AKI INOMATA graduated with an MFA in Inter-media Art from Tokyo University of the Arts in 2008. Focusing on how the act of “making” is not exclusive to mankind, AKI INOMATA develops the process of collaboration with living creatures into artworks. She presents what is born out of her interactions with living creatures, as well as the relationship between humans and living things. Her recent exhibitions include “Bangkok Art Biennale 2024” (BACC, 2024), “Roppongi Crossing 2022” (Mori Art Museum, 2022), “Aichi Triennale 2022” (House of Oka, 2022), “Broken Nature” (MoMA, 2020), “The XXII Triennale di Milano” (Triennale Design Museum, 2019), “Thailand Biennale Krabi 2018” (Krabi City, 2018), “AKI INOMATA, Why Not Hand Over ʻShelterʼ to Hermit Crabs?” (Musée dʼarts de Nantes, 2018). In 2017, she stayed in New York City on an Individual Fellowship Grant from the Asian Cultural Council.

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

I grew up in the heart of Tokyo, far from nature. Maybe because I didn’t have easy access to it, I became especially fascinated by animals I saw on TV and in picture books. Their distance from my everyday life only made me more curious about them.

At the same time, I was fortunate that my elementary school was located inside a university campus, where I could encounter all kinds of creatures. I used to pick wild plants and catch crickets and dragonflies to bring home. The contrast between the city’s concrete and the soil of the wooded campus shaped my earliest experiences.

My interest in working with living creatures began with Why Not Hand Over a “Shelter” to Hermit Crabs? (2009–). While studying at art school, I tried bringing natural elements into the artificial gallery space. In one piece, 0100101, shadows cast by ripples on water spread throughout the room. These projects came from a discomfort I felt with the highly controlled environment of urban life.

But over time, I started to realize that even the natural elements I brought into the gallery were still under digital control—it felt as if I was just recreating the very structures I had been questioning. That realization led me to a period of deep reflection. It was around that time I took part in No Man’s Land, an exhibition held at the former French Embassy in Tokyo. There, I created Why Not Hand Over a “Shelter” to Hermit Crabs?, which became a turning point and led me toward interspecies collaboration.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

My desire to become an artist began with a childhood love of drawing, though I never saw it as a realistic dream. A turning point came during my university years, when I encountered the theater of Jūrō Kara, a pioneer of Japan’s underground performance scene. His plays were staged in temporary red tents, where the boundary between fiction and the real alleyways surrounding the set became blurred. I was deeply struck by this use of borrowed scenery that merged stage and street.

As a student, I created media installations around the theme of “how to bring natural elements into urban space.” But over time, I began to question why my works always turned out exactly as planned. It made me wonder whether I was, in fact, reproducing the same sense of constraint found in today’s data-driven, tightly managed society. To break out of that cycle, I began thinking about collaborating with living creatures—beings with completely different ways of thinking—as co-creators. That idea has shaped the direction of my work ever since.

Your work often involves nature, animals, and technology—what draws you to these themes?

The greatest joy I find in my creative work is the moment when my own thinking shifts during the process. Collaborating with living creatures is full of those moments. Since I basically cannot communicate directly with them, I actually enjoy how they influence and change me.

In conventional contemporary art, it’s usually clear who the creator is. But in my work, authorship becomes quite ambiguous. For example, in How to Carve a Sculpture, there are multiple works made from wood gnawed by beavers. The process begins with the beavers chewing the wood. But are those gnawed pieces really sculptures? And who is the artist? One might say the beavers are the creators, or, considering that they leave the hard knots untouched, perhaps the wood itself can be seen as the creator. I find this complexity around authorship very compelling.

I have always felt uneasy with the hierarchical idea that humans should dominate other living beings. That’s why I try to create with creatures like hermit crabs and bagworms, with whom communication seems difficult. I’m not sure if this truly counts as “communication,” but I want to explore and reframe the relationship between humans and other species in new ways.

What’s the most rewarding aspect of being creative in your experience?

One of the most memorable experiences during the creation of Why Not Hand Over a “Shelter” to Hermit Crabs? was designing the shells. I used a 3D printer to create shelters modeled after cities from around the world—but while the exteriors referenced human architecture, the interiors needed to appeal to the hermit crabs. I had to run countless experiments to find forms that they would actually move into.

My initial designs were simple, spherical shapes. But the crabs completely ignored them. I’d heard that some hermit crabs use plastic bottle caps as makeshift homes, so I tried that shape as well. Still, they preferred natural shells.

Through repeated trial and error, I began to understand that the spiral interior and smooth surfaces were key factors. For days, I observed their reactions closely, trying to interpret their choices. Living in their own distinct umwelt, or sensory world, they behaved in ways that defied my expectations. Often, I would find a carefully crafted shell discarded in the water the next morning.

To encourage them to adopt these new shelters, I had to let go of my assumptions and redesign from their perspective. This back-and-forth process—uncertain, responsive, and shaped by their behavior—felt remarkably different from traditional design. In the end, it led to forms that highlighted a striking contrast between geometric, man-made architecture and the organic logic of natural shells.

This experience profoundly expanded my approach to making. Rather than imposing a finished vision, I began to think of creation as an evolving dialogue—with nonhuman collaborators who bring their own agency into the process.

What message or feeling do you hope your audience walks away with after seeing your work?

What I hope people take away from my work is a shift in perspective—a moment that invites them to rethink how they relate to the world around them.

For me, the most rewarding part of making art is when my encounters with living creatures challenge and transform my own values.

I hope viewers might experience something similar, prompting them to reconsider human-centered ways of seeing and to imagine new kinds of relationships with other beings.

Text & photo courtesy of AKI INOMATA

Website: https://www.aki-inomata.com
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