Nagoro in southern Japan has an official population of just 35, but anyone passing through could be forgiven for thinking it was 10 times that amount after Tsukimi Ayano filled the area up with scarecrows. The home of these scarecrows is the tiny mountain hamlet of Nagoro, near the town of Miyoshi in Tokushima Prefecture.
Miss Ayano, 65, made her first scarecrow 13 years ago to frighten off birds pecking at seeds in her garden.
The life-sized straw doll resembled her father, so she made more but found that she could not stop there.
Today, the tiny village of Nagoro in southern Japan isteeming with Ayano's hand-sewn creations, frozen in time for a tableau that captures the motions of everyday life.
Scarecrows pose in houses, fields, trees, streets, and at a crowded bus stop - where they wait for a bus that never comes.
Miss Ayano said: "In this village, there are only 35 people. But there are 150 scarecrows, so it's multiple
times more."
Nagoro, like many villages in Japan's countryside, has been hit hard by inhabitants flocking to cities for work and leaving mostly pensioners behind. But in the context of a Japan suffering from population decline that puts rural communities like this one in danger of disappearing altogether, the spectacle takes on an altogether more eerie aspect.
Its grewing community is a microcosm of Japan, whose population has been falling for a decade and is projected to drop from 127 million to 87 million by 2060.
The village school was shut in 2012 after its two pupils graduated but the building is now occupied by Miss Ayano's scarecrows: students at their desks and in corridors, a teacher by the blackboard, while a suit-wearing school principal looks on.
Each of the 350 scarecrows crafted by Miss Ayano over the years was built on a wooden base, with newspapers and cloth used to fill them out.
Sometimes, the new ones she makes are made to order, usually in the likeness of young people who have left Nagoro or residents who have died.
"They're created as requests for those who've lost their grandfather or grandmother," said Osamu Suzuki, a 68-year-old resident. "So it's indeed something to bring back memories."
Tourists have started to come too, drawn by the two lifeless delegates guarding the road leading to the village, next to a board identifying Nagoro as "Scarecrow Village".
Top dog in the village is mayor of the scarecrows, 68-year-old Tsuzuki Yūjirō, whom the ledger describes as now possessed of a steady, earnest disposition, despite being the toughest kid in his grade in his school days. After graduating from “a famous university” he started work at “a big company,” coming back to his hometown at the age of 30 to marry his old childhood playmate, Kiyo. Currently in his third term as mayor, Tsuzuki also apparently helps to protect the mountain as a member of the local forestry commission. Tsuzuki’s scarecrow can be seen wearing a navy blue Armani power suit with big shoulder pads. His profile describes how he always effortlessly pulls off the look, whether he’s wearing work clothes or an expensive suit.
At present, Ayano makes the long drive to Tokushima once a month to lead a workshop in scarecrow making. And every month, she is kept company on the round trip by the mannequin of a young man sitting attentively in the passenger seat of her trusty old car.In Japan, communities are called genkai shūraku, literally “settlements at their limit,” when their ability to function as a community and even their very survival are threatened by population decline and aging. According to a recent report by the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, as of April 2013 there were over 10,000 such settlements scattered across Japan.
But what would it be like to happen across these figures in the middle of a pitch-black night? Your heart would certainly skip a beat, even if you had expected the scarecrows to be there. The terror of a silent place, far from other people, drills home the severity of the situation facing the nation’s genkai shūraku.
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Nagoro, like many villages in Japan's countryside, has been hit hard by inhabitants flocking to cities for work and leaving mostly pensioners behind. But in the context of a Japan suffering from population decline that puts rural communities like this one in danger of disappearing altogether, the spectacle takes on an altogether more eerie aspect.
Its grewing community is a microcosm of Japan, whose population has been falling for a decade and is projected to drop from 127 million to 87 million by 2060.
Each of the 350 scarecrows crafted by Miss Ayano over the years was built on a wooden base, with newspapers and cloth used to fill them out.
Sometimes, the new ones she makes are made to order, usually in the likeness of young people who have left Nagoro or residents who have died.
"They're created as requests for those who've lost their grandfather or grandmother," said Osamu Suzuki, a 68-year-old resident. "So it's indeed something to bring back memories."
Tourists have started to come too, drawn by the two lifeless delegates guarding the road leading to the village, next to a board identifying Nagoro as "Scarecrow Village".
At first glance, they look much like people, and the village seems to be full of residents going about their daily business. The mannequins outnumber the village’s 40 or so human residents by more than two to one, and on the surface, with their own distinctive personalities, do create a rather cheerful atmosphere. Because of the proximity to the heavens that stems from Nagoro’s 800-meter altitude, the village is also sometimes referred to as Tenkū no Sato, literally “home of the sky.” Nestling in the belt of rural mountain settlements at the heart of
Shikoku’s main island, it takes three hours to reach the village by car from the city of Tokushima itself. In fact, Nagoro is even deeper in the mountains than the areas where remnants of the defeated Taira clan are said to have taken refuge following the Genpei War (1180–85).
These suddenly world-renowned scarecrows are the work of Nagoro native Ayano Tsukimi, who resides in the village with her elderly father, having returned to her home town 12 years ago following a period spent living in Osaka. She recalls how it all started: “After I came back, I tried to sow some seeds in the fields around here, but nothing would grow. So I decided to try making a scarecrow.” More than a decade later, what started out simply as a way to keep wild animals away from the fields has since repopulated the entire village with mannequins.
Berlin filmmaker Fritz Schumann knew about this Valley of the Dolls and traveled to make a documentary about the work of Ayano and publicize her work to the world.
In this documentary the artist talks about his concern for the community and makes some philosophical questions about human existence and meaning of loneliness.
Ayano starts each piece by fashioning a richly expressive face. Next, she wraps a wooden frame in more than 80 sheets of newspaper to make the torso. To finish off her creations, she dresses them in old clothes, boots, and sneakers.
On average, a single mannequin takes around two days to complete, but as they are placed outside or in the fields, Ayano says her creations tend not to last more than a couple years. Of the more than 350 scarecrows she has produced to date, there are currently 100 or so dotted around the village.
One of Nagoro’s particularly amusing quirks is the Scarecrows’ General Ledger, which is kept in the rest area near Ayano’s house, where visitors can read it. A notice nearby reads: “We are not like normal scarecrows. We each have our own names, our own personalities, and life stories all of which are written in this book.”
Shikoku’s main island, it takes three hours to reach the village by car from the city of Tokushima itself. In fact, Nagoro is even deeper in the mountains than the areas where remnants of the defeated Taira clan are said to have taken refuge following the Genpei War (1180–85).
These suddenly world-renowned scarecrows are the work of Nagoro native Ayano Tsukimi, who resides in the village with her elderly father, having returned to her home town 12 years ago following a period spent living in Osaka. She recalls how it all started: “After I came back, I tried to sow some seeds in the fields around here, but nothing would grow. So I decided to try making a scarecrow.” More than a decade later, what started out simply as a way to keep wild animals away from the fields has since repopulated the entire village with mannequins.
Berlin filmmaker Fritz Schumann knew about this Valley of the Dolls and traveled to make a documentary about the work of Ayano and publicize her work to the world.
In this documentary the artist talks about his concern for the community and makes some philosophical questions about human existence and meaning of loneliness.
Ayano starts each piece by fashioning a richly expressive face. Next, she wraps a wooden frame in more than 80 sheets of newspaper to make the torso. To finish off her creations, she dresses them in old clothes, boots, and sneakers.
On average, a single mannequin takes around two days to complete, but as they are placed outside or in the fields, Ayano says her creations tend not to last more than a couple years. Of the more than 350 scarecrows she has produced to date, there are currently 100 or so dotted around the village.
One of Nagoro’s particularly amusing quirks is the Scarecrows’ General Ledger, which is kept in the rest area near Ayano’s house, where visitors can read it. A notice nearby reads: “We are not like normal scarecrows. We each have our own names, our own personalities, and life stories all of which are written in this book.”
Top dog in the village is mayor of the scarecrows, 68-year-old Tsuzuki Yūjirō, whom the ledger describes as now possessed of a steady, earnest disposition, despite being the toughest kid in his grade in his school days. After graduating from “a famous university” he started work at “a big company,” coming back to his hometown at the age of 30 to marry his old childhood playmate, Kiyo. Currently in his third term as mayor, Tsuzuki also apparently helps to protect the mountain as a member of the local forestry commission. Tsuzuki’s scarecrow can be seen wearing a navy blue Armani power suit with big shoulder pads. His profile describes how he always effortlessly pulls off the look, whether he’s wearing work clothes or an expensive suit.At present, Ayano makes the long drive to Tokushima once a month to lead a workshop in scarecrow making. And every month, she is kept company on the round trip by the mannequin of a young man sitting attentively in the passenger seat of her trusty old car.In Japan, communities are called genkai shūraku, literally “settlements at their limit,” when their ability to function as a community and even their very survival are threatened by population decline and aging. According to a recent report by the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, as of April 2013 there were over 10,000 such settlements scattered across Japan.
But what would it be like to happen across these figures in the middle of a pitch-black night? Your heart would certainly skip a beat, even if you had expected the scarecrows to be there. The terror of a silent place, far from other people, drills home the severity of the situation facing the nation’s genkai shūraku.
photo credit: google.com
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