Between the 1970s and 1980s, 560,000 tonnes of industrial toxic waste were illegally dumped on an island in the Seto Inland Sea. Decades later, that same island holds one of the most extraordinary art museums in the world. The story of these islands is today's blog post. How art can become the spark for rebirth.
On March 27, 2026, we took the 9:52 ferry from Uno Port to Naoshima.
The Background
The islands had been emptying out for decades. Young people left for the cities. Fishing collapsed, and eventually only elderly residents remained.
Soichiro Fukutake, chairman of the Benesse Corporation, grew up near these waters. His response to this ecological disaster was not charity or industry — it was art. World-class contemporary art placed in and around the villages, designed by Tadao Ando — a self-taught architect from Osaka who builds with raw concrete and natural light. The goal was not to create a tourist attraction but to give the islands a reason to exist again.
His project worked, partially. Around 500 new residents have moved permanently to Naoshima in recent years. But the shift is visible. Visitors from all over the world come to the islands to experience the unique feeling of walking through neighborhoods, not galleries. And that art is everywhere.
Day One — Naoshima
We had planned to rent e-bikes at Miyanoura Port, but arriving last minute meant none were available. So we walked. It turned out to be the better choice — Naoshima is smaller than it looks on a map, and on foot you notice more. There is also a bus connecting the main areas, but we never needed it. We walked to Honmura, a fishing village where seven abandoned houses have been turned into permanent art installations. The Art House Project. We bought a combined ticket online and started walking the lanes.
The installations were quiet and very particular. At Go'o Shrine, a glass staircase descends underground beneath a functioning Shinto shrine. Hiroshi Sugimoto designed it — it symbolizes the passage from the world of the visible to the world of the invisible. A corridor between the upper and lower worlds. At the exit, a small narrow opening creates a unique frame to the outside world.
At Gokaisho, Yoshihiro Suda filled a tatami room with hand-carved wooden camellia flowers. Through the window, a garden of real camellias. The artist invited you to wonder about the difference between natural and artificial. The artificial was exquisite, but something was missing. Such a simple idea, yet so perfectly executed through art.
From there we walked around the island toward the Benesse area for our timed visit at Chichu Art Museum. Tadao Ando built it entirely underground so it would not disturb the landscape. Inside, there are only three artists: Claude Monet, James Turrell, and Walter De Maria.
The Monet room is the reason the museum exists. Five Water Lilies paintings in a white room without corners. No artificial light. We removed our shoes at the entrance and stood on white marble tiles. Natural light poured through openings in the ceiling. The paintings shifted with the clouds. Other visitors moved slowly or stood still. Nobody spoke. The paintings changed form the longer you watched them.
We walked around the island for another hour, took photographs at the yellow pumpkin, sat on a bench near the pier. By late afternoon, the day-trippers had started thinning out. The streets quieted. We caught the evening ferry back to Uno, watching Naoshima shrink across calm water.
Day Two — Teshima
The next morning we took the fast boat from Uno Port again, this time to Teshima.
At Ieura Port on Teshima, we rented e-bikes immediately — you can book them online. The island is steep and green. Without electric assist, the hills would be exhausting.
Our first stop was "Beyond the Border — Prayer" by Lin Shuen-Long. On a beach, 197 child statues stand in wet sand — one for each country in the world. Each figure faces the direction of its nation's capital, coordinates and distance marked at its base. They lean forward slightly, hands pressed to their chests. We walked among them with a compass, reading the numbers, looking for Greece. It took a while, but we found it.
From there we cycled to Teshima Art Museum. Uphill roads, stone walls, and no traffic. The ride was half the visit — it put you in the mood for what would follow.
The museum is a white concrete shell shaped like a water droplet, designed by Ryue Nishizawa. Two oval openings in the roof let in sky, wind, insects, rain. Inside, the artist Rei Naito created something almost invisible. Water emerges from tiny holes in the polished concrete floor. The droplets move, merge, split, travel in thin streams across the surface. We removed our shoes and sat on the floor. No photographs allowed. No talking. We watched water move for over an hour. Other visitors sat scattered around the space, each in their own silence. Wind came through the ceiling. A space so unique, and yet so hard to describe the experience through words.
Stillness
We visited in a non-Triennale year. The next festival is 2028, so the islands were not crowded. At several points during the two days, we were alone — on paths, in villages, in front of the sea.
What stayed with us was not any single piece of art. It was the relationship between the art and the place. The installations did not replace the islands' identity. They gave them a new one, or maybe returned an old one — a reason to be looked at carefully. Life has returned, and it has returned so uniquely.
On the evening ferry back to Uno, we were full — of images, of silence, of the kind of tiredness that comes from looking and watching all day. Back in Uno, we found a quiet place for dinner, slept early, and the next morning caught the train to Hiroshima.
