How changing tattoo culture reflects a quiet shift in Japan

“You know you won’t be able to go to an onsen anymore.” That was my mother’s reaction when I told her I was getting my first tattoo at 20. I’ve since learned this is the most common warning my Japanese friends hear when they mention getting inked. Onsen, or natural hot spring baths, are an inseparable part of Japanese culture, and losing access is often reason enough for many to stay ink-free.

Japan has a long and complex relationship with the art form, but tattoos here aren’t only about self-expression – they also act as a social filter, revealing which people and spaces are open-minded and accepting. When I was job-hunting in Tokyo several years ago, I realised I’d never want to work for a company that judged me for my buzzed hair and visible tattoos, a look often described as okkanai, or intimidating.

This tension between social stigma and personal identity runs deep. Tattoos have meant everything from honour to punishment, from art to criminality. For me, despite being banned from my beloved hot springs, they remain an important part of my identity – an act of voluntary non-conformity. And increasingly, younger Japanese people are reinterpreting tattoos not as symbols of exclusion, but as part of an evolving, globalising art form that asserts individuality in a culture that still prizes following the rules.

From criminality to art form and back again

Tattooing in Japan dates back thousands of years to the cultural practices of the Ainu of Hokkaido and the indigenous Okinawans, who used it to mark identity and family status. During the Edo period (1603–1868), tattoos became linked to crime when irezumi-kei (tattoo punishment) was used to brand offenders for severe crimes. In Hiroshima, repeat offenders were tattooed with strokes that eventually formed the kanji 犬, or “dog” – marking them as less than human.

In 1827, ukiyo-e artist Kuniyoshi depicted heroic, tattooed warriors in his Suikoden prints, transforming tattoos into symbols of bravery. These woodblock prints elevated tattooing into a craft art form practiced by horishi, or tattoo masters, who hand-carved full-body tattoos (horimono) using bamboo sticks tipped with needles – a process requiring endurance and pain tolerance. Members of the working class, like firefighters and labourers, often embraced these large tattoos as symbols of loyalty and spiritual protection.

When Japan modernised during the Meiji era (1868–1912), the government banned tattoos in 1872 to project a “civilised” image to the West. Though legalised again in 1948, the yakuza (Japanese crime syndicate) later adopted full-body tattoos as part of its uniform, preserving Edo notions of group allegiance while cementing tattoos’ association with organised crime. That image, reinforced by yakuza films of the 1970s, still lingers in public spaces like baths and gyms. Yet as Japan welcomes more foreign visitors, younger generations are adopting more global attitudes, and old associations are beginning to fade.

Contemporary Japanese tattoo culture

While the legacy of stigmatisation still remains in the public imagination, a new generation of Japanese tattoo artists is expanding the meaning of inking one’s body. Some mix styles across cultures; others pare them down to a single dot. For younger people, there’s now a clearer distinction between irezumi – traditional tattoos linked to the yakuza – and Western-style “fashion tattoos”. Makeup artist Yuuivision, who worked at a tattoo-friendly bathhouse, notes that younger customers rarely minded tattoos, though she occasionally received grievances from older customers who lumped irezumi and fashion tattoos together. Artist Coca adds, “I used to get stopped by the police for having visible tattoos. That happens less now, but traditional irezumi will probably always carry a sense of fear.”

As attitudes toward tattoos slowly shift, some artists are exploring that tension through subtlety. Graphic designer Ayaka Katayama, who wears a small pink dot by artist Hanae Sato on her earlobe, introduced me to Hanae’s 1mm Tattoo – an art project that turns tattooing into a quiet meditation on individuality and universality rather than body decoration. Using the body as her medium, Hanae inks a single one-millimetre dot, small enough to be mistaken for a freckle, across a growing community of thousands spanning generations, nationalities, and regions. Each mark reflects time and change, bound to the body that carries it. Because of its minimal, nearly invisible form, it reverses the usual gaze of tattooing: instead of being made for others to see, it belongs to the wearer alone. “It’s like a secret luck charm,” Ayaka tells me. Though Hanae doesn’t identify as a tattoo artist, her work bridges art and body modification, linking individuality and universality through the shared experience of being human. Rooted in diverse urban cities like Tokyo, Hanae’s 1mm Tattoo quietly expands the perception of tattoos in Japan.

Working from his Yoyogi-Uehara studio, artist Flat describes his artistic philosophy as “imperfectly, softly”. His hand-poked tattoos, rendered in gestural lines and stippled textures, challenge the intimidating image long associated with tattooing in Japan. “People rarely find my tattoos scary,” he tells me. “Though maybe that’s because it’s Tokyo.” His clientele now includes teachers, bakers, and others who once had little connection to tattoo culture, which he says is a sign of changing times. Earlier this year, he exhibited at Ginza Mitsukoshi, a department store once far removed from tattooing – an event that suggests tattoos are gradually integrating into public and artistic life.

While artists like Flat embrace looseness and imperfection, softening the image of tattoos, Jiayu Pang, who works out of the Koenji neighborhood of Tokyo, approaches the medium from a different angle. Trained in old-school fundamentals, her work has evolved beyond traditional boundaries, blending technical precision with playful, often humorous subject matter. She describes the current era as one of “fast-foodification”, where tattoos are commodified as consumable trends. While upholding the rigour and discipline of traditional craft, Jiayu says she now uses skin simply as a medium, free from stylistic restraints. She says that a sense of “serious humour” is an important part of her concept because “being too serious is just boring”, showing that technical proficiency and playfulness can coexist.

Hearing these artists talk about their work reminded me of my mother’s first warning: that tattoos might close certain doors. Maybe they still do, but fewer than before. As these artists show, there’s no single movement or unified approach to a changing Japan, just small acts of redefinition happening in parallel, whether philosophical, playful, or quietly pragmatic. Even my mom has gone from cautious to approving – though how could she not, considering I have a tattoo on my forearm that says “MOM.” The day I can re-enter the onsen is still on the horizon, but when it comes, it will mean more than just a change in rules – it will mark a cultural shift, as Japan renegotiates the balance between conformity and individuality.

Closer Look

Ray shares where to get tattooed in Tokyo, and further reading he found while researching around the subject of tattoo culture in Japan.

• If you want to get a tattoo from Jiayu Pang, check out Tokyo Hard Core Tattoo in Koenji.

• This article from Japanese publication Cinra has a very thorough interview with Hanae Sato about her 1 mm Tattoo project.

• Japanese magazine, Pen, published an English article about the three-strike tattoos during the Edo period.

• In my research, I found this site that archives many of the Kuniyoshi Suikoden prints.