“I guess my lifelong theme is really this: the human condition,” says Masayoshi Akagawa, known to many as Akagawa BONZE. “Everything that makes us human—I’ve always believed it can be captured in a single bronze figure. That’s why I spent my youth immersed in theater and butoh, a form of avant-garde dance theater that emerged in postwar Japan, surrounded by dancers and musicians, exploring every form of expression I could find. Creating art… that’s something worth dedicating my life to.”

Masayoshi has been a constant presence in Tachikawa’s cultural landscape, living and working in one of the old U.S. military houses in Tachikawa since 1974. He’s also a longtime friend of Akimitsu Tomonaga, artist and director of the Fukasawa Tiny Art Museum in Akiruno. Back in the 1980s, when Tachikawa had no formal art scene to speak of, the two joined forces to organize informal art shows in commercial buildings near the station—offering the public genuine encounters with contemporary art, free from any pretension.

“Tomonaga was already an established artist when we met. We used to talk about dolls as a medium—how they can carry expression, spirit, character. I remember seeing his puppets on TV after he came back from Australia and started gaining recognition as a puppeteer. This was around the time Japan Broadcasting Corporation (NHK) was showcasing artists like Jusaburō Tsujimura and Akira Kataoka. Dolls were becoming recognized as a form of accessible art. In Japan, we already have a deep cultural connection to dolls—from Hinamatsuri to Kodomo no hi—so it made sense. The medium felt close—familiar, even comforting.”

Building on those deep traditions, artists like Masayoshi and Tomonaga began charting a more modern path—one that blended technical skills with one’s personal expression. But the timing was complicated. He came of age during a moment of major upheaval in the art world. The late 1960s saw the rise of conceptual art, which marked a shift in focus—from the physical act of making the actual art to the primacy of ideas and concepts as the core of the artwork. “Especially from the ’60s into the ’70s, art became more about the idea than the hand that made it. The artist turned into an architect of sorts—someone who provided the vision or instructions, while others brought it to life. But the names of the craftspeople who carved the stone or cast the bronze? Often forgotten.”

For Masayoshi, that division never quite sat right. “It always felt strange to claim something as your own when you didn’t make it with your own hands. The character for ‘art’ (芸) in Japanese includes the meaning of ‘skill,’ and at the time, if a work lacked that foundation, it wasn’t really considered art. That era—when people were really asking ‘What is art?’—led me to focus on monozukuri, the act of making. To me, there isn’t a hard line between art and craft.”

Still, he’s quick to point out that craft is more than just something handmade. “In Japan, the word ‘craft’ is a bit fuzzy. It’s closely tied to traditional practices like ceramics and lacquerware. But when I saw how craft was presented in museums in New York, I was surprised by how broad the definition was—stained glass, doorknobs, mosaics, architectural details, and more. In every country, craft ultimately comes down to rethinking the value of handwork, but I still don’t think it’s fully appreciated in Japan. To gain proper recognition, we need to systematize craft and learn to express it clearly. At the same time, without a certain level of public appeal, no one will pay attention. You have to walk that line. For me, navigating that balance is part of what keeps monozukuri going.”

The boundaries of creation are fluid, constantly shifting as the maker’s expression and skill, market reception, and society’s values intertwine in complex, ever-changing ways.

Love is All Around

What led us to interview Masayoshi was something he said during a public talk in Tachikawa last summer. He kept repeating that the force behind monozukuri is love. At one point, he said with disarming honesty, “I haven’t been in love lately, so my work hasn’t really been moving forward.” The honesty of it—not self-deprecating, just candid—stuck with us. As it turns out, the love he spoke of was directed toward his longtime partner, object artist Sonoko Sato—a revelation that moved us more than we expected.

“When I was younger,” he says, “I blamed everything outside myself for my lack of confidence. I didn’t graduate from university, I didn’t have a father, I didn’t have money. I used to complain that a proper wife should be out working and supporting me. I was angry at the world. Then one day, my wife said, ‘You know, maybe the problem is you don’t believe in yourself.’ That changed everything.”

Not long after, he traveled to Spain. Seeing Gaudí’s work all over the streets of Barcelona was overwhelming. “I was overwhelmed. I thought, ‘I want to create something that moves people, too. I have to carve my own path, no matter what.’ I took photos like crazy. When I got back to Japan, I started moving forward.”

For Masayoshi, love has always included admiration—falling in love with people who move him, creatively. As a kid, while his friends idolized baseball players, he admired Osamu Tezuka, best known for Astro Boy. “His work had a huge impact on me—especially Phoenix. And I’ll never forget my high school art teacher. I told him I wanted to go to art school in Tokyo, even though I was just a kid from Oita. He let me come to his home for lessons. One day, he said, ‘You’ve got talent, so trust it. Even if money’s tight and you have fewer chances to study, just draw your left hand. If you keep doing that, your skills will grow.’ That advice stayed with me.”

Even if Lost: The Art We Still Remember

The sky in another country can make you see the beauty of your own sky more clearly. After traveling abroad and experiencing art around the world, what kind of work does Masayoshi want to create here in Japan?

“There’s amazing art overseas, no doubt. In Japan, people often think of art in terms of temples and shrines in Kyoto or Nara. Personally, I love visiting those places too. I like thinking about the stories behind them. I grew up at a shrine in Oita, so I naturally became curious about why shrines exist—the myths of the gods, their origins in the Kojiki, Japan’s oldest surviving chronicle of myths and legends, and in other ancient texts. What struck me is that at the root of every story is the same question: What does it mean to be human? I think that’s what all art is really about. Even the word ‘art’ comes from something that means ‘human.’”

He smiles. “But if I start talking too much about this kind of stuff, people say, ‘You’re not making work at that level.’ So I keep it all in my head and just quietly think it through,” he laughs. “But if you don’t think about the difficult stuff, your work ends up shallow. Philosophy is essential—it gives your ideas weight. Our very existence, our bodies, are incredibly complex and mysterious. And yet our expressions—smiling, crying, getting angry—appear so simple. That contrast between what’s seen and what lies beneath… that’s what I want to express.”

Masayoshi also sees a cultural urgency in what he does. “After the war, art disappeared from everyday life in Japanese cities. People often say Japan’s culture was set back 50 years. Many of the artists and intellectuals who could have helped rebuild Japan’s culture died in battle or met other tragic ends. I heard stories of students sent to war who never fired a gun but starved to death… or of someone who died clutching a book of Heine’s poems. Those stories made me feel, deeply, that we had to pick up the pieces and rebuild our culture.”

He’s been doing that for decades now—not in theory, but by placing art in public spaces. On the north side of Tachikawa Station stands a statue of a boy, Against the Wind. On the south side, a girl: When the South Wind Blows—Bon Voyage.

“I hope kids who see the airplane boy learn that there used to be an airfield here. Maybe they’ll feel something simple, like ‘I want to fly one day.’ And the girl by the clock tower—she carries my wish that they’ll grow into smart, curious people who want to explore the world. If my work can help kids feel the world is wide and full of possibility, and inspire them to polish who they are… that’s enough for me. I believe when people experience beauty in everyday life, it leads to conversation, to connection. And that’s what raises the cultural value of a town—or a society.”

About Tachikawa

Tachikawa is known for its history as the site of a U.S. military base, which brought significant changes to the area, spurring infrastructure development and economic growth after the war. After the base was later returned to Japan, Tachikawa actively engaged in urban redevelopment. Today, Tachikawa flourishes as the gateway to Tama. As a tourist destination, Tachikawa is home to the Showa Commemorative National Park and has recently gained popularity as a mecca for anime and manga fans.

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