Takamatsu Port was crowded during the summer holidays, not only with Japanese visitors but also with international travellers, including families with children, and groups of students. They’re here for the Setouchi Triennale, which takes place across the island scape of the Seto Inland Sea. Its 3000 islands, some of which are inhabited, lie between Takamatsu, the capital city of Kagawa Prefecture on Shikoku Island, the smallest of Japan’s four main islands, and Okayama, on Honshu, the largest, where Tokyo is located roughly in the centre.

This year, 2025, the sixth edition of the festival expanded to 17 areas, including 11 islands covering the northern Kagawa and southern Okayama areas. Altogether, nearly one million people are expected to visit before early November.^[01] 01. “About the Setouchi Triennale,” Setouchi Triennale 2025, accessed September 2025, https://setouchi-artfest.jp/about/mission-and-history/  From Takamatsu Port, or Uno Port in Okayama, they board ferries, vessels that are part of daily island life, and travel from island to island. The journey becomes more than art viewing; it feels like a form of island hopping through a sea transformed into a vast ‘art park’. Including the works that were created in previous editions of the festival and remain as permanent installations, a total of 218 artist groups from 37 countries and regions took part in the Triennale, with 88 groups joining for the first time.

THE SETO INLAND SEA

Why have the artworks been placed on these islands, and why do so many visitors now come here? Since ancient times, the Seto Inland Sea has been a key route of maritime transport, linking the central region of Honshu with Osaka in the east and Kyushu in the west. Beyond Kyushu, the sea opened into an important route for diplomacy and trade that connected Japan to Korea, China and the Eurasian continent.

During the modernisation of the Meiji era (1868–1912), railways were developed, and the ports lost some of their importance. However, in many cities, light industries such as textiles had grown during the previous Edo period (1603–1867), and later, industries with a strong reliance on the sea, such as chemical production and shipbuilding, emerged. After World War II, the coastal areas were transformed into heavy-industrial zones.

Although the Seto Inland Sea, rich in nature, was designated as Japan’s first national park in 1934, alongside development it also came to carry many negative histories that we might call man-made disasters. For example, the abandoned Inujima copper refinery, where smoke pollution drove people away; Teshima, where illegal waste dumping caused health damage and soil contamination; and also, Oshima, where a mistaken government policy, born of prejudice and discrimination against leprosy patients, created a forced isolation facility.^[02] 02. “History of the Seto Inland Sea,” Setouchi Umi-no-Michi Network Promotion Council, accessed September 2025, https://www.uminet.jp/know/detail.php?id=22

In recent years, many of these islands have also suffered from ageing populations and depopulation. This is why the Triennale has set a consistent theme: the “Restoration of the Sea.” These restorative efforts began in the late 1980s with the creation of a complex called the Naoshima Cultural Village, which housed a museum, a hotel, and a campsite for children, not really connected to art. Gradually, the art activities expanded to include the seashores of Naoshima, as well as traditional houses and narrow streets. In 2004, as the scope grew wider, the project was renamed Benesse Art Site Naoshima, after its owner, the Benesse Corporation (formerly Fukutake Shoten), a publishing and education company based in Okayama City. The art activities were later continued by Soichiro Fukutake, general producer of the Setouchi Triennale, and then passed on to his son’s generation.

The invitation to Aotearoa New Zealand artist Sarah Hudson, to present site-specific work on Megijima, is connected to the Fukutake family’s ties with Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, where they have resided since 2009.^[03] 03. For example, in an interview with Forbes magazine, Soichiro Fukutake talks about his move to Aotearoa New Zealand. James Simms, “Japanese Tycoon Soichiro Fukutake Masters the Art of the Turnaround,” Forbes, 11 September 2022, https://www.forbes.com/sites/jsimms/2022/09/11/japanese-tycoon-soichiro-fukutake-masters-the-art-of-the-turnaround/ Hudson was selected through a new project: the Naoshima Artist in Residence programme, which sends one artist from Aotearoa to participate.

Among the museums on Naoshima, the Chichu Art Museum, which opened in 2004, was one of the first to be built. This museum focuses on Claude Monet’s “Water Lilies” series, and presents only three artists in total: Walter De Maria, James Turrell and Claude Monet. The museum uses natural light in both its architecture and the display of works, creating an approach that is truly site specific, possible only here. This is the distinctive character of art in the Seto Inland Sea and the Setouchi Triennale: a commitment to site specificity, to the uniqueness of place, and to works that can only be experienced in this setting. The way site specificity is realised is entrusted to each artist. For example, in the case of the museum, most of the building designed by architect Tadao Ando is buried underground and planned to blend with the landscape of the Seto Inland Sea. In addition, inside the exhibition rooms, the artworks and installations are shown only with natural light, so that the space and the works become one and change in appearance. In other words, the building and the exhibited works are closely connected to the site, making them something that can only be experienced in this environment.

As one of the festival’s artists in residence, Hudson divided her one-month residency into several visits between June 2024 and April 2025, combining research with the project’s installation. During these periods, she stayed in Takamatsu and travelled to Megijima each day. The works she created both in Japan and in Aotearoa are gathered under the title Reconciliation. They include the watercolour series The stones remember, and I listen, made with earth and indigo pigments and pastel; the sculptural series In my teeth, the DNA of cliffs, the taste of old stories, created with small pebbles; and the eleven-and-a-half-minute looped video work Belonging.

On Megijima, the location of the exhibition is the care station of a former elementary school, closed since 2005. The choice of this site is significant because the notion of care resonates deeply with Hudson’s practice and memories. She recalled recognising the space, as it resembled what was known as the “sick bay” at her own school in Aotearoa.

Hudson noted many connections between Megijima and her home of Whakatāne, in Aotearoa. These included geological similarities, the shape of the coastlines and offshore islands, and the ageing of local communities. There was also the shared history of toxic-waste dumping. Whakatāne, which has a sawmill and pulp factory, has suffered serious environmental damage to its water and soil. And in both places, there are stone walls.^[04] 04. From a podcast by Sarah Hudson and Joanne Coates, produced by Contemporary HUM. “From Moutohorā to Megijima: A Conversation between Sarah Hudson and Joanne Coates,” 20 August 2025, https://contemporaryhum.com/writing/from-moutohora-to-megijima/

These similarities and connections between two lands, separated by more than 9000 kilometres, became the starting point for this project; two distant lands woven together by stone and memory.

MOUTOHORĀ AND MEGIJIMA

Hudson’s home, Whakatāne, is the place where her Ngāti Awa, Ngāti Pūkeko and Ngāi Tūhoe families have lived for generations. About nine kilometres offshore from the town lies Moutohorā, a small, currently uninhabited, island. Many archaeological sites from both Māori and European histories have been recorded there, including stone channels and wells, terraced gardens, and stone walls marking wāhi tapu, sacred places.

Although permanent Māori settlement ended in the early 19th century, people continued to visit the island to gather food and to collect stones for hāngī, the traditional earth oven. However, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, European settlement brought industries that changed the natural environment, such as whaling stations, sulphur mining, and quarrying for the construction of the Whakatāne harbour wall, causing serious impacts on the island’s landscape and ecology. In 1965 the island was designated as the Moutohorā Wildlife Management Reserve, and in 1984 it became government-owned land with programmes to restore its vegetation. Today, the island can only be visited on a guided tour, even if it is the land of one’s ancestors.^[05] 05. Based on information from the following website: “Moutohorā (Whale Island) Wildlife Management Reserve,” Department of Conservation Te Papa Atawhai, accessed September 2025, https://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/bay-of-plenty/places/whakatane-area/moutohora-whale-island-wildlife-management-reserve/

When you walk through the port of Megijima, the first things to appear are the impressive stone walls called Ōte. Some rise as high as three or even four metres, their stately form said to recall the great gates of a castle. These walls were built to protect houses from the harsh winter winds known as Otoshi, a word in Japanese that carries the meaning of ‘to drop’ or ‘to cast down’. The massive walls also turn the village paths into a maze.

From long ago, although the exact era is not clear, the walls were built of dark natural stones, and whenever they collapsed, local people and craftsmen rebuilt them. Today, that knowledge is fading away, but the present walls, of granite and concrete mix, bring to mind these changes. Considering the structure of the space of the island, a sacred axis like a path of the gods runs through the settlement: the Maruyama Kofun (Burial Mound) in the hill is the mountain shrine (yamamiya), the Sumiyoshi Daijingu is the village shrine (satomiya), and the Hachiman Shrine by the sea is the rice field shrine (tamiya). The shrines are placed almost in a straight line. This religious axis matches the water axis that begins from the reservoir. In addition, on the extension of the road that goes from the town centre to the sea, there used to be a landing place for boats.

Even now, festivals and school events are held along this line, forming the centre of community life. Making the calm places sheltered from the wind into shared spaces for all, while placing houses in the windy port, suggests that this society valued the community more than individual comfort. The Ōte of Megijima is the crystallisation of such thought, something unique to this island. Yet today the community struggles with a rapidly shrinking and ageing population. It is not easy to go on living here.^[06] 06. Isao Suizu, “Report: Research and Baseline Study of Megijima’s Ōte Stone Walls,” Seto Inland Sea Regional Promotion Grant: Results Report Archive (The Fukutake Foundation, 2013), https://fukutake-foundation.jp/archives/archive_seto/649 (translated from Japanese into English by the author).

STONE: A MEDIUM OF MEMORY

Let us look at the details of Hudson’s Reconciliation, conceived and displayed in the setting of Megijima. Visitors are guided into the room by a low stone wall that begins to rise just before the entrance. At this point, some may be reminded of the island’s Ōte. Inside the room, on the right-hand side, a series of watercolours titled The stones remember, and I listen is placed on three wooden shelves. Matariki Williams has written an essay titled “A library of islands”, in which she suggests that each drawing can be thought about as if it were a book.^[07] 07. An essay on Sarah Hudson’s Reconciliation project for the Setouchi Triennale, Matariki Williams, “A library of islands,” McCahon House, 2025, https://mccahonhouse.org.nz/media/uploads/2025_5/A_library_of_islands_pdf.pdf    

In each drawing, many dots are drawn like stars in the night sky, and lines connect them. The lines do not form a tangled web, but resemble an umbilical cord connecting mother and child. With no clear beginning or end, they link two points in a relationship of mutual return, like a constellation. In some drawings, faces appear where dots are connected, perhaps the faces of ancestors or people tied to the land. In Māori culture, the head is considered the most sacred part of the body, and facial tattoos carry special meaning. The primary lines of these tattoos translate to manawa (heart or breath of life) and this powerful central element represents you, your life journey, your path.^[08] 08. Zealand Tattoo, “Māori Tattoo: The Definitive Guide to Tā Moko,” accessed October 2025, https://www.zealandtattoo.co.nz/tattoo-styles/maori-tattoo

Some drawings are framed in a wooden heart-shape that also suggests a mouth. Within these works appears text such as “RAMARI” and “HH”. According to Williams, “RAMARI” refers to Hudson’s relative Ramari Stewart, who has carried out long-term research on dolphin populations at Moutohorā since the 1970s. Ramari was the first descendant of Ngāti Awa to live on the island, though her hapū, Ngāti Hokopū, had long been separated from it. “HH”, on the other hand, refers to Hudson’s father. He worked tirelessly to ensure that the people of Ngāti Awa could once again access Moutohorā, and for the island to be returned to the iwi. Yet he himself never set foot there.

The drawings enclosed in these mouth-shaped frames monumentalise the stories of people and their connections to Moutohorā. Even those without names inscribed preserve the stories of the land through the material of pigments made from stone,^[09] 09. In traditional Japanese painting, pigments (coloured mineral powders) are mixed with a binder that helps the colour spread and adhere to the surface. The paints used in Japanese painting include natural mineral pigments and new mineral pigments. Natural mineral pigments are made by crushing raw minerals into fine powder, so in Japan, pigments are often associated with the image of stone. Earth pigments, meanwhile, have been used since ancient times, not only in Japan but also in cave paintings around the world. showing a deep connection with the land. Even if people no longer speak the names of their ancestors or tell their stories, the stones that are there remember them still.

In this way, the presence of In my teeth, the DNA of cliffs, the taste of old stories, like small ornaments made of pebbles, is deeply suggestive. In Hudson’s own words, it is described as follows:

In customary Māori culture, stones are placed in the mouth during important times of learning as a memory aid. Drawing on this tradition, my work explores the connection between memory, land, and the human body. This series features wearable pendants made from Megijima pebbles and sculptures of teeth crafted from carefully selected stones, each piece serving as a tactile archive. The recurrent motif of stone walls and teeth emerged during my early explorations, as I became fascinated by the mouthfeel of rocks and the evocative power of their natural forms. These works invite viewers to consider how memory is not only preserved in language but also embedded in the materials and landscapes that shape us.^[10] 10. Excerpt from the “Image Credits” section of the material on Sarah Hudson’s work, distributed as a press release at the opening of the Setouchi Triennale.

In the drawings, Hudson used indigo powder that was given at a dyeing workshop during her residency, which she mixed with earth pigments from Moutohorā. Indigo reveals its colour only when it meets the oxygen in the air. Just as an invisible space and time become visible through this reaction, these drawings emerged through the mediation of another island far away, becoming a dynamic field where stone, water, soil, air and light are woven together.

When we look at the whakapapa, or genealogy, of rocks and stones, we can see that from the descendants of Tāne, the god of the forest, and Hine-tū-pari-maunga, the goddess of the mountains and cliffs, many different qualities of stone, water and soil were born, and close connections existed among them. For the Māori people, these relationships were also understood as being linked together, telling the story of the land as one.^[11] 11. Phil Moore and Bruce McFadgen, “Kōhatu – Māori Use of Stone – Stone Tools,” Te Ara – The Encyclopedia of New Zealand, accessed October 2025, https://teara.govt.nz/en/document/8877/whakapapa-of-rocks-and-stones

The video work Belonging also conveys the presence of air, breath and stone. On the horizon, with the solitary island of Moutohorā in the distance, Hudson is seen floating in the sea. As she traces the coastline, checking the presence of stones, one stone drifts toward her, as if it has slipped from a stone wall. The unmoving stones that have become part of the land are contrasted with this floating stone that drifts on the waves. Hudson encounters the stone, which is like a buoy. She clings to it and they drift together through the water. Of course, the floating stone is a fake made from expanding foam and a hue (gourd) grown in the soil of Whakatāne. This work is described as follows: “By merging elements of surreal imagery with personal narrative, [Belonging] invites viewers to reconsider their own relationships with nature and heritage. It offers a quiet meditation on reconnection, survival, and the enduring, unbreakable relationship between tangata whenua and the land.”^[12] 12. Excerpt from the “Image Credits” section of the material on Sarah Hudson’s work, distributed as a press release at the opening of the Setouchi Triennale.

How else might we think about this ‘living stone’? In Japan, the kanji scholar Shizuka Shirakawa points out that the word iki (to breathe) is written with the characters for ki or iki (air, breath), and shares its root with ikiru (to live).^[13] 13. Shizuka Shirakawa, Jikun (New Revised Popular Edition) (Heibonsha, 2007), 59–60. In Greek, psyche carries a similar meaning, while in Māori, the words hau or hā mean breath, life force and wind. In relation to stones, these associations suggest that a stone is not just inert matter: some stones preserve the bodies or traces of once-living beings that have fossilised in the layers of the earth. In Hudson’s approach here, a gourd, normally a vessel that carries and sustains life, is transformed into a fake stone, appearing as if it holds breath within it. In this way, the stone becomes a subject that connects life and death, past and present.

Humans and nature are inseparable in their relations. The act of holding a stone becomes a bodily practice to confirm continuity with the land and with ancestors, even in places where return is no longer simple. Just as the Ōte of Megijima are stone walls that protect the community, the stone walls and stoneworks of Moutohorā and Whakatāne also exist not only as practical structures, but as ‘walls of memory’, linking people to each other and to nature.

FROM SITE SPECIFICITY TO SPACES OF RELATION

The use of natural materials such as stone in art is no longer unusual. For example, land art, now regarded as one of the origins of site-specific work, emerged in the United States in the late 1960s as a form of resistance against existing institutions like museums. Through direct interventions in the natural environment, it re-examined the relationship between place, time, the artificial and the natural. Looking at the faces drawn by Hudson, I was reminded of one of the earliest examples of earth works, Isamu Noguchi’s sculpture To Be Seen From Mars (1947). This unrealised monument was conceived out of the trauma of the nuclear atrocities of World War II, and was a human face built up out of the earth and staring out into the cosmos. Among the site-specific works displayed in the Seto Inland Sea are also pieces by pioneers of land art, such as Walter De Maria and James Turrell. Meanwhile, practices of arte povera and mono-ha used both natural and artificial objects as they were, exploring the very presence of matter and its relation to the spaces in which it is placed.

In dialogue with these global currents that have shaped contemporary art, Hudson treats stone not only as material but as a medium of memory that carries stories important to her roots and grounded in Māori tradition. The stones appear and transform in many ways, including pigments, and reconnect memory with land and body again. For instance, in her installation, Hudson piles stones as part of the work, but also uses them in place of protective exhibition ropes to separate the audience from the work and safeguard it. These stones were, of course, not from Moutohorā or Whakatāne, but from Megijima.

Within the context brought by a travelling artist, the stones of Megijima become devices to connect two islands. They do not remain closed within one place. While they are rooted in Hudson’s own land, culture and history, they also move outward in search of relation. By returning to another local context, they reconnect different communities and materials, restoring feelings of belonging and working to heal past divisions.

Born from a residency that sustains artistic life, this site of reconnection works quietly, surely, and yet radically within the Triennale. It suggests a transformation in the meaning of site specificity in art: not as a fixed bond between artwork and place, but as a relational space, a kind of vā,^[14] 14. ‘Vā’ is originally a Sāmoan concept meaning ‘space between’ or ‘relationality’. It is considered essential in cultures that value community and harmony over individualism, where people, living beings and things are always understood in relation to one another. Today, it is widely used as a broader Pacific concept. Albert Wendt describes it as follows: “Important to the Samoan view of reality is the concept of Va or Wa in Maori and Japanese. Va is the space between, the betweenness, not empty space, not space that separates but space that relates, that holds separate entities and things together in the Unity-that-is-All, the space that is context, giving meaning to things. The meanings change as the relationships/the contexts change.”  Albert Wendt, “Tatauing the Post-Colonial Body,” Span 42–43 (April–October 1996): 15–29, https://ndhadeliver.natlib.govt.nz/webarchive/20140725190021/http://www.nzepc.auckland.ac.nz/authors/wendt/tatauing.asp  where connections stretch across distance to create translocal links between islands such as Moutohorā and Megijima, opening up possibilities for reconciliation. In this sense, Hudson’s work echoes a wider Pacific sensibility that deeply understands relation as a way of knowing and living. In other words, to emphasise inter- and extra-regional connections is inherently decolonial. “To live up to the Pacific, our work must reflect a commitment to making comparisons within and across the region.”^[15] 15. Teresia K. Teaiwa, “For or Before an Asian Pacific Studies Agenda? Specifying Pacific Studies,” in Sweat and Salt Water, ed. Katerina Teaiwa, April K. Henderson and Terence Wesley-Smith (University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2021), 18–19.

Click here for From Moutohorā to Megijima: Sarah Hudson in conversation with Joanne Coates, an episode in Contemporary HUM's podcast series Crossing Currents produced as part of our coverage of Hudson's participation in the McCahon House Naoshima Artist Residency and Setouchi Triennale, supported by McCahon House.