Japanese artists Iwasa Matabei (1578–1650) and Takashi Murakami, though separated by centuries, converge in a singular, uncanny moment in Gagosian’s latest exhibition: “Japanese Art History à la Takashi Murakami,” on view at the gallery’s Grosvenor Hill space until March 8, 2025.
At its center is Matabei’s Rakuchū-Rakugai-zu Byōbu (Scenes in and around Kyoto) (Funaki Version), a masterpiece from the Tokyo National Museum, reinterpreted through Murakami’s contemporary lens. What Murakami offers is not mere homage, but a reconstitution, a retelling of Japanese art history, infused with his own ceaseless interrogation of time, identity, and continuity.
The exhibition delves into Kyoto’s layered legacy, a city steeped in history and alive with mythological and spectral imaginings. For Murakami, it’s also deeply personal: “These themes represent my own mortality and the fact that I will inevitably die,” he reflects.
In this charged interplay of tradition and innovation, Murakami’s art emerges as a layered exploration of legacy—historical and personal. His iconic motifs go beyond visual signature, acting as markers of his relationship with the history he inherits and the future he influences.
“Takashi Murakami: Japanese Art History à la Takashi Murakami,” 2024–2025 installation view. Artwork ©2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved
Photo: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd. Courtesy Gagosian.
How did the idea for the show, “Japanese Art History à la Takashi Murakami” come about, and what made you want to revisit historical paintings from Japanese art history?
It all started with a conversation with Shinya Takahashi, the director of the Kyocera Museum of Art in Kyoto. His vision was remarkably precise: he wanted me to reimagine historical masterworks like Matabei’s Rakuchū Rakugai-zu. At first, I was hesitant—as an artist, being told what to do doesn’t come naturally. But Kyoto has a way of humbling outsiders.
While Japanese art history has long been a reference point in my practice, this would be the first time I would be directly ‘reimagining’ a work from the past. Through my discussions with Mr. Takahashi, it became clear that this wasn’t about simply recreating or copying iconic works. It was about confronting Kyoto’s deeper, more complicated history. He didn’t want me to create a work that just feeds into the city’s reputation as a picturesque tourist destination. Instead, he challenged me to reflect on its experiences of war, political conflict, and moments of both triumph and defeat. This challenge pushed me into new creative territory. When I later discussed my forthcoming exhibition with Gagosian, it felt natural to extend this exploration further.
How does reinterpreting or leaving your mark on these paintings hold meaning for you?
It’s like joining a conversation that has been going on for centuries. When I look at how Rinpa masters like Ogata Kōrin reworked and reinterpreted motifs from earlier artists, I see that this process of re-engagement has always been part of Japanese art history. They didn’t see themselves as creating from scratch. Instead, they built on what came before, bringing their own perspectives to it. That realization shifted how I see my own role. I’m hoping to contribute to the broader narrative of Japanese art history—like adding a new layer to a story.
Takashi Murakami, Rakuchū-Rakugai-zu Byōbu: Iwasa Matabei RIP, 2023–24 (detail). ©2023-2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Joshua White. Courtesy Gagosian.
There seem to be some works in this exhibition rooted in the geography of Japan while others are made up of imaginary creatures. Your works travel realms both present and otherworldly. What are you trying to bring forth through these variations?
There is such a wide range of motifs in the exhibition and they are all taken from the motif of the existing paintings but those motifs—such as the creatures—were originally completely imagined because the painter had not ever seen these actual creatures. Whether animals or places, they would read about these things, hear about them and paint them in the way they had been relayed, so then the paintings become composite translations of imaginary creations. I’m interested in these mistranslations and misunderstandings in the way that culture gets passed down. And that’s why I felt compelled to paint these again.
“Takashi Murakami: Japanese Art History à la Takashi Murakami,” 2024–2025 installation view. Artwork ©2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd. Courtesy Gagosian.
In your works for this exhibition, you have worked with traditional mediums and futuristic technologies, such as A.I.-generated lines in your process. In your view, how can they work together harmoniously to create something meaningful?
For such large-scale works, the sheer physical size presents challenges that I thought would benefit from using A.I. When working on monumental pieces like Rakuchū Rakugai-zu Byōbu, I thought that using A.I. would help with the process, in the same way computer programs allow me to work on a very large scale, but we discover that the A.I. has limits and that where my studio team have to step in. For example, areas like gold leaf application, the texture of hand-painted brushstrokes, and the delicate balancing of color require human intervention. On a large canvas, the physical act of painting—layering color, refining strokes, and adjusting composition in real-time—remains an essential part of the process. They work together.
Takashi Murakami, Black Tortoise and Arhats (2024). ©2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Kei Okano. Courtesy Gagosian.
Could you tell me more about how you incorporated A.I. into your process?
First, my studio purchased a high-resolution photograph from the Tokyo National Museum, scanned it, and converted it into line drawing with A.l. But we stumbled right there; the original paintings are not fully legible and some of the details have not survived so A.I. couldn’t adequately extract the desired graphic elements and we had no choice but to redraw everything by hand! So, nine people worked on drawing day and night. As a result, the facial features of the figures are not traced from Matabei’s work, but they are a Murakami original version.
White Tiger and Black Tortoise were a different story. Especially with Black Tortoise, I had never drawn a tortoise before and had no clue, so I first drew a vague small sketch, fed it to A.l., inputted ‘turtle,’ ‘soft-shell turtle,’ and so on, loaded my draft sketch into LoRA, a refining technique for large language model and image generation Al model, but it was hard to get a good result, so I ended up outputting more than 200 different images, piecing them together, collaging them, and then loading them into LoRA again to create the final design.
With White Tiger, I was quite hopeful that with A.l., I would be able to draw a new picture, but I was very disappointed as we were simply unable to operate it in the way we wanted so in the end, we had to draw everything by hand, but we somehow managed to complete the painting. In the end White Tiger turned out to be one of the catchiest paintings I have ever created.
Takashi Murakami, Re: “Daigo-Hanami-zu-Byōbu” (2024). ©2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Kei Okano. Courtesy Gagosian.
You have often shown your anime-style paintings in your exhibitions. What do you hope to express or achieve by displaying them?
Growing up, I was immersed in anime, like so many others, I loved watching it and it’s as much a part of my visual language as classical Japanese art forms like Rinpa or Ukiyo-e. After World War II, Japan went through a period of deep uncertainty and loss. Anime became a way for Japanese people to process the country’s “loser complex” following the war. It wasn’t a foreign import—it was ours.
When I incorporate anime-style paintings in my exhibitions, I’m tapping into that emotional history. Anime, with its bright colors, exaggerated characters, and surreal worlds, appears playful on the surface. But, as anyone who’s watched series like Neon Genesis Evangelion or Attack on Titan knows, there’s often a deep sadness or existential anxiety running underneath. I want that duality to be present in my own works.
Wind God, Thunder God reiterates how symbolism is important in your work. Could you talk about what symbolism means to you when you infuse it in a motif?
Symbolism allows different layers to exist at once, they are visual shortcuts to complex ideas. They can be containers for cultural memory, personal reflection, or social commentary. Take the smiling flowers on the surface, it’s playful, colorful, and seemingly innocent. People might associate it with the cheerful simplicity of childhood or the ubiquity of kawaii culture. But the repetition of the smiling face, multiplied and mirrored across the canvas also reflects something about modern consumer culture—the relentless flood of images and advertising we’re exposed to every day.
The flower symbolizes both joy and saturation, charm and excess. There’s a subtle undertone of unease, as if the flowers are grinning too much, for too long. In that way, it becomes more than a symbol of happiness; it becomes a mirror for the experience of living in a hyper-commercialised world. Or Mr. DOB, he started as a kind of alter ego, but over time, he’s evolved into something far bigger. His name comes from the phrase “dobojite,” which is slang for “why?” That question of “why” has always stayed with me. Why do we consume so much pop culture? Why do we accept it at face value? Through Mr. DOB, I’m exploring the nature of commodification.
Takashi Murakami, Flaming Vermillion Bird (2024). ©2024 Takashi Murakami/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Kei Okano. Courtesy Gagosian.
How do the new works in this exhibition reflect this moment in your practice?
Recently I have been greatly inspired by the TV show Shogun, seeing Japanese culture depicted from the American perspective, which is something that I have also reflected in my art.
The exact reason why I was so moved by Shogun was because I had begun looking at how they have assisted dying and legal euthanasia in countries like Belgium, and maybe also in Oregon, in the United States. I always thought of dying as just sort of getting diminished and reduced, and then shriveling up and drying up, but then after watching Shogun, I realized that you could do this ritually. After reading the death poem, you could conclude the narrative of your own life. This human approach to art, where you are describing or expressing death, and then dying in poetry, I think is really beautiful, and I wanted to recreate that kind of mood in this exhibition.