centers on the Tohoku Digital Archives to utilize participatory and methods for digitally preserving endangered folk culture and local identity in rural Japan.
Since 2010, I have been researching creative migrants—artists and craftspeople whose mobility is often guided by the pursuit of meaningful work and life. My focus has been on studio potters, practitioners who carry out all stages of production themselves, from preparing clay to firing, thus contrasting with the division of labour typical of traditional craft industries. Their impact on their host communities has led me to explore the potential of such migrants for rural revitalization in Japan and beyond.
During my master’s, I researched the life stories of two Japanese women potters who moved to Brazil in the 1960s and 1970s, motivated both by dissatisfaction with the status quo of ceramics in Japan – where traditional craft fields have been male-dominated – and by a sense of adventure and curiosity about the “New World.” They were part of a larger postwar movement of Japanese artists and craftspeople to Brazil, and a case of what Benson and Riley (2009) call “lifestyle migration”, motivated by the pursuit of quality of life and self-realization, rather than economic or political reasons. Because these women worked with Japanese-style wood-firing – a process using traditional kilns that can last up to several days – they settled in rural areas of Brazil that offered easy access to clay and wood, and fewer concerns about smoke disturbing neighbours. Beyond making pottery, they engaged with Brazil’s long-standing Japanese community, taught ceramics to Brazilian youth, and founded institutions for the dissemination of craft culture (a field historically undervalued as “low-skilled labour” in Brazil). Their activities helped create communities of practice centred around Japanese styles and wood-firing, contributing to attracting tourists, ceramic practitioners, and new residents.
A parallel, albeit tiny, movement has developed in Japan since the 1960s, when Western representatives of counterculture and artists began to view non-urban areas and “the East” as sources of cultural knowledge and inspiration. As part of my doctoral thesis, I interviewed Europeans, Americans, and other non-Asians who had come to Japan to study or work with ceramics. Half of them eventually settled in rural areas of the country, often in regions with a long history of pottery. Aside from the influence that the state-promoted image of Japan as a “land of craftsmanship” had on these migrants (which illustrates the importance of traditional craftsmanship to Japan’s soft power to this day), I noticed that some of them were involved in grassroots initiatives aimed at designing a future for their communities. Leveraging local craft history, collaborative production, and transnational networks, these projects have attracted visitors, built relationships, and even encouraged migration to the Japanese countryside.
One such initiative is the Shiro Oni Artist-in-Residence (AIR), founded in 2013 by American artist Kjell Hahn in the former town of Onishi (now part of Fujioka City, in Gunma Prefecture). Hahn first came to Japan through the JET Programme in 2002, later returning to study ceramics and cycle around the country. During this time, he was introduced to Tokyo-born multimedia artist Chiaki Horikoshi, who had built a traditional anagama kiln in a mountain in Saitama, right on the border of OnishiDue to his playful and experimental approach to firing in a primitive Japanese kiln (the history of the anagama kiln dates back to 5th-century Japan, but its recent revival in Japan and beyond has strong ties to the counterculture of the 1960s), Horikoshi’s “kiln parties” became gathering places for artists, students, and people seeking an alternative lifestyle; some eventually moved to Onishi, as Kjell did.
After Horikoshi’s death, Hahn took charge of the firings in the anagama, which has now been repurposed for the Shiro Oni AIR. Although the program accepts artists working in any media (priority is given to those who can work with the local community), there are two sessions specifically for firing ceramics in the anagama kiln, and demand has been growing every year. The process, which involves close attention to the rhythms of the fire and feeding it on the clock, takes a total of five days, making it a necessarily collective activity. Artists take shifts on the site, while locals come to help, chopping wood, preparing food, driving the artists up to the kiln site (located in a mountain forest otherwise only accessible by hiking), or simply providing company during the long nights and days.
Several Shiro Oni artists return for a second or even third residency, forming deep and lasting bonds with local residents that often continue well beyond their stay – and in a few cases, even lead them to relocate to the region. Through the Shiro Oni AIR and the Kanna Art Festival (established in 2014), Onishi has come to be known as an “art town”, drawing not only visitors from Tokyo and neighboring cities but also domestic in-migrants who contribute to the revitalization of the community by opening new businesses. Together, they have fostered what Tanaka (2017) describes as a “relationship population” (kankei jinkō): individuals who sustain ongoing ties to a rural place through repeated visits, regular engagement, and continued support.
Shiro Oni is one of the case studies in my comparative research on the formation of cosmopolitan craft communities in Portugal, Brazil, and Japan. All cases revolve around Japanese-style wood-firing, a subculture defined by collective effort, experimentation, and a DIY ethos. Although the project is ongoing, the example of Onishi – and others like it – suggests a possible path for rural futures in Japan and beyond: the emergence of fluid, open communities that bring together people from diverse cultural backgrounds around shared acts of craft making that engage with the locality.
While such small-scale initiatives may not be able to halt depopulation (kasoka) or prevent the eventual disappearance (shōmetsu) of some rural settlements, they may transform how decline unfolds. Rather than being defined solely by loss, these projects can nurture new forms of conviviality that render rural degrowth – at least for a time – lively (nigiyaka) rather than desolate.
References:
Benson, M., & O’Reilly, K. (2009). Migration and the search for a better way of life: A critical exploration of lifestyle migration. The Sociological Review 57 (4), 608–625.
Morais, L. (2025). Craft as a Tool for Individual and Collective Empowerment: A Japanese Woman Ceramicist in a Rural Brazilian Town. In D. Wood (ed.) The Politics of Global Craft. Bloomsbury (forthcoming).
“Shiro Oni Artist in Residence,” Shiro Oni Studio, accessed October 3, 2025, https://shirooni.com.
Odagiri, T. (2024). Nigiyakana kaso o tsukuru: Nōson saisei no seisaku kōsō [Creating Vibrant Depopulation: Policy Concepts for Rural Regeneration]. Nōsan gyoson bunka kyōkai.
Tanaka T. (2017). Kankei jinkō wo tsukuru: teijū de mo kōryū de mo nai rōkaruinobēshon [Creating a related population: local innovation, not settlement or exchange]. Kirakusha.
Liliana Morais (Ph.D.) is a Specially Appointed Associate Professor in the Faculty of Sociology at Rikkyo University. Her research explores the intersections of craft, transnational migration, and, more recently, rural revitalization, with a focus on Japan from a transnational perspective, based on ethnography and oral history. Before Japan, she was based in Brazil, where curated the exhibition From Japan to Brazil: The Journey of Oriental Ceramics (2012) and published the book Cunha Ceramics: 40 Years of Noborigama Kiln in Brazil (2016, in Portuguese). More recently, she has published articles on the uses of craft for regional revitalization in Japan (“Spicing Up a 150-Year-Old Porcelain Factory: Art, Localism and Transnationalism in Arita’s Happy Lucky Kiln”, 2020), Portugal (“Entangled Ruralities: Remaking a Portuguese Mountain Hamlet Through Craft and Translocalism”, 2025) and Brazil (“Craft as a tool for individual and collective empowerment: a Japanese woman ceramicist in a rural Brazilian town”, forthcoming by Bloomsbury). She is a contributing writer for Garland Magazine and a board member of the Knowledge House for Craft.
In September, I had the opportunity to visit the 2025 Osaka Expo, which took place from April 13 to October 13 under the theme “Designing Future Society for Our Lives.” While world exhibitions mainly showcase nations, Japan’s municipalities and prefectures also presented themselves at the Osaka Expo. I missed the “Local Japan Exhibition” in July, which featured 43 participating prefectures and municipalities from Tohoku to Okinawa, but there was still plenty to discover.
On the day I visited the Expo, it was incredibly crowded and hot. Unfortunately, I didn’t have reservations for the pavilions, so I walked around the wooden Grand Ring and admired each country’s pavilion from the outside. Designed by architect Fujimoto Sou, the Grand Ring was constructed using a mixture of modern building techniques and traditional nuki joints, which are also used in the construction of Japanese shrines and temples. Thus, the Grand Ring itself was a tribute to traditional Japanese woodworking and was quite impressive.
Fortunately, some of the pavilions could be accessed without reservations. Among them were pavilions displaying local crafts, as well as those representing various municipalities and prefectures. First, I visited the “Earth at Night” pavilion, which displayed a giant globe made of Wajima-nuri lacquerware from Ishikawa Prefecture alongside other traditional crafts from the region. The impressive globe has a diameter of 1 m. It is a “’symbol of reconstruction’ that miraculously remained undamaged in the Noto earthquake on January 1, 2024. It is imbued with the hope of ‘conveying to the world the importance of thinking about others beyond conflict and division’.” (Japanese Association for the 2025 World Exhibition 2025).
In the Kansai Pavilion at Osaka Expo, the nine prefectures of Shiga, Kyoto, Hyogo, Nara, Wakayama, Tottori, Tokushima, Fukui, and Mie had separate rooms and exhibited their diverse attractions of history, culture, sights under the theme, “The Brilliance of Kansai’s Rich History and Its Present Day”. The individual exhibits all showcased the scenery of the different prefectures, traditional crafts or local agricultural products. Shiga Prefecture brought its heritage to life through large video displays and virtual tours, featuring Shigaraki pottery, centuries-old weaving, sake brewing, and the famous fireworks over Lake Biwa. Mie highlighted its renowned Matsuzaka cotton, fine ink traditions, and local specialties such as beef, eel, and pickles. Wakayama offered a glimpse into its refined lacquerware, while Tokushima captivated with Otani ceramics and exquisite woven textiles. Together, these exhibits painted a vivid picture of Kansai as a region where history and craftsmanship are deeply interwoven with everyday life.
I also visited one of the buildings in the “Signs of Life” (Dialogue Theater) pavilion (inochi no akashi), which was produced by Kawase Naomi, the famous film director from Nara Prefecture. Two closed wooden school buildings from Nara and Kyoto Prefectures were brought to Osaka and converted into three pavilion buildings. The actual idea of the Dialogue Theater is to bring two strangers together to start a dialogue on various topics on stage. Although I was unable to attend the actual dialogues, one building was dedicated to presenting various places in Nara Prefecture. Traditional handicrafts such as porcelain, wooden sake cups, and kaya, a traditional mosquito net fabric, were on display. I learned that the history of kaya fabric in Nara dates back about 1,700 years and was brought to Japan by craftsmen from China. Kaya weaving continues today, with the fabric being used for everyday items such as multi-layered dish towels.
In the pavilion, representatives from various municipalities in Nara Prefecture distributed flyers and brochures about the sights and history of their respective municipalities. And just like at the Furusato Kaiki Fair I had visited in Tokyo a week earlier, there was information material for potential new residents. In addition to pictures of beautiful lakes and forests, arts and crafts, and local foods, these brochures contained information about financial and other support for potential urban-rural migrants. The pavilion was well attended, and visitors seemed to enjoy the pictures and objects on display and talking to the representatives of the various towns and cities from Nara Prefecture.
Overall, the display of Japanese craftsmanship and local diversity was a great opportunity for municipalities and prefectures in Japan to showcase themselves to visitors from around the world. It was also an occasion for the Japanese audience to learn about the hidden gems of their own country.
In the Seto Inland Sea, Ogijima (literally meaning “Man Tree Island”)—a small peripheral island with a declining population of about 160 (compared to 280 in 2004)—is experiencing a remarkable transformation. While the Setouchi Triennale art festival has raised the island’s visibility and attracted external attention, it did not drive community-led revitalization by itself. The true catalyst has been the Fukui couple, U-turn migrants who relocated from Osaka to Ogijima in 2014 and dedicated a decade to initiatives that strengthened the island from within.
The Setouchi Triennale helped transform Ogijima into one of the region’s “Art Islands,” drawing visitors and attention from across Japan and abroad. Yet attributing the island’s revitalization outcome solely to the festival overlooks the essential role played by the Fukui couple and local residents. Their sustained commitment to community building, education, and sustainable living created the foundation that allowed Ogijima to fully leverage the opportunities brought by the Triennale.
Over the past decade, the island has attracted more than 60 new residents (around 1/3 of its population), many of whom are families with children. This wave of newcomers revitalized the population and ensured the ongoing operation of the island’s elementary and junior high schools. Neighboring Megijima (literally meaning “Woman Tree Island”) offers a stark contrast: despite similar size, population, and transportation connections, its population has declined to fewer than 100, with few families choosing to settle there. This divergence highlights the importance of community agency beyond external attention.
Japan faces a severe challenge of rural depopulation, particularly on remote islands. Many communities have seen hospitals, schools, and other infrastructure close due to declining populations. Ogijima’s school had shut down years ago. Reopening the school was an extraordinary challenge: it required convincing Takamatsu City—a municipality of over 400,000 residents—to allocate roughly 20 staff members, including ten teachers and ten administrative personnel, to keep a school with only six students running on an island of just over 100 residents. Ensuring the school’s long-term viability further depended on attracting families with children, a challenge faced by rural communities nationwide.
Accompanied by the ultimate decision to reopen the school, in 2016, the Fukui couple established the Ogijima Library in a renovated century-old house. The library serves multiple purposes: it is a space for reading, community gatherings, and cultural activities, and it provides after-school programs and learning opportunities for local elementary and junior high students. For visitors drawn by the art festival, it also offers a café and a welcoming space, fostering interactions between tourists and the island community and integrating tourism with everyday local life. In other words, it serves as the community’s hub, acts as a bridge for people from outside who are considering moving to the island, provides a space for residents and children to interact and learn, and also continuously maintains the island’s vacant houses.
The reopening of Ogijima’s school demonstrates the resilience of collaboration between residents and newcomers. The new generation of islanders—centered around the Fukui couple and other migrants—actively seeks families with school-age children from urban areas. Simply attracting entrepreneurs or tourism-focused migrants boosts labor but does not secure the school’s long-term sustainability. The Fukui couple’s vision extends beyond education. They aim to cultivate a sustainable community where culture, nature, and education coexist harmoniously. Their efforts have inspired others to invest in Ogijima’s future, ensuring the island remains vibrant for generations to come.
Ogijima offers valuable lessons for other rural communities. Its experience underscores the importance of grassroots initiatives, the transformative potential of U-turn migration, and the necessity of comprehensive strategies integrating education, culture, and community development alongside lifestyle and entrepreneurial initiatives. Importantly, Ogijima illustrates that rural revitalization cannot succeed without local agency and clearly defined community priorities—such as the rallying cry, “To ensure the island never falls below 100 residents” and “We need our school back!” No amount of external support can awaken a village unwilling to act, unless its own residents collaborate and invest effort. While studies and media often emphasize the role of migrants, this contribution can be overstated. What truly matters are the changemakers—residents who actively drive transformation. These may include I-/U-turn migrants, lifestyle migrants, entrepreneurs, or frequent visitors such as neighbors and student volunteers.
According to Mr. Fukui, he and the residents, together with neighboring island communities, are now considering including Megijima and Ōshima in their revitalization plans. If Megijima—without nearby neighbors—were to disappear, Ogijima would effectively become isolated. The historical and cultural value of the two islands, long referred to as the “Male and Female Islands” (Ogi and Meigi) cannot be preserved. We look forward to seeing the ongoing efforts and contributions of changemakers in revitalizing the archipelago as a whole. After relocating, many of these newcomers and changemakers are often unable to enjoy the so-called “lifestyle” benefits they had hoped for; on the contrary, they often find themselves even busier than they were in Osaka. We have also witnessed their socially beneficial initiatives beyond simply settling and sustaining life on the rural island. At the same time, a new question emerges: lifestyle migrants and entrepreneurs increasingly face stringent expectations regarding rural revitalization. Sustainable revitalization of these communities cannot rely solely on the voluntary dedication of individuals; broader social, cultural, and logistical considerations must also be addressed.
David Douglas Stuart (2023). David family’s rural island (Ogijima) migration experience in Japan by Australian multimedia journalist and educator – David Douglas Stuart (from ABC news) Island Note Curated Audiovisual Essays https://www.sicri.net/ruralislandmigration
Qu, M., He, Y., McCormick, A. D., & Funck, C. (2024). Diagnosing uneven revitalisation outcomes among aging communities in Japan’s Island art festival. In E. Papoutsaki & S. S. Niaah (Eds.), Island art and music festivals. University of the West Indies Press, 3-26.
Qu, M., & Zollet, S. (2023). Neo-endogenous revitalisation: Enhancing community resilience through art tourism and rural entrepreneurship. Journal of Rural Studies. 97. 105-114. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jrurstud.2022.11.016
Qu, M., McCormick, A. D., & Funck, C. (2022). Community resourcefulness and partnerships in rural tourism, Journal of Sustainable Tourism 30 (10), 2371-2390. https://doi.org/10.1080/09669582.2020.1849233
Meng Qu, Ph.D., is an Associate Professor and Deputy Director at the Center for Advanced Tourism Studies, Hokkaido University. His research focuses on the revitalization of rural communities through international art festivals, emphasizing socially engaged art, regional festivals, creative tourism, relational aesthetics, creative in-migrants, sustainability, and rural regeneration. He integrates documentary filmmaking as a method for fieldwork and public engagement. Drawing on interdisciplinary approaches from creative and tourism geography and rural studies, he is currently leading a comparative project on community-embedded art and rural revitalization across the Asia-Pacific and the EU.
I am back in Japan and had the chance to visit the Furusato Kaiki Fair at the Tokyo International Forum. Of the many fairs in Japan’s major cities, such as Tokyo, Osaka, and Fukuoka, where individual regions or prefectures present themselves, this is the largest fair where Japan’s municipalities and prefectures showcase themselves to encourage people to move there. The annual two-day event is organized by JOIN Furusato, an organization that promotes migration from cities to rural areas, as well as regional revitalization. In this post, I will share my impressions of the fair.
When I arrived a few minutes before the start of the fair, people were already lining up to be admitted. There were visitors of all ages and all kinds. Among them were older men who had come alone, young couples, and families with small children. Some had a hippie vibe, while others dressed more like office workers. Admission to the fair was free, but visitors were asked to register online in advance and download an app that could read QR codes. To enter, they had to scan the QR code at the entrance and at each stall they visited to count the number of visitors.
Even before entering the event, I passed several booths where municipalities displayed and sold local foods and handicrafts. Staff members wearing happi with their municipalities’ or prefectures’ names introduced local businesses and their products. I was introduced to sea salt from Chiba Prefecture, its taste and nutritional value depending on the phase of the moon when it is harvested. Other prefectures sold fruits, vegetables, and washi paper. On the same floor, organizations such as JForest and the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications introduced their programs, including Chiiki Okoshi Kyoryokutai (COKT) and Furusato Working Holiday.
After entering the main hall, where several hundred municipalities and prefectures presented themselves at individual booths, I tried to make my way to the booths of our field sites in Kyushu. However, the Kyushu booths were at the back of the hall, and I had a hard time getting there because representatives from various municipalities were constantly inviting me to their booths. The enthusiasm of the representatives from the municipalities made me feel like they really wanted me to move there. The advisors also explained that I was welcome as a foreigner. However, I could only receive financial support under certain conditions, they told me. I was also offered to participate in a match making program to find a husband at one prefecture’s stall which had designed this program to attract single migrants. At many booths, I received personalized advice about the advantages of the different places and the support services available to migrants. I also received gifts such as jam, tea, and nori. In addition to brochures and photos, some booths showed videos on tablet computers. At each stall, I was asked to follow the towns or organizations on Instagram.
When I finally arrived at the Kyushu booths, I realized that only one of our four field sites was represented. I met old acquaintances and new people who were representing their communities at the fair for the first time. Some local government officials were accompanied by COKT participants. Some communities offered tea, brochures, and karaage recommendations, while the Saga Prefecture team enthusiastically distributed resources, stories, and even a small prize. Each city presented different incentives, from financial support to guided tours. I was particularly touched by the warmth of the representatives from Ureshino and a sincere conversation with a migrant from Usa, who shared how moving with his family had changed their lives.
Overall, I was happy to experience the fair and see how well-attended it was. Although I was exhausted from visiting what felt like 1,000 stands, and my luggage is now several kilos heavier from all the flyers and brochures I collected, I enjoyed the diversity of locations represented. Local representatives’ genuine enthusiasm for their municipalities and prefectures will certainly encourage people to move to the countryside. However, it is difficult to find the right place among such a large selection. From the many urban-rural migrants I interviewed in Kyushu, I learned that the Furusato Kaiki Fair and similar events are important contact points for people who already feel the desire to relocate to rural Japan. Often, the next step is a visit to the municipalities that made an impression at the fair. Fortunately, these municipalities offer numerous opportunities, such as trial houses and guided tours to prospective migrants, which have already been reported on in other posts on this blog.
Many urban-rural migrants in Japan relocate to the countryside because they are looking for a community and meaningful social relations. They contrast the anonymous urban space with more closely-knit social ties in the countryside. However, rural life often includes unexpected loneliness. Newcomers’ well-being matters to rural municipalities, because local governments try to attract new residents in order to fight depopulation and rural decline. If, however, migrants feel lonely and leave, they cannot contribute to rural revitalization, local governments might receive less subsidies in the future and population decline continues. To create spaces, where newcomers can build community, sharehouses became quite popular among urban migrants in the countryside. They are places where community is negotiated between urban and rural residents.
In my interviews with urban migrants in rural Kyūshū, newcomers remembered their urban lives as mainly commuting back and forth between their work and their small apartments in buildings where they knew no one. Among other reasons, they mentioned a longing for meaningful social relationships as a reason to relocate to the countryside. However, urbanites often move to rural areas based on idealized notions of community, and once they start their new lives, some felt lonely, judged or excluded. This is especially true for single women over the age of thirty. My research participants in this age group reported that they were either criticized for being single or confronted with attempts to set them up with the sons of their neighbors. Urban migrants who had come to rural Japan through the Chiiki Okoshi Kyoryokutai Program (COKT) often felt unaccepted, isolated or monitored. They often feel obliged to justify their funding to the municipality and its residents or stressed by their high visibility in everyday life and the often too close connections with neighbors. And most COKT members are very busy and have little opportunity to socialize outside of work (with each other or with locals) (Reiher 2025).
The Covid-19 pandemic made things worse. Despite the initial low infection numbers in most rural communities, social and community life changed greatly. Although the pandemic has led to a positive reassessment of the countryside and an increase in urban-rural migration, opportunities for urban newcomers to meet people were limited as local festivals and events were cancelled. Voluntary social distancing remained the norm until 2023. (Reiher 2024). Many migrants who moved to rural areas during the pandemic reported that they had little social contact at first and suffered more than others from the migration barrier (ijū no kabe) after the pandemic, as locals had no opportunity to get to know them. In some cases, this led to migrants only socializing with other migrants and parallel societies emerging, while in other cases, migrants who suffered from loneliness, isolation, or exclusion moved away again after a short time. Moving into a sharehouse was a solution for others.
According to Caitlin Meagher (2020), a sharehouse boom in urban Japan began around 2007. However, in rural Japan, sharehouses are still rare. But with the increase of urban-rural migrants, their numbers have risen in the past decade. Especially in rural areas where the ‘traditional Japanese home’ and conservative family values are still strong, living with non-kin is perceived as “unusual” if not strange or even subversive by some local residents. Sharehouse residents I met stressed that they did not enjoy living by themselves and were explicitly looking for sharehouses when relocating to the countryside. Especially during the COVID-19 pandemic when it was difficult to meet other people, they could make new friends in the sharehouse and did not feel lonely. Many moved into sharehouses in the countryside after living alone for a long time and realized that living with others made their life richer. Others were scared when living alone in old detached houses in the countryside and all enjoyed shared meals and sharing food.
However, the idea of unmarried and non-kin people of different sexes living together under one roof, did not meet with approval of all locals in my field sites. Older people in particular had difficulty understanding such a lifestyle. This shows that sharehouses remain primarily an urban phenomenon. At the same time, the aging local community needs newcomers to sustain communal infrastructure and is willing to cooperate and engage with sharehouse residents and their alternative lifestyle. In this sense, sharehouses in rural Japan are places where newcomers and locals negotiate ideas of community, although newcomers’ ideas of shared living differ from the concept of “living-together” in mainstream rural society. The owners and residents of sharehouses imagine community in a new way, overcoming kinship-based notions of family and community. At the same time, they reach out to the locals and invite them to experience their way of living together. In addition, sharehouses in rural areas are places where urban migrants can live in the context of increasingly scarce housing. Sharehouses become transitional spaces for urban migrants, offering short-term stays to test rural life, housing for those facing loneliness and hubs for newcomers and locals to connect. Thus, sharehouses can serve as catalysts for change in rural areas, inspire migration and help alleviate social isolation.
References:
Meagher, Caitlin (2020), Inside a Japanese sharehouse: dreams and realities, London and New York: Routledge.
Reiher, Cornelia (ed.), 2024. Lived experiences of crisis in rural Japan: An anthology on the transformation of communities and migration during the COVID-19 pandemic, Berlin: CrossAsia Open Access Repository. https://doi.org/10.48796/20241202-000
Reiher, Cornelia (2025), “(In)visible newcomers: Foreign workers and internal urban-rural migrants in Japan’s countryside,” Journal of Rural Studies 114, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jrurstud.2025.103561
As rural communities in Japan face socioeconomic and demographic challenges, Japan’s central and local governments have increasingly turned to culture-based strategies for revitalization, including the recruitment of urban creatives. They offer artists atelier spaces, financial support and opportunities to engage with rural life to promote regional economies and especially tourism. The Japanese government has allocated large sums of money to subsidize art festivals, galleries and artist-in-residence programs throughout rural Japan (Tagore 2024).
In 2004, the UNESCO Creative Cities Network (UCCN) was created to promote cooperation with and among cities that have identified creativity as a strategic factor for sustainable urban development (UNESCO 2025). In response to this UNESCO initiative, Japan’s Cultural Agency created the bunka geijutsu sōzō toshi suishin jigyō (Arts and Culture Creative City Promotion Project) and since 2010 provides subsidies to local governments to “support […] initiatives in which local authorities, civic groups […] and local private companies work together to solve regional problems by harnessing the creativity of culture and the arts in a range of areas such as regional development, tourism and industrial development […]” (Bunkachō 2010). In 2013, the Creative City Network of Japan (CCNJ) was established as a platform to promote cooperation and exchange among creative cities in Japan and in the world. Municipalities could apply for grants and become members of this network.
A-Town, a small town in the mountains of Kyushu (population 19,686), made art a pillar of its revitalization strategy and applied for funding from the Cultural Agency and for registration as a member of the Creative City Network of Japan. To retain and attract new talent to his town, the mayor at the time, promoted the town as Creative City and founded an artist-in-residence program and a co-working space to make the city a magnet for urban creatives. For the artist-in-residence program, a vacant school building was renovated with the subsidies from the Cultural Agency and converted into studio space that artists could use free of charge. Due to these measures, A-Town became very attractive for artisans and artists during the past decade.
A-Town’s art-based revitalization strategy goes hand in hand with the preservation of architectural heritage and the promotion of urban-rural migration. In order to provide artists and craftspeople with work and living spaces, the mayor offered them abandoned buildings designated as cultural assets, which were renovated with the help of government grants. Thus, revitalization through art and culture also became a means of reusing vacant buildings (akiya) (Platz 2024). To give artists the opportunity to earn a living, the local government strategically used the Chiiki Okoshi Kyōryokutai program (COKT) to pay invited artists a salary for three years (Reiher 2025).
One of the artists who relocated to A-Town is Shigeru. He was employed by COKT as part of A-Town’s artist-in-residence program. Currently, he divides his time between A-Town and Tokyo. Since finishing the program, he has been living and working in a house he found with the help of the former mayor. Shigeru feels a strong connection to the area and loves the nature which increases his well-being, but feels excluded from the local community. He uses local materials, studies the history of A-Town, and draws inspiration from it. Shigeru is involved in the local community in various ways. However, he feels that artists from outside of A-Town are not welcome in the community, because the locals do not understand their way of life. For this reason, Shigeru mostly spends time with other artists who have moved to A-Town. Although he acknowledges the contribution of newcomer artists to the town, particularly that their studios, workshops, and exhibitions attract other artists and tourists, he also points to a divide between the newcomers and the locals. Therefore, he is rather pessimistic about the local government’s Creative City project and his own impact on the revitalization of A-Town.
In the past decades, art projects and artist-in-residence programs were given greater consideration by local and central governments in their fight against depopulation and aging in rural Japan. The support programs prepared the ground for the subsequent influx of newcomers to these rural areas, attracting younger and more diverse people. Nevertheless, the relationship with the local community is crucial to the success of these initiatives, but residents are not necessarily open to newcomer artists. Local governments and other stakeholders initiating arts-based revitalization should enhance their efforts to explain these initiatives and to involve residents in decision-making processes, art projects and the benefits of the arts. Without community support, art-based revitalization projects may not be very sustainable, benefit only a few stakeholders, and even cause inconvenience to locals due to large numbers of tourists.
